In the mid-watch my library, secretary, mirror, and washstand, fetched away. The books and looking-glass rushed together into my cot. I was half asleep, and thought for the moment our guns were tumbling below. In extricating myself I cut my hands with the fragments of the mirror. I felt for my clothes, and found them on the floor, covered with the wreck of my wash-bowl and pitcher, and well drenched. I hauled on a few articles and groped out to the gun-deck to get a light. The watch on deck had just been relieved and were crowding below, covered with sleet, stiff with cold, and wading through water ankle deep to reach their hammocks; there to turn in and sleep in these drenched frozen garments. What are my petty griefs compared with this? I got my light, and dividing my berth with my books, shivered mirror, manuscripts, inkstand, razors, chessmen, and broken flasks of casash, turned in—abundantly satisfied with the romance of sea-life.
Tuesday, Feb. 10. Lat. 57° 34′ S., long. 61° 32′ W. We are very near where we were a week ago. Seven days of the roughest sea-service and in statu quo! Our progress resembles that of Ichabod’s courtship, who being asked, after seven years of devoted attentions, how he got along in the business, replied that now and then he thought he had a little encouragement, and should feel quite sure of it were it not for the rebuffs.
The gale broke down last evening. The remnant of its force hauled round to the south and enabled us to lay our course, but a heavy head-sea has prevented our carrying sail. By the time the sea goes down, and we have shaken a few reefs out of our topsails, it may whirl back, and then we shall have to fight the battle over again, as the whigs said when President Tyler suddenly took up his old democratic position. But nil desperandum, the whigs will in time come into power, and we shall in time double Cape Horn. But the Cape and the democracy are both hard to weather.
Our little bark is once more in sight. She has survived the gale, and is now, with good heart, struggling forward to double the Cape. Our stormy petrels still follow us. They are ever on the wing, close to our stern, to pick up the crumbs which are thrown overboard. Capt. King, of the British navy, states that having caught one of these birds and fastened a piece of ribbon to it, to designate it, he ascertained that it followed his ship over five thousand miles. A lesson to all good wives with wayward husbands.
Wednesday, Feb. 11. The wind, as we predicted, has gone back to its old quarter, like a wolf to his jungle. We have only been able to hold our own. Sunset leaves us where the flushing day found us.
We have the albatros still about us, but we have missed the penguin. The habits of these birds are peculiar, especially when they get up their annual rookery. They select for this purpose, as one informs me who has been among them, a plot of smooth ground, covering two or three acres, and opening on the sea. From this they remove the sharp pebbles, piling them on each side into a miniature stone-fence. The ground is then plotted off into little squares, with paths intersecting each other at right angles. In each corner of the square a penguin scoops out a nest; while the albatros takes, by common consent, the centre, raises a small mound and constructs a nest on the top, so that each albatros has four penguins around him. The paths, which resemble gravelled walks, are used for promenading and exercise, except the broad one, which runs around the whole encampment, and where sentries are constantly patrolling. These sentries give the alarm at the approach of danger, and are relieved at regular intervals. The watch is kept up night and day, and is always under the command of the albatros.
When the eggs have been laid, the strictest vigilance is exercised by the albatros to prevent the penguin from stealing them; for the penguin lays but one egg, and, as if ashamed of making all this ado for the sake of that one, tries to get another from the nest of the albatros. But the latter has no idea of gratifying the domestic ambition of its neighbor in that way. There is of course little need among them of a foundling hospital.
The eggs are never left or exposed to a breath of cold air during incubation. The male bird, who has been at sea seeking his repast, returns and takes the place of his faithful consort. He always allows her the most favorable hours out of the twenty-four in which to secure her food, and often brings it to her, especially when the infant progeny requires her more delicate maternal attentions. He never ill-treats his mate, or goes off at the dead of night serenading other birds. He may have indeed his little domestic troubles, but he overcomes them by kindness and affection. His partner always greets him, on returning from his brief excursions at sea, with the liveliest expressions of gladness. Ye who prate of incompatibilities, and fly to a legislature for an act of separation if a little jar occurs at your hearth, look at these birds, and if there be shame or compunction in ye, go find your divorced mates and resolve not to be outdone in forbearance and attachment by an albatros.
When the little ones get sufficiently strong to endure a change of element, the penguins and albatros break up their encampment, and young and old take to the sea, that great harvest-field where the reapers of earth and air, under a beneficent Providence, gather their food. But what have penguins to do with our getting round Cape Horn?
Thursday, Feb. 12. The lion-wind still roars from its old lair. That lair lies directly in our path. If we attempt to escape it on the right, the breakers of Cape Horn lift their thunder; if we try to avoid it on the left, tumbling icebergs present their steep fronts. So here we are, hemmed in like the hero of Marengo, amid the black battlements and keen hail of Russia’s capital and clime. Patience, thou meekest virtue in man, still pour on us thy soft, submissive light.