menu_book Chapter 7

Section 7 of By Way of Cape Horn by Paul E. Stevenson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Barry Eades. Section 7. June 7th. South Latitude. Our expectations were fulfilled, for we entered the southern hemisphere in the morning watch, crossing the great circle which circumscribes the earth at fifteen minutes past four. Thus we have entered upon the second stage of our voyage, and while the first quarter was certainly not everything which could be

desired, we reached the line in very good time, 27 days from New York. If we had had even a little better luck in the doldrums, four days could have been stricken from the 27. This is a far better passage, though, than we made in the Mandalore, when we had been 49 days at sea before we finally cut the equator. Perhaps the most comforting part is the fact that the skipper seems to have exhausted his supply of a guardiente, for he has been very solemn and strictly sober for three or

four days. Heaven grant that he has no more grog. This weather is so magnificent now that the memory of our late smothering calms, during which we were eight days in making four degrees of southing, has entirely passed away, for we are humming through the water at eight knots, close-hauled with streaming scuppers, while the superb southeast trade wind sings a blithesome tune in the rigging. It is the grandest wind that blows, so cool and steady, and the ocean so sparkles under its

influence, with a snow-white crest topping each sea, reflecting the splendid blue of the heavens in its azure depths that existence becomes an unbounded delight. I think, too, that the finest cloud effects which we saw on our first voyage were in the southeast trades. True to precedence, yesterday afternoon at four o'clock, the northeastern sky was obscured by a huge dark cloud the color of indigo, and rendered doubly so by the sun shining upon it. This cloud extended almost

to the sea rim, black and frowning, while immediately beneath it, on the horizon, appeared some faraway masses of cumulus cloud of a most beautiful cream color, enchanting the mind with their loveliness and resembling great yellow icebergs. As we were contemplating this spectacle, McFoy sung out something which I thought was vessel on the lee.

The mate then went aloft for a bitter view, and when he had come down, I asked him if he could see the vessel, to which he replied, St. Paul's rocks. This excited us at once, and I went up to the cross-jack yard, from which elevation I plainly saw against a dark cloud what appeared to be twin lighthouses, like Thatcher's Island Lights at Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Although fifteen miles distant at the time, and the weather was slightly hazy, these two rocky columns, rising from a depth

of 2,000 fathoms, the only land within hundreds of miles, produced an effect wonderfully majestic and solemn. The exact position of the rocks is 0 degrees 55 minutes 30 seconds north and 29 degrees 22 minutes west, and they are five in number, though only two are of considerable altitude, the loftiest being 100 feet in height. They are separated from each other only by narrow chasms, so that until you approach very close, the appearance is that of a single island.

The whole space occupied by St. Paul's rocks does not exceed 500 yards in length and 300 in breadth. And while Darwin concluded that they were not of volcanic origin, more modern scientists, Renard, Gecky, and Wadsworth, have decided that they are eruptive. These rocks are totally devoid of vegetation, but are the resort of incredible numbers of seabirds, both gannets and nadis, as well as a certain spider, while the water in the vicinity swarms with fish, seven varieties having been taken by the challenger during a very short stay. Captain, afterward Admiral Fitzroy, went in command of the beagle during her celebrated five years voyage, visited these rocks, and wrote an admirable description thereof.

Among his observations is the following. The multitude of birds covering the rocks was astonishing, and they suffered themselves to be kicked about and killed with sticks. At the same time, those on the wing even darkened the sky. Numbers of fine fish, like the grouper of Bermuda, bit eagerly at baited hooks. But as soon as a fish was caught, a rush of voracious sharks was made at him, and notwithstanding blows of oars and boat hooks,

the ravenous monsters could not be deterred from seizing and taking away more than half the fish that were hooked. Had it been earlier in the day, we would have stood in toward the rocks to behold the surf which rages incessantly against the weather side. But it was too late, and even as we looked, the lofty obelisks began to fade away, and at 6.15 we had what I hope will be our last look at the lonely St. Paul's rocks. The Atlantic Ocean near the equator, between the meridians of

18 degrees and 23 degrees, is subject to frequent and violent earthquakes, which have the effect upon a vessel like that of being dragged over a reef, or that of a heavy chain cable being suddenly run out through the hawse pipes. The most singular fact in relation to the component parts of seawater is the variation in the proportion of salt. For every ton of Atlantic water evaporated, there is yielded 81 pounds of salt, Ditto Pacific 79 pounds, Ditto Arctic 85, while the Dead Sea

heads the list with 187 pounds, though I have never seen such statistics in regard to our Great Salt Lake. Although the temperature in the shade today was very agreeable, the sun's heat was terrific. It is customary to refer to a baking sun, but I should call that of today a boiling sun, on account of the moisture. And it is strange that on a day like this, the sun's rays will not dry out a wet towel, though exposed to them for several hours during the hottest part of the day. So great

is the humidity. Latitude 0 degrees, 49 minutes south. Longitude 29 degrees, 53 minutes west. June 8. These are fine trades, though the squalls are severe and sudden. A few words here in passing as to squalls. What landsmen often call a squall, sailors call a puff, such as are experienced along our coasts with a northwest wind, lasting a few seconds.

A sailor's squall often lasts for 30 minutes and is accompanied with heavy rain, while it can be observed approaching in the form of a nimbus cloud touching the ocean a long while before it reaches the ship. In this 24 hours, we did 213 knots, an average of more than 9 within the hour, while in many of the squalls, we must have been doing nearly 12. How many yachts are there which can equal this on a bowline?

Shipmasters, however, cannot realize how fast a yacht can sail with a light wind. They all seem to think that a yacht sails best in a gale. Captain Kingdon often used to say to us in the Southern Ocean when we were doing 12 knots before a fresh gale, Ah, this is where I'd like to see an able yacht. 16 knots, eh? And he couldn't understand that under those conditions a smart yacht could sail but little, if any, faster than we were doing.

But what is even more difficult for them to grasp is the speed of a racing yacht in what they call a light air. Sometimes when we were fanning along at, say, five knots, I used to worry Captain Kingdon by telling him that a 70-footer would run him out of sight in that breeze in a few hours. He refused to believe that any yacht could make nearly ten knots while the Mandalore was doing perhaps five. This morning we had a heavy sunrise squall.

for which we had to let go the royal halyards, the skysails having been stowed during the night. But quick as the men were, the wind was swifter yet. For before the clue lines and bunt lines could be manned, a great rent was made in the mizzen royal, and in a few minutes the second mate reported that the upper foretop sail was in the same condition. Both were, therefore, unbent and lowered as such. While a brand new mizzen royal was sent up, the first of the strong

new sails which will be bent before we reach the bad weather. It was the hardest squall which we have had yet, and the wind and rain made a thunderous noise while it lasted. Yet high above the din could be heard the powerful voice of Mr. Rarks, shouting to the men to bear a hand with the mizzen royal clue lines. Though there were plenty of squalls throughout the night, the sky was perfectly clear between them, and thickly studded with fine constellations, while the moon silvered

the great wool packs as they sailed serenely up out of the southeast. Quite a sea had made by eight bells this morning, in which we wallowed a great deal, but lost none of our way. Seabirds have been very scarce lately, though a single large frigate bird has sailed all day on motionless wing in wide circles overhead. I wonder how many perfectly well and healthy deep-water captains there are. This sounds absurd at first, as it is the general opinion that sea captains are always

thoroughly hardy and strong. Of course some of them are, for long voyage skippers not infrequently live to a very advanced age, proving that they must have always been sound men. Yet in most cases, it will be found that they suffer from some malady brought about in their profession. Perhaps the most common is liver trouble in conjunction with dyspepsia in some form. Captain Kingdon's death, it will be remembered, was caused by a cancer or abscess in the liver.

Such complaints are due to an inactive life for months at a stretch, for captains, on account of their dignity, cannot take part in the working of a ship or in pumping her out, so that walking the poop must constitute all their exercise. Rheumatism, produced by bad food and exposure, divides the honors with the liver, while from heart disease but comparatively few long voyage captains are free. It generally develops in those of a nervous temperament, induced by worry in

gales and dread of trouble with the crew if they are unruly, besides a score of reasons only understood by the initiated. Even in my very limited experience, I have known three master mariners afflicted with cardiac disease. One, a splendid fellow, Coal Fleet of Hantsport, Nova Scotia, died in his bunk in the North Atlantic. Another, in the ward line service, was grievously stricken in Cuba and had to retire from the sea, while the third suffered from dreadful intermittent

attacks of angina, but I have lost track of him for several years. Latitude 3 degrees, 50 minutes south, longitude 31 degrees, 35 minutes west. June 9th. Late yesterday afternoon, Captain Scruggs came up and said that Fernando de Narona was visible to leeward from aloft, and that if we looked hard enough, we might be able to see it from the deck. So we gazed long and earnestly over to the westward, and there, sure enough, arose a soft rose-colored cloud through the mist, and in another

half hour, we could perceive the various islands which constitute this group, together with the lofty pyramidal rock 1,000 feet above the sea which crowns the loftiest of the islands, giving it a peculiar individuality, so that it is not possible to mistake this cluster for any other known group. We were near enough to count four distinct islands, the largest of them being 20 miles in circumference, and we could just make out the tremendous walls of sheer, unbroken rock falling

into the sea. But beyond this, it was not given us to penetrate, even with the strongest glasses on board. Would that we had been fifteen miles nearer, that we might have compared this group with Trinidad, which rears its desolate summit 2,020 feet above the sea, fifteen degrees farther south. The spectacle of the surf breaking on Fernando de Narona must be even grander than on St. Paul's rocks, for lying in the very heart of the strong southeast trade wind, the full force

of the mighty South Atlantic surge dashes ceaselessly against its basaltic walls. Last evening was very fine indeed, the wind having let go sufficiently to make the deck agreeable, and as the moon shone with great power it was a night of remarkable beauty even for the tropics although some ragged scud which blew swiftly across the moon presaged plenty of wind for today. The indications were fulfilled for it has been very squally since early this morning.

All the royals came in at 11 o'clock and we have been plunging along in a broken sea through savage blasts which roar in the rigging with an angry voice. The most unfortunate thing is that the wind is heading us by hauling to the southward, and for the greater part of the past 24 hours, we have been steering well to the westward of southwest, so that in spite of our weatherly position on the line, we are going to have

trouble in getting past that portion of Brazil lying to the southward of San Roque. Indeed, at noon, we were only 75 miles from the land, a little south of the great bugbear, as Maury pertinently styled the famous cape. For dinner today we had canned lobster, which came from the far distant cape of Good Hope. At least the skipper called them lobsters, but the mate disgustedly muttered crawfish. This sort of thing the skipper cannot stand as he considers it a crime for Mr.

Goggins to know more than he does, and actually resents any information which the mate volunteers at table. He generally doesn't care to exhibit his knowledge in the skipper's presence, and it is hard to see why today he forgot himself in so unusual a manner. Yesterday, for instance, I remarked what a particularly hot day it was for the trades, and the skipper promptly denied it on principle until furnished with ocular proof by thermometers, while the mate discreetly

observed, I feel like getting out me warmer coat. Mr. Goggins is occupied during the first watch every other night in teaching two of the men where the different ropes lead to on deck. One of these hapless individuals is Louis Eckers, who doesn't understand much English, and the other is John Peterson, an immensely tall, lean Dane, who lives in such terror of the mate that he utterly loses his head at every command. He is, besides, pitifully anxious to please,

and his awkwardness is really remarkable. If there happens to be a rope yarn in his path, he is sure to trip on it. And when he starts to move in obedience to an order, he first stares all about as though just recovering consciousness. And then suddenly perceiving that the men are some distance off by this time, he laboriously gets his lank frame underway after heavily tripping over some object, and with elbows squared and head bent low, he charges like a bull across the deck.

Neither of these men has ever been aboard a square rigger before, and what little sense they have seems to vanish when anything is to be done. I'll never forget John's appearance last night as he clattered heavily forward toward the forecastle when the mate said ferociously, Show me the spanker sheet. Poor fellow, so rattled he knew not whither he was going. Speaking of ropes a moment ago reminds me of the largest one ever made in England.

It was of white manila, weighed 5 tons, and was 22 inches in girth, with a breaking strain of 18 tons. This huge rope was made a short time ago for the express purpose of towing a floating dry dock from the Tyne to Havana, which itself weighed 6,000 tons. Seventy men were required to haul in the hauser and coil it away. Latitude 6 degrees, 18 minutes south.

Longitude 33 degrees, 58 minutes west. June 10th. Oh, unhappy day! Oh, joyless hour! We could not weather South America after all. Late yesterday afternoon, when I had plotted the runoff on our own chart,

I sought the skipper and said to him, unless my chart is out, we're not more than forty miles off the land. No, he answered quietly, we're just thirty miles from the beach, and I'm going to wear ship at six. How bitter was his tone as he said this, bitter and calm with despair, for that which he said in jest three weeks ago has truly come to pass.

Far back in the North Atlantic one morning, when we were not far enough to the eastward for that latitude, I asked the captain if he weren't generally farther east than we were then. But he made light of it, trusting to his star of luck, as he jocosely answered, Oh, well, maybe we'll have a chance to look at Brazil. Prophetic utterance. No one knows until he has been there how it galls a skipper to be caught here, for it often puts two or three weeks on the length of a voyage.

At any rate, when six o'clock came last evening, we wore ship to a running and complicated accompaniment of boisterous profanity and stood away east on the starboard tack. If the trades were where the general average shows that they ought to be at this season, east-southeast instead of south-southeast as they are,

we would have fetched by with two or three degrees to spare. The breeze was pretty strong when we turned in last night and gave evidence of freshening considerably. But no one looked for any such wind as we had this morning. We were awakened by the loud voice of Captain Scruggs,

Haul up the Krojek, Mr. Rarks, and five minutes afterwards, Coo up the Tegensels, fore and aft, while a sudden headlong dive showed that something more than a strong breeze was blowing.

Dressing was difficult, and when we finally emerged from the companionway, behold the ocean almost white with breaking seas and a moderate gale whistling from south-southeast. The seas were short and we plunged heavily into them with an unpleasant jerk. But it was a glorious sight to watch the billows as they came roaring at us,

deep blue in the hollows, and crested with hissing froth. We hadn't been more than a half hour on deck when the captain sung out, haul down the main top mast, stay sail, and clue up the mainsail, which meant that we were going to wear again and stand inshore. We were nearly in the wind on the other tack

and the second mate had just roared out, Head yards now! When crash! A tall sea fell over the weather's side and full upon the wee Chinese cook,

the meekest, jolliest little fellow imaginable. He was standing outside of the galley door when that sea claimed him. It slammed him first against the main hatch, washed him back into the scuppers, then aft nearly to the cabin bulkhead, and finally sat him fiercely

down by the pumps, during which evolutions the frail little fellow could be perceived shooting about in the surging waters, his long black thin pigtail curling and writhing several feet behind him. After the water had partly run off, half burying the men on the leaf foresheet, our little Chinaman lay very still, and we feared that he was badly hurt, though the men were roaring with laughter, while the skipper thundered, Why in age don't you pick him up? to the mates, who stood as

though petrified, gazing at a cask of seawater bearing down on the cook which would have flattened him like one of his own pancakes. All at once he came to, however, saw the barrel almost on him, and skillfully rolled out of the way of it, escaping with some painful bruises on his arms. This was the only sea that boarded us, and we were soon straightened out on the old port tack, steering southwest and doing scarcely four knots, for we were under short canvas and the seas pounded us back, and even now we will hardly go free of the land. For in spite of our twelve hours of easing during the night, a powerful northwest current has set us back to such an extent that our noon sight showed us that we were only ten miles farther offshore than at the corresponding hour yesterday, and that we had made only thirty miles of southing.

If the wind shifts only a point, though, we might be able to weather the land after all. Last night, the mate and I had a conversation about fast passages, and he said to me, I can tell you there was plenty of smart ships 30 or 40 years ago that you'll never hear tale of nowadays. There's the Boston ship Siren, as I was made of. We were coming around from Coquimbo, bound to Liverpool, when we were caught in a pompero off the River Platte.

It came in a squall as usual, and the first thing I know, there was the fore and main gallant mass over the side. We didn't have no spare spars aboard, and in spite of that, we went from three degrees south right into Liverpool in nineteen days. Pretty quick for a lame duck, and considering the doldrums too. Then there was a smart passage I heard tell of the other day about a modern ship, the British ship King George. She went from Cape Town up to the Delaware Capes in 47 days.

This last was really a fine performance, for the distance which she covered was 6,800 miles. Compare this passage with the voyages of sailing vessels to the westward across the North Atlantic in winter. There are nearly always 50 days coming across, and not infrequently 70, or nearly a month longer than the King George was from South Africa, while the distance is less than half. In the Gulf of Mexico trade, there is a wonderfully fast little four-and-aft schooner called the Margaret S. Smith of Portland, Maine.

This vessel ran on one occasion from Roten, Honduras, to Mobile in 72 hours, which was an hourly average of 12 and one-half knots. and considering that the net tonnage of the schooner is only 112 her performance must be regarded as almost phenomenal. There are not very many large sailing ships in these days which can show a record of 300 miles per diem for three consecutive days yet the smith is doubtless less than 100 feet long. The other day I managed to get a large dollop of slush on a pair of thick

trousers, and I asked the skipper if Sammy, the boy, couldn't get it out, thinking that he could do so with some soap and a little warm water. But lo, fifteen minutes later, I saw my trousers soaking away in a tub of water like a pair of dungaree britches. This, as I observed before, is the way with seafaring people. Whenever there is aught amiss with a garment, poppet goes into the wash tub. Latitude 6 degrees 49 minutes south. Longitude 33 degrees 48 minutes west.

End of section 7.