Chapter II: Part 2

About we came and started down the harbor on our last leg, the wind increasing all the time so that we were obliged to reef our mainsail. As we passed the Sylph, not a sound came from them; they knew we had them, and we certainly had them good. On our last leg the waters were covered with white caps, and we pulled down all our headsails as we rounded the guardship for the last time, a winner. I now hoisted the American flag in the fore-mast and set our British ensign over the stern. This was a little cheeky, as I was sailing under the British flag, and the United States were not, at that time, any too popular. The weather was so rough that the Sylph came in with her top-mast and jib-boom both gone and with a crestfallen man as her captain, for it was the first race he had ever lost, and we had beaten him by 55 minutes, corrected time.

When the race had started the betting was 3 to 1 against us, and the captain of the Sylph had himself bet two hundred pounds sterling that he would win. That evening, at the hotel ashore, we were presented with the cup and a flag, a large crowd being present, and dancing and singing being the order of the night.

I was invited to spend that night ashore, with one of my owners, at Christ Church, a little village across the mountains and in the valley of Heathcote. As it was blowing very hard at the time, and as the mate was the only man on board the yacht, I reluctantly accepted, but felt very uneasy about my vessel.

During the night the wind blew a hurricane, and at 5 a.m. I started back to the port. My host had loaned me a saddle horse to cross the mountain with, and when I reached the top and looked down the river, a sad sight met my eyes. The yacht had broken adrift and was alongside of an English brig with her foresail partly hoisted. Before I could get a boat to put me aboard, she commenced to move down the harbor.

Then I knew the mate was drunk. We pulled and waved, and she finally came up into the wind and headed for the south side of the harbor. I boarded a ship (the British Empire), whose captain was a friend of mine, and he gave me a long-boat and crew and small hawser, and we crossed over to head the schooner off, shouting to the mate to drop the anchor and ease off his sheet. But it was of no avail. We pulled alongside just as he hove the wheel down, and, drifting on the rocks, we dropped anchor, but too late, for in twenty minutes her keel was out, masts gone, and she was bottom up in the surf on the rocks.

Thus ended the life of the Yankee yacht Charmer, or Canterbury, as she was re-christened under the British flag. It was a sad day for me, as I had spent nearly two years on her, making many record trips, and paying for her several times over.

During my voyages among these islands I met many of the native Maori or aboriginal Indians, and had much to do with them in my trading. They are a Polynesian people with some Melanesian mixture. They are of vigorous and athletic frame, tall stature, and pleasing features, and are among the bravest and most war-like of men. They were great wood-carvers, and had the art of tatooing down to a science. Formerly inveterate cannibals, they are now civilized citizens.

The English had many hard fights with them, but they were finally overpowered, the skirmishing lasting up to 1875. They raised many cattle and sheep, and many of them went in whaling ships.

The islands of New Zealand are among the most valuable of the British possessions, and are immensely wealthy in natural resources. The gold mines of Otago drew many American adventurers, who became very wealthy. I shall never forget those beautiful islands nor my boyhood experiences there in the old sea days.

CRUISE ON THE CLIPPER SHIP BLUE JACKET.

Now that the Canterbury was gone, I decided to go to the gold mines of Otago and try my luck as a gold miner. But fate had decided otherwise for me. Captain White of the clipper ship Blue Jacket called for me at the hotel one morning and offered me the berth of sailing master on the Blue Jacket at twenty-five pounds a month. They were short of officers, and as the ship was about loaded and ready to sail for London, I took his offer.

We were about ten days getting things in shape, and early one morning we hove up anchor and shaped our course for the long run to Cape Horn. A heavy southwest gale followed us for several days, and running our eastern down, we averaged 20 knots an hour at times, with all sail set. At times our patent log even showed 23 knots an hour. This may seem almost incredible, but the American ship James Baines at one time made an equal record.

After leaving New Zealand we had strong S. West gales, which carried us well east until we rounded Cape Horn and hauled up to Norrard. We had, up to this time, averaged 384 miles a day, beating all records ever made by a sailing ship up to that time.

The Blue Jacket was an American built ship, formerly owned by Isaac Taylor, of Boston, and built by Robert E. Jackson, of East Boston. On her maiden voyage across to Liverpool she made the trip in eleven days, out of which they were hove to for 36 hours to avoid ice on the Grand Banks.

She was sold to an English firm, and her owners made a handsome profit. Now they put her on the Australian Packet Service, carrying mail and passengers, and she seldom varied five days on either outward or inward trips from the 65 days, which was a record passage.

My commanding officer was James White, born in Ireland, a man of great ability, who had run away to sea when a boy, and had been rapidly promoted.

He was a large man, weighing over 200 pounds and standing over six feet in height, and when he gave orders everyone jumped. He is said to have been paid the highest wages of any sea captain sailing out of a European port.

We crossed the equator on our 42nd day out from New Zealand, and docked in the East India Docks at London in 63 days, a “lightning” passage. Captain White was a great man to carry all sail, and one incident occurred on this trip which will show some of his characteristics.

One night at sundown a stiff gale was blowing and he ordered me to take in the main top-gallant skysail and royals, and these had no apparent effect in reducing her speed. He told me that he had never taken a top-sail off of her while at sea.

My watch on deck was from 8 bells in the afternoon to 8 bells at night, and again at 8 bells the next morning for four hours more, being relieved by the third officer at meal time. During that night I heard the captain tell the chief mate, a Scotchman, by name of Craig, not to take any sail off the ship unless he called him on deck.

The ship was equipped with a powerful steering gear with double wheels, and under ordinary conditions one man and a boy could handle her. But this night we had four men, two at each wheel, as a heavy sea was running and the wind was quartering, and even then she would often get away from them and broach to. It required all their strength to get the wheels over so she would pay off on her course.

At 4 a.m. I came on deck and relieved the officer, who said, “My God, if the captain don’t take off some of this sail he’ll have the masts out of her.” A little after one bell we had a frightful squall strike us. The night was as black as ink, and at times the sharp lightning would blind one. I ran below and saw that the barometer had fallen, and calling for Captain White to come on deck, ran up the after companion-way on to the deck.

No sooner had I reached the deck than a fearful squall struck us and the rain fell in torrents and the ship fell rapidly off her course. I yelled out to let go the top-gallant halyards, fore and aft, and then she payed off on her course again. By this time the captain had reached the deck, and oh! how he jawed me for lowering those top-gallant sails. I immediately ordered them hoisted again, and inside of ten minutes she had the best of the helmsmen and came to several points before she answered her wheel. An old comber of a sea now struck her on the quarter, and tons of water flooded the decks, burst through the after companion-way doors, and the water rushed into our main saloon, filling it two feet deep. Then the passengers commenced to yell, “We are sinking.” They were soon pacified, however, and returned to their berths. In the meantime Captain White had ordered the top-gallant sails down and the ship was riding easier. I had felt pretty badly over the blowing up the captain had given me, but he now stretched out his hand to me and said, “Accept my apology, Mr. Taylor; you were all right, and the drinks are on me.”

Well, Captain White made his last voyage in the old Blue Jacket in the early seventies from Melbourne, Australia, with a valuable cargo and many passengers and a large shipment of gold. Neither the captain nor the ship has ever been heard of since. Some think the crew mutinied, scuttling the ship, killing the passengers and escaping with the gold, who knows? But I never forgot his mania for carrying all sail, no matter how windy, and believe that she was wrecked in mid-ocean after she had become dismantled in some heavy gale, and then went down with all hands. A fitting end for an old sea-dog, but hard for the passengers and crew.

I now had a good opportunity to roam about the great city of London and visit the places of interest. The Crystal Palace was at that time one of the chief centers of attraction, and thousands were visiting the place.

London is and always has been one of the world’s greatest centers, and for commerce, crimes, customs and culture has no equal. Other cities that I have visited have had many attractions, but great, dark, gloomy London, with its ever-flowing tide of humanity, always interested me more than any.

I now took passage for America on a small Allan Line steamer for Montreal and came to Boston by rail, putting up at the old Bromfield House, at that time a great place for sea-faring men. Presenting myself at 15 Kilby Street the next morning, where my owners had their offices, I was paid off and ordered home to await further orders.

As I had been out to New Zealand for several years, you may be sure that I was glad enough to be able to get back to the old homestead once again.

Thus ended my little experience on one of the greatest American built sailing ships that was ever launched, and whose sailing records have never been beaten.

THE AMERICAN BARQUE OTAGO.

The barque _Otago_ was one of the finest crafts that ever rested a keel on the water. She was of clipper build, had a carrying capacity of about 1500 tons, was an able sea boat, and with a breeze of wind that was suitable to her taste would reel off 15 knots easy.

On my first voyage as captain of this barque we sailed from Boston bound for the East Coast of Africa, via Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, Port Natal and other small ports. We had a general cargo with ploughs, hoes, shovels, rakes and other articles too numerous to mention, which were intended for the Dutch farmers or native Boers.

Our voyage out was a pleasant one, making about 58 days to Cape Town and 27 days to the equator. At no time was there more than a wholesail breeze, and nothing special of note took place, with this exception: we never took in a royal until we hove to and came to our anchorage in the beautiful bay or roadstead. On this voyage, two degrees south of the equator, we sighted what appeared to be a steamer with fore and aft sails set, and bound south.

At 11 a.m. we ran close up under his lee and spoke to him. He said he was from Cardiff, Wales, and was bound for the Heathcote River, on the middle of New Zealand. He had been 100 days out and had a large lee-board out to prevent his vessel from making so much lee drift. He asked me if I would not come aboard, but as we were going ten miles to his one, I tacked ship and headed about north, eased off head-sheets and hove main-topsail aback. We hove over our Yankee dory, which I always carried, and was soon aboard of him. He was much pleased to see me, and although he had drifted along for 100 days seemed reconciled to his fate and fully expected the trip to take him at least 250 days. As I was familiar with the New Zealand group and he had never been there before, I gave him all the information required, and tracked off on his chart for him the course he should pursue, and he was more than grateful. He had his wife and child with him, a gay little girl about ten years old. We had dinner and a glorious old talk; he put out his best, plenty of wine and beer, and at 1.30 p.m. he hoisted signals to our barque to come on. All this time from 11 to 1.30 she had made about seven miles. Her main topsails were braced up and sheets taken in, and about she came like a race horse--a thing of life. She did look so handsome coming down, and seemed to say, “I will show you my heels in a short time.” About 2.15 p.m., according to record, the chief officer, Mr. Harding, brought her to and I went on board, having greatly enjoyed the pleasant change of a visit at sea.

We filled away and passed under the Comet’s lee, saluting him by a rousing good cheer, such as can only be given by a sailor, and bidding him a pleasant bon voyage, and in one hour she was out of sight.

When I left the Comet the captain had given me a large English market basket full of good things: a Yorkshire ham, English cheese, port, brandy and beer, and that night I could not help thinking of that captain and his family wallowing slowly along behind us. At this time foul grass, in some places a foot long, had grown on the vessel’s bottom, and in what a condition she must have been when, in 259 days out from Cardiff, she finally reached New Zealand.

Ten months later I had a letter from the captain saying had it not been for my advice he would never have arrived out, as it had been his intention to make his Eastern or longtitude no further south than 35°; instead he went direct to 45°, as I had suggested, and ran his Eastern down in high latitude.

Here in this Southern belt the winds blow eleven months of the year, from West N. W. to West S. W., and in this long stretch of over 7500 miles one seldom ever sees a sail unless overtaking some ship or being overtaken by some ship bound to Australia, or Van Dieman’s Land, or perhaps to New Zealand.

The never-absent companion of the sailor is the albatross, a large bird which often follows a vessel for long distances, and which “Jack” calls the “spirit of a departed sailor.”

The barque Otago reached Cape Town, and after entering at the Custom House and reporting to the consignees, we commenced to discharge that portion of the cargo which was to be landed, some of which had to be transported by bullock trams 300 to 500 miles inland.

To these monstrous trek wagons are attached often some thirty or thirty-six Cape oxen. They are immense fellows and their entire harness is made of trecto, or raw hide. The campers or drivers are often 30 or 40 days on the way, and in the dry season, especially in the Southern summer months, December, January and February, the cattle suffer much for want of water, and travel in the night time and out span in day, so they can feed and water their cattle if they are fortunate enough to find it.

The _Zaro_, or headman, who has charge of the freight, is a native Kaffir; under him are two drivers, one a young Kaffir, who is a leader and who, when they in-span, directs the head yoke. Imagine a picture of 15 yoke of oxen, or thirty in all, strung up to a Crow wagon 30 feet long, a Kaffir boy at the head with the leaders, and the driver with a long bamboo whip in his hand. This whip is a rod 20 feet long, with a whip lash over 80 feet long made of dry hide, attached to the end, and is used in such a way that it will reach, at any time, any of the bullocks.

The Kaffirs are men of great vitality and can endure great hardships, but are at all times most faithful and trustworthy. They can go days without food, and then have a big feast, and it is said that ten men could devour the carcass of a good-sized bullock, and never leave the table until it was all gone. Underneath their wagons they slung their hammocks, made from native jute buts, and their cooking utensils. Their pay, in the early sixties, was a pound sterling a month, and find themselves, with no set hours for duty, and it often happened that they were on the road for forty-eight hours at a time.

Today, rails and the steam engine do in an hour what in the old days took ten.

Before we weigh anchor I will mention my visit to Table Mountain, 8000 feet above the level of the sea. This mountain is usually covered by a thick mist or fog-bank, called by the natives and seamen “Table-cloth,” but when it is perfectly clear one can depend on fine weather.

A party of sixteen men and women, led by Guide Wilson, started on our journey up the mountain, by way of the bridal path, at three a.m. We went round the Lion’s Rump, then round and round, reaching the top at 8 a.m. Such a wonderful sight I never before witnessed! The ship in the bay looked like a toy vessel, and the town itself was full of tiny houses. The top of the mountain was very flat--called Table-land from the flatness of the surrounding Table Mountain--here is situated a lake, said to be in some places more than 200 fathoms deep, and filled with small thorny fish. We breakfasted and rested here until 11 a.m., and then gradually made our descent, reaching the town at 4.30 p.m., well compensated although weary from our journey.

I went to the end of the Long Pier and, signalling for my boat, was soon on my barque enjoying my evening meal.

We started to get under way; I gave orders to the chief officer to heave short loose top-sails and top-gallant sails, and it was done with a merry good will, as sailors are always glad to reach port and to leave it. While heaving up the anchor, Captain Smith and his crew came on board to assist us in getting under way, a courtesy usually extended in foreign ports by all ships.

The heavens were beaming with stars, a bright moon was shining, and a light wind blowing from the southwest helped to make a lovely night and a still one. Judson, our “Shanty-man,” started the crew up to sing the old “Shanty songs,” such as “Bonney was a Warrior,” “I am going away to leave you,” “Santa Anna was a one-legged man,” and numerous other songs. The singing was fine, causing large crowds to gather on the pier-heads, and the verandahs of the houses were filled with people.

The first officer shouted, “All away, sir,” meaning the anchor was off the bottom, we hoisted jibs and filled away, heading out to the westward, bidding good-bye to Captain Smith, whose boats-crew gave three rousing loud cheers for the old “Otago,” who picked up her skirts and started around the Cape for Algoa Bay, about 600 miles away.

At 10 p.m., or four bells by ship time, we tacked ship and ran in to clear the Cape. At this time the wind had changed to north-west, about an eight-knot breeze, which was a fair wind to lead us around the Cape. We made the run to Cape Receme in 78 hours, hauled around to the northward for about ten miles and cast anchors, mooring the ship from east north-east to south-east with “open-horse,” as the sailors say. As the east wind comes into this bay and causes a very heavy swell, we adopted this position to make the ship ride easy and take off the strain on chain and windlass. After a gale is over, great care and watchfulness on the part of the officers is necessary so that the slack chain may be hove in or paid out when the wind increases so as to avoid fouling the anchors. The wind often changes several times in twenty-four hours, and if the ship swings around there is much hard work and time lost in clearing the foul chain.

Some of the ships used a long shackle, which saves trouble, but was not considered as safe to ride to, as it did not give an equal strain on each anchor. We now proceeded to enter at the Customs and go through the regular formalities, reporting to Taylor Bros., consignees, who were agents of Isaac Taylor, the ship’s owner. While in port I made my stay with them and was royally entertained. Saddle-horses and carriages were placed at my disposal, and we saw much of the country.

Unfavorable weather delayed landing of the cargo, as it was necessary to discharge into large flat-bottomed lighters which could be used only in a fairly smooth sea. A large anchor is placed about 300 feet off shore, to which a hawser is attached and then made fast to one end of the lighter; on the shore end is another anchor fastened to forward end of lighter, and by manipulating these hawsers the lighters are run back and forth and the cargo discharged. Once on shore, the goods are put on the heads and shoulders of the Hottentots, who worked clothed only in a breech-cloth. They work all day long and receive very good pay; at that time they got a half-crown a day, about 62 cents in American money. The Kaffir gang of carriers were kept apart from the Hottentots, as they never mixed. Many of the Hottentots in this neighborhood had attained great wealth as cattle dealers, and came out gaily decked on Sunday afternoons. Having discharged our cargo at Port Elizabeth, we proceeded with fine west wind to Port Natal, E. N. East from our departure. A sand-bar prevented our entering this harbor until part of the cargo was taken off by lighters. Having reduced our cargo till we drew but 12 feet of water, we were now able to get over the sand-bar and proceed up the river. This port is the center for all East African goods, and raw-hide and sheep skins are the principal exports. The Boer farmers bring in their goods in the bullock-wagons, sometimes being thirty days on the road before getting into Port Natal. Here they rest up for a week and enjoy themselves drinking Dutch brandy. Then they load up with household goods and provisions enough to last them until next sheep-shearing season.

Many of the farmers were very wealthy, owning 75,000 head of sheep and cattle, visiting Europe every year, and keeping well posted on market conditions. Game was very abundant, and the farmers were all expert with the rifle. In later years this prowess was well shown in their dealings with the English army. We made the acquaintance of a Mr. Hoffenhimer, who had lost the previous night some twenty head of cattle by a tiger. He had prepared a large cage, baited it with a lamb, and the next morning was rewarded by catching an immense big tiger alive. European zoological gardens paid a big price for these fellows, and the skins were also valuable.

We now put ballast in our barque and returned to Port Elizabeth to load with wool, hides and skins for Boston, Mass. At Natal we had taken on board a Mr. Thompson and wife, who were bound out West to settle, and we now embarked twelve more passengers who were a mixture of Dutch, Irish and Africanders, or native-born whites. These had “made their pile” and were returning to civilization to settle down.

With a good easterly breeze and threatening weather, we got under way, close-hauled by the wind and a heavy swell on. We stood south, hoping to clear Cape Receif, which we did without tacking ship. In fact, it would have been difficult to tack, as we were too near the shore to wear ship. I ordered the lead to be hove, and fully expected to strike bottom every moment. By good luck the wind hauled around and we headed up two points to eastward, and at dark, with the roar of the surf breaking under our lee, we cleared the rock.

Outwardly I showed no nervousness, but I assure you my heart was in my mouth, and it was a happy moment when I shouted, “Hard up your wheel, brace in main and fore yard, and keep her west by south.” It was now blowing a living gale, east-north-east, nearly astern, but hauling up the clews of our mainsail, we set the main top-gallant sail and sent up a silent prayer for safe deliverance.

An easterly gale prevailed through the night, and our good ship bowled off 15 knots an hour until 8 a.m. next morning. However, under fore-sail, fore-topsail, main-topsail and main top-gallant sail, she made splendid weather, although there was a very heavy swell from the East.

During the evening the chief officer had very foolishly told the passengers what a narrow escape they had had in rounding Cape Receif, and it had caused considerable uneasiness among them as to their safety, for the wind was blowing fiercely. After I had assured them that there was not the least danger, I got Mrs. Thompson to play a few good old Methodist hymns on the organ, and we all sang until confidence was restored, and all retired saying, “God bless Captain Taylor.”

The next morning at eight bells, 8 o’clock a.m., the wind moderated and hauled round to the S. S. East, and all sails were set and we passed the next twenty-four hours in comparative comfort.

The next day we made land about fifty miles to the westward of Cape of Good Hope. Here we passed several Cape fishing boats, fishing for the famous Cape snook. We passed so near that many of the men, thinking we were going to run them down, shouted out to us in their Hottentot language.

At sundown that evening we made Cape Light, distant about eight miles under our starboard lee-bow. With a good south breeze we shaped our course at 8 p.m. for the island of St. Helena, lying directly in the path for all homeward-bound American vessels. A beautiful breeze followed us until we struck the S. E. Trades, in latitude 28° S., and from there we had fine weather until we hauled to close under the land and cast anchor at this island, made famous by the exile of Napoleon. We had been twenty-three days on the voyage from the Capes to the Island, most of the time the sea being like a mill pond it was so smooth. Casting anchor at early daybreak, and so close that our jib-boom touched the rocks, found twenty fathoms of water, and, after breakfast, launched the boats and gave the passengers a day’s liberty to visit the island.

The older part of the town was in ruins, caused, strange to say, by the fact that the St. Helena ants had worked their way into the mortar and undermined the foundations. The township is located in the center of the island, and is surrounded by high hills on both sides. On the top of the hill on the northwest side are the English barracks, where several companies of troops are stationed, ready for call to any part of the Cape or British India. The island is also used as the recruiting ground of the invalid soldiers.

We spent most of the day on the southeast side visiting the home of Napoleon, while he was exiled on the island, and the place on the hillside where he was buried, before his body was removed to France.

We returned to the town, and I made purchases of fresh ship stores, green groceries, fowl, and a few sheep, for fresh meat to be used as needed on the voyage home.

At 6 p.m., pretty tired but delighted with our visit to St. Helena, we boarded the ship, and after supper, with sails all aback, we drifted off a piece and squared away on our homeward journey.

We crossed the equator in sight of Cape St. Rourke, and taking the N. E. Trades we made straight course, with yards eased in a little, to 30 degrees north latitude, when the wind headed us off a little to the westward, and passing Cape Hatteras, about thirty degrees off shore. The wind favored us until South Shoal Lightship was made at 10 a.m. We had been fifty-seven days out from Algoa Bay, South Africa, and thirty-four days from St. Helena. After leaving Nantucket Lightship, we shaped our course to clear the shoal ground, and hauled in under the Cape. Fifteen miles off the Cape, the wind hauled to the eastward and it commenced to snow. The barometer commenced to fall, and there was every indication of a nasty night. First it would blow, then a snow squall, then clear a bit. We finally got sight of Race Point Light, and got good cross bearing and at nine o’clock shaped our course for Boston Light. Noting that our patent log was set, I ordered one of our best helmsmen to take the wheel, and the chief officer to have the anchors off the bow ready to let go at any moment. The wind had commenced to blow N. E. to E. with terrific force, and at times one could not see a ship’s length ahead, but with light sails furled, only running under two topsails and jib, the ship bounded along.

I have often thought how imprudent I was to run for port on such a night, yet I had confidence that my course was right, and all hands were on the lookout both port and starboard.

For one instant I at last caught a glimmer of Boston Light on our starboard, and all hands forward shouted, “Light ho, right ahead!” We hove wheel hard down, let sail run, and dropped both anchors, just forty-eight hours from Nantucket Shoals Lightship. Next morning everything was covered with snow, but we took a tug at nine o’clock, and docked at Lewis Wharf at ten o’clock. Later in the day I reported at the office, and the first words that greeted me were, “Foor goodness’ sake, Captain, where did you come from and how did you get here?”

LAST VOYAGE OF THE BARQUE OTAGO.

(J. N. TAYLOR, _Master_).

On this voyage we were from New York to the Cape Colonies and different ports on the south and east coasts of Africa.

We sailed from New York on March 18th. 1867, and had pleasant winds and clear weather with fine start, for a good voyage. But the fine weather did not last long. The wind hauled around to the north east and thick weather set in. At noon-time the wind kept hauling to the eastward and increasing, so we shortened sail accordingly and at 2 p.m. there was every prospect of a hurricane.

We now “wore” ship, with her head up to the N. E., close reefed topsails, and hove the ship to. At this time there was a high cross sea and the ship labored heavily, making considerable water. Through the night and up to the noon of the 21st. the heavy gales and high seas increased. It turned out that we were caught in a rotary storm, the wind going around the compass every 24 hours and the barometer very low, 28-15. The sky was dark and the spray flew in all directions and she pounded so much she strained badly and commenced to leak so that we were obliged to pump all the time to keep her free from water.

We had very little sail on her, only 2 lower topsails, and fore-stay-sail, but she rolled badly and shipped tremendous seas. At midnight she made several heavy rolls to windward and all of a sudden on the return roll to the leeward, the strain was so great, it caused 2 of the weather chain-plate bolts to draw out from the side, and slacking, swayed inboard.

We hove up the wheel, braced in and got her round on the starboard tack and put on temporary tackles, but they were of little use, our mainmast head weakened with the strain, and crash, down it came. A heavy flaw now struck us and ripped our topsails and staysails as though they were paper.

At daylight the weather had moderated some so we got up the mainmast head and after a great deal of work fixed up the damage done to the chain plates. She still rolled fearfully so that we were obliged to drive in new eye-bolts from the inside and then key them up.

On the morning of the 21st. of March, 1867, there was no change in the weather and it looked as if we might have to abandon the ship and take to the boats. The water was gaining on us all the time and the crew were worn out with the tiresome job of pumping, and as I came on deck the whole crowd came rushing aft and their spokesman demanded that I put back to New York, as they were afraid the ship would sink, she was so unseaworthy. I well knew that myself, so at 8 bells we turned the ship’s head for New York and had proceeded on that course for about 15 hours, when, as the sailors say, “we were struck butt end foremost.” It blew a hurricane from the N. West and we were obliged to run dead before it under bare poles. We now found ourselves back in the same place as we had been before we started back for New York.

Search had been made to find the leak, and aft, in the port run, we found water running in through several seams. These were caulked with oakum and backed up by heavy tarred canvas, until, to our great joy, we had the leak stopped and about 100 strokes to the hour at the pumps seemed to hold it.

At about 8 bells on the morning of the 22nd we saw a wreck under our lee bow, about 8 miles off, with signals of distress hung on the stump of his mizzen-mast, as all his masts had evidently gone by the board. I succeeded in getting a little sail on the Barque, and we bore down on him. About 9 a.m. we made out his signals, which read, “Will you stand by, am in sinking condition?”

Everything was gone from his decks except the stump of his mizzen-mast, to which he had rigged his signals. I came as close as I could to him and made him out to be the British Barque Blond, of Lanely, England, and she was on her beam ends, rolling frightfully. She had left New York with us, bound for Sligo, on the West coast of Ireland with a load of grain, and had been struck by the gale, dismantled, and thrown on her beam ends as the cargo had shifted.

It now began to blow so hard that we were obliged to take off what little sail we had on and let her run under bare poles again. At about 2.30 P.M. we discovered a boat astern of the barque, about a mile under his lee, with six men in her. One big sea now struck the boat and over she went, throwing them all into the water. They managed, however, to reach her and upright her, but had only one oar and a small piece of board left. We now bent on a stout rope to some pieces of boards and payed it out toward them, and by good luck they caught it and we drew them by degrees alongside of us. As we were rolling heavily at the time their boat caught under our rail and again they were all turned into the sea, but we hove ropes to them and they were all pulled aboard, wet and exhausted, and with but little clothing, as they had cast off what they could when they were tipped over the first time.

A long boat had now been launched from the Blonde, and four more men had succeeded in jumping into her, but a big sea had carried them away from the Barque, leaving the captain and mate aboard of her. It took them some time to get back near enough for these two men to jump in and then began the hard task to row to the Otago. The sea was running mountains high, sometimes we could see the boat and then she would disappear as though she were swallowed up. They reached us at last, just as night came, and they all managed to jump aboard, without the loss of a man.

Now we had 12 extra men to feed and help work the ship, but it seemed as if they had almost jumped from the frying pan into the fire. We fed them all and fitted them out with clothes from the “slop chest,” and at midnight I turned in, not to sleep, but to moralize, and wonder how we were going to get out of our troubles.

We carried a cat and a dog and as soon as I was in my bunk they both jumped up close to me, the cat meowing and the dog howling. After a time they both calmed down and I patted them and talked to them and I guess we all felt better.

The crew of the Blonde had been helping at the pumps, but now refused to work any more. I soon settled this by making them sign articles with me at 3 pounds a month. The weather now moderated and I told the crew that as we were nearing the tropics the weather would improve and I should hold the ship on her original course to Cape Town, but if we could not keep the leak down, would put her in the nearest port, which would be far better than going back to New York in a bad season. To this they all agreed but I had already made up my own mind to carry the ship to Cape Town, if she would keep afloat that long.

Things ran along smoothly until we reached 35 degrees south, where we were to “run our eastern down” when some more things happened. At noon-time, aboard ship, we take the sun, and work out the ship’s position. On this particular day I had performed that duty, and Capt. Bently, the commander of the ill-fated Blonde, had also worked out our position. The weather was fine and looked as if it would continue, so I went below to take a nap.

I had not been asleep more than half an hour when I awoke and very naturally looked over my head at the telltale compass, which told me whether or not, the man at the wheel had her on the course. I also looked at the barometer, and to my surprise, it had dropped 3/10th.

I ran out on deck and everything seemed pleasant and the barque was running dead before the wind. I looked all around and about 5 degrees above the horizon, I saw a big white mist, increasing rapidly. I sang out, “All hands on deck, and let go all sails and clew up.” The officer of the deck looked at me as though I had gone mad, and he afterwards said he thought I had become suddenly insane from the hard strain I had been under since we had left New York. But when I pointed aft at the mist, he understood. We had let go all the halyards we could reach and all hands had got about half the sail off her, when it struck us. It carried away the foreyard, the main top-gallant mast, all the light sails, and flooded the decks with water. It seemed as if she would founder the pressure was so great, but it lasted for only a short time, ending with a terrific downpouring of rain which beat the sea down as smooth as a mill-pond.

I ordered the pumps sounded and the mate reported 12 feet of water in the hold, and said that we would all be on the bottom soon. On closer examination, it seemed that our sounding line had become wet, and after we had chalked the line and tried it again, we found but 18 inches of water, instead of 12 feet. But what a mess things were in! Some of our braces had parted and everything hung by the “eyelids.”

After the excitement was over, we commenced to patch up and save what we could, and found she had been heavily strained. The foremast head was sprung and the bob-stay broken. Lucky for us, the sea was so smooth as to enable us to replace some of our spars, and by evening we had her all pumped out and running on her course under light sail. I now felt that, crippled as we were, if the wind continued westerly, we could make Cape Town, even under jury-masts, if we could keep her afloat, but that was a question.

It now appeared that the ship was so badly wrenched that we had to keep the men at the pumps all the time, and we could not gain on the water. Two or three feet of water stayed in her all the time and we could not pump her clear. However, we reached Cape Town the last of May, and entered the harbor with six feet of water in the hold. Now, the harbor master always directs a ship to her anchorage, and he had pointed out to me where to anchor, but I informed him of our sinking condition, and ran her up on the beach before she sank. Thousands of people watched this unusual scene as we ran her up on the beach. She was condemned and sold for the benefit of the underwriters, and the cargo was so damaged that it brought only two hundred and fifty pounds. Thus ended the final trip of the barque Otago.

VOYAGE OF THE BARQUE GEORGE T. KEMP.

The Kemp was named after Isaac Taylor’s agent at Port Elizabeth. The captains of most all sailing vessels were allowed to do a little speculating on the side, and often picked up quite a little pocket money by their various investments. So at Port Elizabeth I had purchased as a bit of speculation one ostrich, one tiger, and a large baboon, a regular man eater and a most vicious animal. I am very fond of all kinds of animals and, strange to say, this baboon took a fancy to me and was quite docile when I was with him. We were homeward bound and were getting into the S. E. trade winds, so we were obliged to chain the baboon down on the main hatch. We put him in a large pen that had been formerly occupied by the pigs and fowl, and strengthened it by placing large iron bars along the sides. A hole was bored in the bottom of the house and the chain mast fast to a ring-bolt and hauled in, which allowed him to just place his arms or forepaws on the edge of the pen. All the sailors were warned to keep away from him, for if they were hurt it was at their own risk. One of the sailors, a big Swede by the name of Swinson, seemed to take delight in getting big Jocko angry, and stirred him up whenever he went past the cage. The baboon would scream, froth at the mouth and bend the bars of the cage in his efforts to get at the sailor. I had cautioned Swinson to keep away and let him alone or he would get hurt, but he only laughed. The after part of the forward house had a main entrance to the starboard and port watches, which was about four feet from the main hatch-house, where big Jocko’s quarters were. One fine day at noon-time eight bells were struck and the starboard watch was relieved. Our big Swede thought he would have some fun with the baboon, so he picked up the deck broom and poked it through the cage, handle first. The baboon immediately hauled it in very quickly, but the sailor held fast to the broom instead of letting go, and was drawn rapidly towards the cage.

At that time I was on the quarter-deck, saw Swinson go towards the cage with the broom, and shouted for him to drop it and go about his business. But now there came a horrible scream from both man and beast. The baboon had fastened both of his big tusks in the sailor’s throat, and they were locked tight. The crew were now all on deck and things were in a general hubbub. I ran forward, got hold of the baboon’s tail, and commenced to twist it up, but as his teeth were locked over and under it did no good. We then put an iron belaying pin in his mouth, cut the skin clear in the man’s throat, and in this manner separated the pair. By this time the deck was covered with blood, Swinson was black in the face, and the baboon was about winded, as the pressure of the bars against his own throat had prevented his breathing somewhat. Swinson was now unconscious and we thought him dead, but as we carried him aft he showed some signs of life. His throat was now one mass of clotted blood and was a horrible sight. My knowledge of anatomy was slight, and this was one of my worst experiences in the surgical line aboard ship. We carried a medicine chest, a text book on medicine and one well illustrated book on surgery. The case was supplied with bandages, needles, silk thread and a variety of splints. The mate opened the book of surgery to a place which showed the anatomy of the neck, and we went to work to fix poor Swinson up the best we could. We washed and cleansed the wound and by using plenty of pressure succeeded in checking the constant oozing of blood. I put in some thirty stitches, which made the wound a little more presentable, but it still looked very nasty. We detailed one of the men to stand by the sailor and keep constant pressure over the bleeding places and to give him all the care he could. The man’s neck swelled something horrible and we thought sure he would die, but in three weeks’ time he was all right again and on duty. You may be sure he always gave Jocko a wide berth after that, and the baboon never forgot him, either, for he always made the most horrible noises and sounds whenever he saw the sailor. The only thanks we got for looking after Swinson’s wounds was a threat to sue both the ship’s owners and myself. Proper entries signed by witnesses of the affair had been made in the log-book, so I did not worry, and we never heard anything of the affair after we got ashore.

When we arrived below Boston Light a Captain Cates, who was master of the tug that took us up the harbor, had with him a magnificent bulldog that he thought would be more than a match for anything in the animal line, even a baboon, such was his fierceness and ability to fight. I told him he had better keep the dog away from the baboon, but he laughed and thought his dog could take care of himself. The baboon was chained forward under the top-gallant forecastle, and when Mr. Bulldog saw him he made a rush for him. It was the last rush the poor dog ever made; he was so badly used up before we got him away that he died soon after from the effects of his fight with the baboon.

An agent for a circus, a Mr. Thompson, bought the baboon from me for $300, so I was well paid for all the trouble he gave me on the trip. We had no trouble with the other animals, and sold them for good prices to representatives zoological gardens. This incident is related to show some of the varied experiences in a sailor’s life and how strongly they are fixed in one’s mind even many years after.

THE SHIP LITTLETON.

To take charge of the ship Littleton, I was obliged to go overland from Boston to San Francisco. She had recently come from Australia, was partially dismasted, was leaking badly, and her commander, a Captain Beck, was very sick. Instructions were given me by the owners to examine the ship and report as to her condition. This was done and it was estimated that $20,000 would be the cost of re-fitting her. She was re-caulked, a new copper bottom put on her, and the balance of repairs done by Coombs and Taylor, who were under bonded contract to put everything in shape as per specifications.

I was accompanied on the trip by my cousin, Mrs. Percival, and her two daughters, aged five and seven. Her husband, Captain Freeman Percival, in command of the old New York ship Blue Jacket, trading between Frisco and Puget Sound, had been away from home some years without seeing his family, and had decided to have them go to California to settle.

I think this trip was made during the first week that trains had made through connections from Chicago to San Francisco, and we were on the road seven days.

While the riggers and carpenters were working on the ship, several charters were offered me: grain and flour in sacks to go to Montevideo and Argentine Republic, and another to go to Queenstown, Ireland, for orders. One morning the king charterer of all the grain ships, a Mr. Friedlander, a German, weighing over three hundred pounds and over six feet in height, sent for me. This man was well versed in his business, sharp, tricky, and as crafty as an Arabian trader. His character was well known, however, and I had been told about him in Cape Town by old Commodore Allen, the port captain.