All hands were now employed getting the cargo gear ready for use; there were strops to make, pennants to overhaul, purchase blocks to examine, and scores of other jobs to do before we reached Callao, but, as most of our deck stores had been washed overboard, and lost off the Horn, we could only wash her down, having no paint to put on her. Many think a ship is in her finest condition when she leaves port for a long voyage, not so, far from that, for unless a ship meets with a bad accident, or comes upon the coast in the dead of winter, when it is impossible to do work upon the rigging or, like us, loses her deck stores, she is generally in her finest order at the end of the voyage, and captains and mates alike stake their reputation for seamanship upon the appearance of their ship when they haul into dock. Everything from the rigging to the forecastle is scraped and scrubbed, painted or varnished, the rust is pounded off the chains, bolts, and fastenings, everything that is useless is thrown overboard, then, add to this all the neat work about the rigging that only a sailor can understand—the knots, flemish-eyes, splices, seizings, coverings, pointings, and graffings—which shew a ship in the best of order, and then that which looked still more like coming into port, the getting the anchor over the bows, bending the cables, rousing the hawsers up from between decks, and overhauling the deep-sea lead line.
Then another thing, the voyage being nearly over, everybody is in the best of spirits, the strictness of discipline is relaxed, for everything is done with a cheery goodwill, the little differences and quarrels that crop up during a voyage are forgotten, everybody seems friendly, even Mr. Ross, the second mate, who had been like a bear with a sore head since we left Liverpool, unbent and smiled at the little jokes that passed round amongst the men. From each and all the strain was lifted as we dropped anchor in the Bay of Callao, after a passage of one hundred and thirty-five days.
CHAPTER XI
Callao and San Lorenzo
My first sight of Callao was not one to endear it to my memory, for it is a dirty, unwholesome-looking town, and, as is well known, one of the most immoral places under the sun. Formerly it stood on the open coastline, six miles from the city of Lima, and is the port of call for this, the Peruvian capital. It had then no harbour, but is now a fortified seaport, situated on a river of the same name. In 1871 there was a population of 20,000, mostly seafaring. A railway links the port and capital together, passing at first through the centre of the streets of Callao, the station being merely a house in the street, opposite to which the train stops either to take up or set down passengers. The houses are built of adobe, and other light material, and as there is never any rain in this country, they do not need stone buildings. The valley of the Rimac, in which Lima lies, is not without a certain vegetation, dusty brown and burnt up it is true, and only obtained by constant care and irrigation. The fields, too, are surrounded by walls of adobe, made into blocks and the road following the line lies inches deep in dust.
When we dropped our anchor, we found over one hundred sailing ships here of all nationalities, but principally English and American. They were all anchored in tiers north and south, according to the nature of their cargo. Our anchor was no sooner down, and the sails furled than our deck was swarming with the most villainous looking touts, crimps, and boarding-house masters that ever cheated the gallows. They defied the master and mates, and walked into the forecastle, and hauling out some rot-gut they called whiskey, soon had every sailor on board in a state of stupidity, and actually took them out of the ship by force, even against the men’s own free will. Every one of the touts and crimps carried a six chambered revolver and would not have hesitated to use it if interfered with. There was no law to appeal to, might was right for the time being, and so before the anchor had been down an hour every man forrard was cleared out of the ship. The captain went on shore to complain, and to enter the ship, but he got no redress. The shipping master told him he ought to consider himself lucky that the crimps did not steal and shanghai him too. When he returned on board he brought with him an English boy about the same age as myself, Alec Taylor by name, who had been left ill in the hospital from an English ship, and as he was now quite recovered, the English Consul sent him aboard our ship for which I was glad.
One of the first things I learnt was that earthquakes were frequent here, and that much loss of He was caused by them. In the year 1746 what is known as the great earthquake took place, which demolished three-fourths of the city of Lima, and the town of Callao sank twenty-five fathoms below the sea. Three thousand seven hundred people are said to have perished, and the coast line was entirely changed. On the night of that awful catastrophe, an aged fisherman, San Lorenzo by name, went out in his boat with his nets and lines to follow his usual vocation. Never had he felt so loth to leave his home, a premonition of some coming evil hung over him, and would not be shaken off, so he more earnestly even than usual committed his wife and home to the care of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
For days and days there had been a kind of scum over the blue sky, and the face of the sun was veiled, for all the world as though you were looking through a smoked glass, and frequent internal rumblings had been heard in the mountain districts. He did not want to go out this night, he felt he should like to stay at home, but he was poor, and there was neither food nor money in the home, and he must needs go and catch fish. So out he went to the usual fishing ground—about seven or eight miles south-west of the town. The sea was calm and peaceful, not a breath of wind stirred the mirror-like surface of the ocean, all around was calm and still. He had been out some time, but not a sign of fish was to be seen or felt. The lines lay slack in the water. The old man grew drowsy, and fearful of some impending disaster. In the distance he could see faintly the lights of Callao, and beyond them, in the sky, the reflection of the lights of Lima City, gay, sparkling Lima, the city of gold and silver. He could not understand why, but an awful weight seemed to be pressing him down. His breathing seemed to choke him, what ailed him? Down on his knees he dropped and with hot, choking, gasping breath he poured forth his “Ave Maria.” An unnatural, unearthly stillness gathered all around him. Was he going mad? What was it? Dear God, what was it? He began frantically to haul in his lines, he would return to port and home.
“Jesu Christi, help me,” he muttered, a terrible fear clutching at his heart. Hark, what was that he heard? Was it the surf on the beach? No, it could not be, there was no swell in the bay, what was that rumbling noise, like distant thunder? He looked above, but now no sign of sky or stars could be seen—all was blackness. A choking, gripping feeling came in his throat. He looked towards the port, but no sign of lights could be seen. All was thick, black, impenetrable darkness. Then he thought of his wife and children, and breathing his “Ave Maria” once more he tugged again at the net and lines, and began to haul them in. Another loud rumbling sounded in his ears like peals of thunder, but nearer than when he last heard it. The sea around him began to bubble like a boiling pot. He sat down choking, then, to his horror, he found the water beginning to rush away from his boat on all sides. Suddenly the boat grounded on some hard substance, the water all vanished from around her, then he found himself and the boat rising up like a flash, higher and still higher, he ascended nine hundred and fifty feet above the level of the ocean, his lines and net still out, but the old fisherman did not mind—his fishing days were ended, his soul had left the regions of strife.
That night Callao, with its three thousand odd inhabitants, with barely a moment’s warning, sank beneath the sea, and that same night a gigantic island arose out of the sea just off the coast, and five miles from the site of the old town of Callao. The island is nine miles long, one mile wide and nine hundred and fifty feet high.