“That’s the only way to look at it, my boy,” Captain Crosbie replied, and his voice sounded as if he was pleased, “sailors need stout hearts, and those that haven’t them should stay on land, there are no back doors at sea, but there are no slates and chimney-pots to fall around our ears. The “Bertie” and I have weathered worse storms than this.”
Time and again it seemed to me that this must surely be the worst storm that ever raged, and that, good ship as the “Bertie” was, she must give in to the terrible buffeting. In spite of our running under almost bare poles the ship would again and yet again be pressed down and down through the force of the blast, until her going over on her beam ends seemed only a matter of another few seconds. Then, if the wind eased for a moment, she would right herself, only to be met by a yeasty surge leaping madly aboard, ready to sweep the deck clear of everything that was not lashed beyond the possibility of moving.
It was well that the men had secured themselves to the rail by the bow-lines, or the waves would surely have washed them off the ship to a watery grave. The cook had a terrible time, for the men had to have meals, even if the storm still raged, and he was at his wits end how to prepare them, and more than once his big pot of soup that we were all looking anxiously for, was sent flying into the lee scuppers by a wave bursting into the galley, and the getting of the captain’s dinner into the cabin was a gymnastic display, at the conclusion of which we all breathed freely. But on the last day of the gale, even Tommy’s acrobatic feats were not sufficient to avert the catastrophe, for it happened that a leg of fresh pork had been boiled for the cabin dinner, and, as everyone knows, there is nothing more wobbly to carry in calm weather than that joint. Tommy had managed two or three journeys from the galley to the cabin under difficulties. With an anxious look on his face he came out of the galley with the leg of pork smoking on the dish, the cook coming to the door to see its safe transit, when, as if in protest against such a comfortable meal being enjoyed by our much harrassed captain, a huge sea broke over the ship, down went Tommy and the dish, and the tasty leg of pork went slithering along the deck and through the main deck port, and was lost to view before one of us could make an attempt to stop it, leaving Tommy still clinging to the dish.
The weather moderated as we drew near the dreaded Cape Horn, and we soon repaired the damage done by the gale we had just passed through. We had a splendid crew, mostly, as I said at the beginning, Scandinavians, steady and willing men. The ship was rolling and surging along at about 9½ knots, the weather was clearer, but getting much colder. When within about two hundred miles of Cape Horn, running before a strong south-west wind, with a light haze, it was about 3 p.m., when one of the seamen, Johan Hansen went aft to the second mate, who had charge of the deck.
“Sir,” he said, “I think we are close to ice, and I think this haze is thicker than it seems to be.”
Mr. Weeler was alert instantly.
“Can you see anything, Hansen?”
“No, sir, but I was several years in the Iceland trade, and though I cannot tell why or how, I feel that we are near field ice.”
“All right, go on the lookout and tell me if you can see any.”
Then calling me to him, Mr. Weeler told me to ask the captain to come on deck. I did so, and he was up in a few minutes. He was engaged talking to the officer, when a tremendous yell came from Hansen on the lookout.