On Board the "Rocket"

by Robert C. Adams

"Twenty-nine."

"How do you make that out?"

"Oh, I was born and bred at sea."

He was thought to be too old a sailor for a young captain to manage, and was not engaged. Soon a young man applied, with more modest demeanor, and he was secured. The rest of the crew were soon picked out. Wishing to choose for myself who should sail with me for so many months, the shipping master was told to send on board any good men who applied to him, giving the preference to Norwegians and Swedes, these being, in my opinion, both in seamanship and docility, the best class of sailors that man our vessels. Germans and Scotchmen he was told to favor next, then Englishmen, and lastly Irishmen, for these, though often capital seamen, do not as readily as some others endure privations without grumbling, and are too strong republicans to be always submissive subjects of a despotic government such as that of shipboard. American sailors unfortunately are not often in the choice. They are soon promoted from the forecastle, if they enter it, or else after short service find they can do better on shore, than by leading a dog's life at sea.

One afternoon in September all the crew were mustered on board. Captain Jack Frost came alongside with his tug boat, and his cheery voice hailed, "Are you all ready, Cap.? Pass out your lines!" The owner said, "Good-by," and moving towards his yacht, added, "I'm going to give you a race down the harbor." The fasts were cast off, the bark was tugged out into the stream; then with topsails set before a strong nor'wester she showed the towboat the advisability of getting out of her way. We should have thought she was sailing fast, had not the yacht "Vesta" overtaken us, crossed our bow, and boomed away down Broad Sound, under jib and mainsail. Just inside of Boston light we rounded to and let the pilot get into the canoe from the station pilot boat; then, filling away, the course was shaped for Cape Cod and the voyage had begun. The anchors being secured, the top-gallantsails were loosed, and leaving all the accompanying fleet astern, away we sped, ten knots an hour, and in four hours passed the Race Light.

The crew numbered eight men and two boys before the mast, a cook, cabin boy, two mates and captain, fifteen all told, besides one passenger, a young gentleman travelling for health. Owing to the late hour in the day at which we sailed, the men had taken several parting glasses with their friends, and some were inclined to be troublesome. The officers managed judiciously and kept them quiet, but the mate remarked, he thought we had "a pretty hard crew." The watches were chosen and the port watch sent below at eight o'clock, in accordance with the old maxim "the master takes her out and the mate brings her home." By this rule the watch variously known as the second mate's, starboard, or captain's watch, takes eight hours on deck the first night outward bound, and the mate's, or port watch, does the same the first night of the homeward bound passage.

The wind had drawn more northerly, becoming rather "scant" for a course north of George's Shoal, so we squared away down South Channel. Being right before wind and sea, the bark, having a large proportion of her heavy cargo in the lower hold, began to roll most distressingly. She seemed to nearly dip each rail alternately in quick succession. As the night wore on it grew worse and worse, every drawer slid out in the state-rooms, the doors of lockers swung open, their contents got adrift, kegs of paint took to rolling, the turpentine-can upset, scenting the air, and the pantry floor showed a medley of tin ware, crockery, brooms, edibles and sundry "small stores" engaged in kaleidoscopic performances. After getting some of these things secured more firmly than had been possible in the haste of their reception, the weary skipper went to his bed, but not to sleep. The berth was fore-and-aft and he rolled from side to side with every motion. Then, in distraction, he removed to the transom sofa running 'thwartships across the cabin, and here he slipped up and down, standing now on his feet and then on his head. O, the miseries of that night! The close cabin, the smoky oil-lamp, the smell of turpentine and the quick, incessant motion created suggestions of sea sickness, even to a veteran mariner. The mind sympathized with the body, and thus the captain reflected:—"O, what a fool I am to go to sea, there are the beautiful home, the spacious rooms, the comfortable and steady bed, the beloved family circle. What have I done? Renounced them all for a year. For what? To be shut up in this dismal den, with a crowd of rude vagabonds, deprived of everything that makes life enjoyable, and visited with everything to make it miserable. Only let me set foot on shore again and you'll never catch me on board of a ship."

The morning light was welcome and George's Shoals being well cleared, the vessel's course was altered to the eastward, bringing the wind more on the side and steadying her movements. This is one of the pleasures of sea life, the cessation of motion. "Then are they glad because they be quiet." But as sea-life originates the evil, it deserves no credit for the temporary relief. The breeze moderated and we made easy progress, while the crew were busily at work stowing anchors and chains, putting on chafing gear, and making the various preparations for a long voyage. A pilot boat came under our stern to satisfy her curiosity as to our identity. As she disappeared, we felt that our last friend on American shores had left us, and we set our faces resolutely towards the regions beyond. The next day the weather became threatening. Though October had set in, no gale had yet occurred fit to be named "the equinoctial storm," therefore, one was considered due by all who believed in that old-fashioned institution. A gale did come, but its connection with the equinox was not clearly established. It blew fiercely enough, however, to deserve that respectable title, and forced the vessel to lie to under a close-reefed main-topsail, which finally had to be "goose-winged" (one side of it furled.) The mate went aloft himself to encourage the crew in braving the storm. For two hours it blew with almost hurricane violence, or as the mate expressed it, "a perfect screamer," and we began to fear we should not escape unharmed, as the seas were getting very "ugly." But the Rocket lay to safely and behaved splendidly. All night the wind held on with violence, but at day-break it began to moderate and we escaped with no other damage than splitting a jib and foretopmast staysail.

A gale of wind at night is a sublime, though fearful, scene. The ship plunges wildly in the darkness, and skies and waters are equally black, only relieved by the foaming crests of the mountain waves. But perhaps the most impressive feature is the music of the gale, nature's grand organ, or, if any prefer the simile, its bagpipe. The sub-bass of the storm, as it sweeps over the waves against the hull and through the lower rigging of the ship, forms the great volume of sound, and above, in constantly changing variety, come shrieks, screams, wailings and whistlings of every pitch and intensity, sounding from aloft as the wind drives through sheave-holes, against the small rigging, and into cracks in the spars. Few listen to these sounds without an impression of awe or even dread, and many a brave heart, which scarcely knows the meaning of the word fear, has felt a thrill and shudder as the discordant screams and howlings of the midnight gale unite with the roaring and dashing of the breaking waves.

For the next three days we tumbled about in the subsiding waves, and experienced the most unpleasant part of a storm, which is not positively dangerous. The excitement and touch of romance pertaining to the gale have gone. The disagreeable motion, as the ship, not steadied by the force of the wind, is tossed to and fro on the waves, which the gale leaves to testify of its vehemence, causes much discomfort. Then we "reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man and are at our wits end" how to maintain composure of mind, amidst so much bodily disquietude.