This list is given with all its imperfections, because the names of steerage passengers are not usually published in the colonial newspapers.
Dr. Scoresby on the ‘Royal Charter.’
It will be recollected that the late Dr. Scoresby—who made himself so great a name in the history of Arctic discovery—went round the world in the ‘Royal Charter’ in order to study the deviation of compasses in iron ships. The fine old sailor in his posthumous work[D] thus speaks of the ship and her performances:—
[D] ‘Journal of a Voyage to Australia and Round the World, for Magnetical Research.’ [Back to text]
‘Now, as to the action and performance of the “Royal Charter” under this hard gale and mighty disturbance of the waters, the experience we again derived was truly astonishing, and, compared with all my previous experience, what I should have deemed impossible; for by far the greatest portion of the time, I should say four minutes out of five, we had no observable motion, the ship being steady, quiet, and often apparently absolutely still. A minute or two would often pass whilst these heavy waves were rolling harmlessly forward, and but just raising in a slight degree the stem and alternately depressing it, when we might have seemed to be sailing in a sea of extreme calmness in the finest weather. In these intervals of dead quiet, no woodwork, joint, or junction of iron and timber, emitted an audible sound—no creaking was heard,—and at night there was sometimes a quiet most striking in its stillness. Of cases of this perfect quiet in time of heavy sea, squalls, and storm, I frequently noted intervals of seven and eight seconds, of ten to twelve, sometimes twenty up to twenty-four seconds, where there was not motion sufficient to break a silence of repose like that of dock or harbour. Hence, notwithstanding the lurches on rolling, extending sometimes to 16° or 20° on one side, and perhaps once in several hours to 30°—the maximum never exceeded up to this time,—a rolling inseparable from a progress directly before the wind, in difficult steering and with squared yards,—yet most occupations below, while ladies as well as others, went on as usual; and, when the state of the decks as to dryness would admit, exercise on the deck likewise. Thus when the waves were at the highest—when elevations of forty feet and upwards were rolling around and beneath the ship—Mrs. Scoresby accompanied me on deck for exercise, and to view, in an instant of bright sunshine, the sublime scenes around, and found no difficulty in walking the poop deck, which was unencumbered and dry. She accompanied me, too, along the gangways extending from the poop to the deck-house, and from thence to the broad and spacious forecastle up to the very bitts, within a few feet of the stem,—and even to this extent, and along a range of three hundred and twenty feet of deck and platform, the progress was perfectly easy, and at the time the whole extent was clean (unusually so, almost to whiteness), and dry from end to end.
‘Again, I may remark, that our meals were always served up to the minute, in the handsome services, covers, and appendages before noticed. Everything cooked with the same effectiveness and completeness in storm as in calm: fresh provisions, roasted and boiled, in fowls, mutton, pork, etc., unfailing and abundant,—pastry, puddings, and the variety of niceties, for each particular course, always ample and good of their kind; so that in speaking of the servants and cooks as part of the ship, and of the ship as a thing or creature of life, I may say that the “Royal Charter” had no consciousness of bad weather, and made no signs of complaining in storms or heavy seas. During a heavy squall, for instance, at dinner-time on this day—a fierce snow-storm for a period, the wind blowing tremendously—no effect whatever was produced on the comfort of those who sat at table; and a wine-glass I had emptied stood for many minutes entirely unsupported betwixt the protecting bars of the table, and it was only liable to be disturbed by some particular lurch which might happen to occur. Again, in regard to pitching and “sending,” the action of the ship was equally remarkable, both for the easiness of the motion and the smallness of the inclination of the keel from the horizontal level. A forty-feet wave, on its entrance below the stern or counter of the ship, whilst the bow was exactly in the lowest or most depressed portion betwixt crest and crest, should raise the stern, as from the simplest view of the case it might seem, to at least its own elevation, or give an angle of inclination to the keel of about 7°; but no such measure of pitching or “sending” motion was ever observed—probably not above half as much. For, in no instance in scudding, did I ever observe the bow of the ship plunge nor the stern rise to anything like the position apparently due to the elevation of the passing waves. The action, indeed, was obviously of this nature; from the admirable adjustment of the ship’s lines of construction, forward and aft, the loftiest wave, on its reaching the stern-post below, exerts its lifting tendency, not abruptly or suddenly, as where the quarters are heavy and the run thick, but very gradually, so that the disturbing force, passing beyond the place of greatest influence before its due action is realized, becomes modified and reduced.
‘These principles are no doubt in operation in every tolerable mode of marine architecture, but not to the degree of perfection in which the tendency to assume horizontality of position, and to receive the least possible disturbing effects from the most formidable disturbing causes in the action of rough, irregular, or heavy seas, has been attained in the modelling and building of the “Royal Charter;” and whilst similar results in kind will be found to have been obtained in very many or most of the scientifically constructed and splendid clipper and other first-class ships of this important age, I should much doubt whether in any single instance the approach to perfectness of the model of the “Royal Charter” has been exceeded, or even—in all the elements of the perfect “sea-boat,” as adapted for these southern regions, proverbial for turbulent seas and boisterous weather—been equalled. The view from the poop and forecastle which my wife and some others of our ladies witnessed for considerable periods together, even in the height of the gale, was one, especially during the favourable occasions of bright sunshine, of sublime magnificence; whilst the general view of the tumultuous waters as we looked astern, as the ship was scudding before the storm, and as we marked the waves rolling perpetually onward, and overtaking in succession the swift-sailing ship, presented a picture of striking grandeur. The more threatening storm seas, as every now and then they rose high above our position, and intercepted (astern and on the quarters of the ship) every other portion of the mighty waters, could hardly be contemplated,—I ought to say, could not rationally be contemplated, without awe! Nor was the action of the ship under the mighty disturbance the least impressive or least striking feature in the general picture.’
I remember that passage being quoted in the Athenæum, with this pleasant remark: ‘Only to think of all this jollity at sea—in a voyage round the world—dainty ladies for companions instead of howling savages; fresh fish, flesh, and fowl, champagne, old port, and silver dishes, in place of remainder biscuit, salt pork, and hot grog.’ Ah! only to think of all the jollity! Little did Dr. Scoresby imagine, when he penned that passage—little did the reviewer think when he affixed that genial comment to it—that the ship, with its jollity, its dainty ladies, and its silver trappings, would so soon lie ‘sunk in the waves!’
But the life on board the vessel has been elsewhere described. In a tiny tome of sketches lately published[E] is the following attempt at a picture:—
[E] ‘Dottings of a Lounger.’ By Frank Fowler. [Back to text]
‘Our Ship looks best, I think, at night. She’s by no means unworthy of being sketched in the morning when a few albatrosses are sailing round her, and a whale blowing his foamy fountain just a length or two behind. She’s pretty at sunset again, when her sails flush purple, and the passengers form themselves into so many little knots, and, as the twilight thickens, watch the roseate touches dying in the west. She’s brave in a storm at any time.... She shakes off a sea as a restive horse throws its rider. But she’s best of all o’ nights, when the dancing is going on aft, the sailors are singing “Chiliman” round the galley, and any number of proposals are being made among the “intermediates” behind the long-boat. How beautifully, at the stilly hour of eight bells, she moves through the water, and flings the phosphorescent foam about her like an Eastern queen beneath a rain of pearls. What was Cleopatra’s barge in comparison, or any “Nicean barque” that ever sailed upon a “perfumed sea?”
‘But the best part of Our Ship, either by day or night, isn’t on deck at all. There is a snug little cockpit forward, before the jollity of which mere cuddy luxuries count as nothing. The second and third mates, one or two young middies, a guitar, plenty of grog and smoke, a good old cheese, and some biscuits, will make as jolly an evening among them as any Christian need wish to spend. On Our Ship these parties are nightly occurrences. There is a young midshipman on board with lots of money. He is always inviting his friends to meet him. He is a pleasant youth, with large, bland eyes, and a superfluous number of oaths. I never knew a lad, though, who imprecated more innocently. He evidently thinks that good swearing and good seamanship go together. He swears at a little child on board all the time he is filling its lap with candy and comfits. He is, withal, a good-tempered youth, but constantly getting into scrapes with the officers. After the breaking up of these festivities—which doesn’t generally happen until an advanced hour, when not even the ghost of a deadlight remains—it sometimes happens that you find it difficult to discover your right “home” amongst the long line of cabins down the side of the dimly-lighted saloon. This kind of thing, though, is by no means confined to festivities at sea.
‘There is pleasant work on the R—— C—— in the evening. A select whist party takes one table, chess, draughts, and backgammon occupy another, and a jovial circle of “speculators” a third. At nine o’clock the hot water is served, when each brews his glass of toddy—baling out a wine-glass of the smoking liquor for his lady neighbour—and jollity holds sway for the remainder of the evening. Those who don’t understand Hoyle—who are dummies at whist, dull at dominoes, and regularly thrown on their backs with regard to all-fours—who think draughts dry, and see no point in backgammon—generally retire to the poop after tea, to get up their little music and dancing parties, and warble and waltz gaily enough ’neath the light of the glistening stars.
‘In dirty weather Our Ship is not to be altogether slighted. She rolls a good deal, I admit, but show me the vessel that doesn’t. There is a polarity, too, as Mr. Emerson would say, about this rolling. See how it churns the preserved milk (there is a cow attached to Our Ship, but I think she is only a kind of stage property, for, certes, her via lactea is as dry as leather), and makes a rich syllabub of the port wine. What an excuse it affords, too, for bad carving at dinner, and for becoming a sort of “shore” to the pretty young lady who sits next to you. If the lurches do empty the soup-plates occasionally in your lap, and chip the edges of the crockery until the dishes look like circular saws—if they do throw you out of your bunk at night, and land your head in the water-jug—what of that? Of course, no harm can ever come to the R—— C——, and, comforted by this conviction, all you have to do is to put up with the little annoyances for the sake of the “amenities” which, as I have shown, lurk beneath them.
‘For there are some very nice girls—and with this I must conclude—journeying upon Our Ship. I like to see them in the cold morning furred up to their pretty little noses, peeping up the companion-ladders to see if the weather will admit of a walk before breakfast. I like to see them at “church” on Sundays, gathered round a pork barrel “rigged” as a pulpit, with an old Union Jack rolled up for the cushion, and hear them lifting up their voices in solemn praise across the solemn sea. It is a grand sight this last. Full service in a cathedral is nothing to it. Jack in his clean shirt, and with that same Bible in his hand which his mother gave him years ago, when his face, now hardened with brine and scarred with sleet, was the pride of the old woman’s heart, is as impressive a figure to me as the finest-clad young neophyte who ever swung a censer. I know Jack sings out of tune, and ultimately swamps the Old Hundredth in the Bay of Biscay. But what matters that? Despite defects in harmony, the song of praise goes aloft in all its purity.’
Truly, a very ghastly humour plays about these descriptions as we read them now. The mirth seems like that in Holbein’s ‘Dance of Death.’