Chapter I.
To the right, scarce fifty miles away, stretched the bleak and inhospitable coast of Patagonia; to the left, equally distant, lay the rugged and desolate Falkland Islands; behind, growing every instant more remote, were civilization and government; while ahead lay an almost boundless waste of storm-swept waters frowned upon by grim Cape Horn itself—firm ruler of a region which for three centuries has tried the patience of mariners, and tested the endurance of the stoutest ships that man can build.
The usual preparation for rounding the Horn had been made. The old patched-up sails had been taken down, and strong new ones bent in their places—for a ship, unlike a person, wears her best suit of clothes in foul weather;—lanyards and standing rigging had been renewed and strengthened; preventer braces attached to the principal yards; and life–lines stretched all over the main deck.
It was the second dog-watch from 6 to 8 P.M.—and a grand but stormy-looking sunset had given place to the long twilight that prevails in these high latitudes. A solitary star of great size blazed in the zenith, while on the northern horizon, resembling an immense open fan, there was a fine display of the Aurora Borealis, which appeared to rise out of the sea and was becoming more beautiful as the twilight deepened.
Up on the poop-deck, clad in warm ulsters, the two passengers were taking their evening constitutional, occasionally pausing to make some comment on the myriads of Cape pigeons whirling about the ship, or to watch a lordly albatross swoop down from above and dive beneath the waters—seldom failing to seize the hapless fish that his unerring eye had spied from afar. Both were young fellows of perhaps twenty-five, who in this long voyage had sought rest; the one from college studies too closely pursued, and the other from the countless worries and nervous tension of American business life.
Will Hartley and Frank Wilbur had never met until the day before leaving New York, and as both were of rather reserved dispositions, their relations at first were those of acquaintances rather than friends. But all that was now changed, for gradually they began to thoroughly like each other; and by this time were nearly inseparable. Several months’ daily intercourse between two young men shut up in a ship together is a severe test of companionship, but in the present case it had resulted most happily.
Hartley broke a short silence by saying; “To think that ten weeks have passed since I saw a newspaper! All sorts of events have happened on shore that no one here dreams of.”
“What do we care?” answered Wilbur, with a laugh. “We are in a world of our own, and as for me, I don’t bother about what is going on in the United States. It seems as if I had always lived on this ship, and my whole past life appears a vague dream. What I would like to know is, whether the Arabia and Iroquois are ahead of us or not. It will be too bad if they beat us to San Francisco.”
“No danger of that if we keep up this rate of speed. George! but we’re traveling. Let’s take a look at the log.”
Captain Meade, a fine-looking man of fifty, joined the passengers, remarking as he rubbed his hands in a satisfied fashion, “Well, gentlemen, this is a good start around the Horn. We were 50° 45’ south this noon, and if this wind would only draw into the north a trifle and then hold, we might be across 50 in the Pacific a week from to-day. I made it in six days once, but never expect to again.”
When a seaman speaks of rounding Cape Horn he does not mean simply passing the Cape itself, as one might Cape Cod or Cape Flattery. Looking at a map of South America, we find that the Horn is situated in 56° south latitude; but from the moment a ship crosses the fiftieth parallel in the South Atlantic until she has passed down around the stormy Cape and up in the Pacific to the fiftieth parallel in that ocean,—a distance approaching a thousand miles, she is said to be “rounding Cape Horn.” Until she is across 50 in the Pacific, the vessel is never safe from being blown clear back to the Cape by the furious western gales and hurricanes that rage almost continuously in this region. Thus the Sagamore had already started to round the Horn, although she was yet several hundred miles from the place itself.
The wind had increased to nearly a gale, and the ship was beginning to take some good-sized seas on board. The big surges struck the vessel’s sides with a shock that made her tremble as she sped on, and the mate soon bawled out, “Clew up the mizzen to’-gallant s’il!” The work of stripping the ship continued until nothing remained but a few storm-sails. All hands had been called, and it was indeed a sight to see the men aloft on the yards in the gathering darkness, as they tugged at the flapping canvas, trying to lay it on the yard so as to pass the gaskets round; while the wind howled through the rigging like mad, and the Sagamore, as she plunged on, began to roll at a lively rate under the influence of the big sea which was being kicked up.
“I’m glad I’m not a sailor,” said Wilbur, preparing to go below. Just then a comber broke against the stern, and a good-sized lump of water plumped down on his back, drenching him thoroughly. Hartley laughed; so did the bo’s’un, who passed at that moment, and the passengers quickly descended the companion-way to the cabin, whose warmth and security were in sharp contrast to the bellowing gale and streaming decks without.
An exquisitely wrought lamp of Benares brass—it had once graced a viceroy’s mansion in Calcutta—shed its soft light on the marble-topped center table. The captain’s compass affixed to the ceiling silently indicated the vessel’s course, and a number of fine geraniums which ornamented the wheel-house windows in warm weather now occupied a rack about the inside of the skylight. The ends of the room were occupied by two cozy sofas, with lockers underneath; one containing old copies of “Harper’s” and “Scribner’s,” while a liberal supply of ale, beer, and similar comforts filled the other. Upon the walls, handsomely finished in panels of natural woods, were a brace of revolvers and several glittering swords and cutlasses belonging to the captain,—excellent weapons to have on a ship far removed from all civil law for months at a time. The floor was of Oregon pine, beautifully oiled and polished. Contrary to custom, it was on this voyage covered by a carpet that the steward had put down soon after leaving port, “so as the passengers wouldn’t break their necks when she got to rolling off Cape Horn.” Nearly all the way from New York to the Falklands the weather had been glorious, and the ship stood up like a church in the few squalls that were encountered; but now the young men began to think the steward had known what he was about when that carpet was laid. Walking or even sitting still had become an accomplishment, so Hartley brought out the fifth volume of “Les Miserables,” while Wilbur produced one of the numerous books he had provided. With chair-backs to the table, and feet braced against the sofas, they defied the elements temporarily and read on—to the accompaniment of groaning timbers, an occasional crash from the steward’s pantry, and the muffled roaring of the gale without.
The storm gained strength as the night advanced. While the mizzen topsail was being furled, bo’s’un Merrell went forward under the forecastle deck to put additional lashings on several casks of provisions stowed in the vicinity. He was assisted by two foremast hands, and the trio had just secured a barrel of flour when the ship was struck by a heavy sea, and gave a vicious roll that threw all three men against a water-butt standing near. The sailors gained their feet uninjured, but before the stunned bo’s’un could recover himself, a half-filled cask of beef broke loose and was hurled through space as though shot from a cannon. With a cry of warning, the two seamen stumbled out of the way, but before Merrell could escape he was felled like an ox, and his lantern smashed to fragments. The motion in that extreme forward part of the ship was very great, and the cask soon took another dive in a different direction; when the men, guided by the groans of the injured bo’s’un, groped their way to where he lay and contrived to drag him behind the hatch-coaming. He was able to sit up, and gasped out “Call the mate, Jack; I’ve got a bad hurt.”
It was about two o’clock in the morning. Captain Meade had been on deck most of the night, and went forward upon hearing of the accident. The suffering man was borne into his little room near the galley, where he underwent an examination which resulted in the discovery that the left leg was broken midway between knee and ankle.
Few men have commanded deep-water ships for twenty years without having had to deal with broken limbs occasionally, and the master of the Sagamore was no exception. Twice before had he successfully met a similar emergency, and in the present case there was a valuable assistant at hand in the person of Mr. Hartley, who had just completed a course of study at a New York medical college, and was now en route to the Pacific Coast to practice.
Having made his way aft across the dark and steeply-inclined deck, the captain called the steward, and then apprised Hartley of what had occurred. That young man had not slept for some hours, and upon learning of the accident was most anxious to render all the assistance in his power; for the bo’s’un was a good-natured fellow, liked by all.
While Hartley struggled into his clothes, Captain Meade procured splints and bandages from the medicine-chest. When both were ready, they opened the storm-door leading onto the main deck, and awaited a favorable moment. The night was black, but the gloom was relieved somewhat by the foam-covered water surging about the deck. Holding to the life-lines with one hand, they dashed forward along the lee side, stopping once to seize the line tightly and haul themselves up off the deck to avoid a deluge that tumbled over the weather bulwarks, and poured down to leeward.
The steward was already in attendance on the patient, and Hartley at once set about uniting the broken bones and applying the splints. What Captain Meade would have considered a painful and disagreeable necessity, he regarded from a professional standpoint only, and went about his work with a coolness and assurance that greatly relieved both captain and patient. The abominable rolling was the worst obstacle to be overcome, but the task was at last accomplished, and in a highly creditable manner.
Merrell was resting easier when Captain Meade and “the surgeon” proceeded aft. The former stretched the chart of the Cape Horn region upon the cabin table and examined it long and closely; for Staten Land—rocky, uninhabited, and with no lighthouse to reveal its position—was rapidly being neared, and great caution was necessary.
There was now an apparent lull in the gale, but it was not for long. At daylight the Sagamore entered a “tide-rip” whose waters, lashed into fury by the gale, presented an awful spectacle. The ocean resembled a gigantic mill-race; the tide flowing one way, while a swift current set in the opposite direction, forming a whirlpool. Huge waves came from all directions at once, pouring tons of water on the main deck and forecastle. Progress was well-nigh impossible, but the captain kept resolutely on, knowing that the ship’s only salvation lay in running through the tide-rip before she should be hurled upon her side by some sea more mountainous than the rest. This nearly happened once when a towering wave half as high as the fore yard broke on board, staving in the heavy door of the galley and flooding the interior, washing everything movable from the decks; while the ship went over, and over, and over, till her yard-arms almost touched the water, and her decks were like the sloping roof of a house.
But the crisis was safely passed, and the maelstrom left behind. The gale blew itself out during the forenoon, the sky cleared, the sun shone brightly through the clear frosty atmosphere, and land was visible from the deck.
Land!
If you have never been so situated that for many weeks your eyes have not beheld a solitary foot of ground you can hardly appreciate the emotions of all on board the Sagamore as they looked on that bleak and forbidding promontory rising out of the mist—Cape St. John. A few hours later, the ship was opposite the treacherous straits of Lemaire, and very near the shore. The entire length of Staten Land from Cape St. John on the east to Cape St. Bartholomew on the west, was stretched out like a grand panorama; forty miles of low mountains, jagged rocks, and broken valleys, without a sign of animal or vegetable life, and with naught save great patches of snow to relieve its black nakedness. The straits of Lemaire separate this body of land from Tierra del Fuego, and on the latter might now be seen Bell Mountain,—a distant but lofty peak, on whose snow-capped summit the sun shone in wintry splendor.
Hundreds of large sailing vessels pass Cape St. John every year on their long voyages from New York, the British Isles and Continental Europe to our Pacific coast. It is a great rendezvous, and the Sagamore presently found herself in the midst of an imposing fleet of merchantmen of all nations. Here, at the southern extremity of the American continent, were ten ships and three barks, carrying the world’s products to San Francisco. Scores of eager faces lined the bulwarks, while on the poop of the nearest craft stood a woman—the first representative of the fair sex that anyone on the Sagamore had seen for three months. As the large vessels, with all their canvas set, slowly mounted the regular swell, a murmur of admiration burst from the passengers, who longed for a far-reaching camera to preserve the beautiful picture through years to come. Those ships had completed the first half of their long journeys, and now sailed in company for a few hours, soon to be scattered far and wide upon the mighty Pacific, to meet again at the Golden Gate, thousands of miles away. It was a sight to make the pulses thrill.