When that which served to cheer hath flown.
Wednesday, March 4. Our sick list, which ran up to forty, in consequence of the hardships and exposures off the cape, is rapidly diminishing. Commodore Stockton, who has been quite ill, is convalescent. We should regret extremely any circumstance that would deprive us of the pleasures and advantage’s derived from our present relations to him. Mr. G., one of our watch officers, has been for some days confined to his berth. But he is gathering strength again, and will soon be able to resume his post on the quarter-deck.
As for myself, I am a slender reed, easily bowed before the blast, but coming up again as soon as its force is spent. I entered the navy with a constitution impaired by sedentary habits, and have perhaps derived some advantage from the recreations and adventures involved in a sea-life. I have been in every variety of climate, but I doubt much if these changes have been promotive of health. My advice to invalids is, never go to sea with the expectation that ship-board is to restore you. A change of climate may be of benefit, but the passage in nine cases out of ten will begin in seasickness and end in debility. If you have a comfortable home, stay by it; if your digestion is bad, stop eating; if your nerves are deranged, bathe in cold water; if you have children, romp and frolic with them. This is much better than sucking sugar canes in Cuba, or going to Rome to kiss the pope’s toe.
Thursday, March 5. Our hawse bucklers are out, our chains bent, and we are now ready to let go our anchors; we are still seventy miles from our port, but the first breeze, which breaks the calm of the sea, will probably take us in. We are now fifty one days out from Rio, and more than half of them have been passed in storms. We have been at sea since we left the United States, one hundred and three days; and have sailed, in that time, twelve thousand two hundred and twenty miles. We have yet some twelve thousand miles more to sail before we circle round into the port where we may look for repose. Our ship is another dove over the unsubsided waters of the deluge.
Several of the stormy petrels, which joined us before we reached the Cape, are still skimming along in the wake of our keel. They follow us, as little politicians their leader, for crumbs, not of office—they are too sensible for that—but of Jack’s tablecloth; and in doing this they never displace or disturb their betters. Between a stormy petrel and a little party politician I should not hesitate a moment where to place my regard. We have had about us to-day a flotilla of whales, sharks, and porpoises. Their gambols stirred the sleeping sea into foam. They seemed to be trying their speed. The whale was quickest to the goal, but slowest in doubling it. His head is entirely too far from his tail. I commend his case to the Owenites at their next world-convention.
Friday, March 6. The light breeze which fanned us along faintly through the night, has left us in the morning-watch within twenty miles of our port. The coast on our starboard beam lies full in view, with its deep indentations, and its bold bluffs, against which the Pacific rolls its surge. Far in the background rise the stupendous steeps of the Cordilleras, throwing their shadows a hundred miles at sea. On their summit, glittering with the icy hail of centuries, the morning star furls its wing of flame. Beneath such a vision, what is man? He disappears, and his shadow, as if ashamed to linger, goes with him.
The breeze, for which we have been waiting and watching, has come. Our studding-sails, below and aloft, are out to catch its first breath. We are again moving up the coast. Fifteen miles of it are passed, but no headland appears which we can identify with those designated on the chart. Seven more, and still no evidences of a harbor. We begin to think our master, like a Millerite, has left out some figure in his reckoning.
At last we discover, upon a slight swell in the coast, a little lighthouse, but no bay, and nothing that indicates one. Doubling this projection, we catch our first glimpse of Valparaiso, nestled among the fissures and shelves of a steep ascent of rocks. It seems one of those wild nooks in which pirates might have sought a perilous home. Taking in our studding-sails, and hauling up our courses, we have rounded to handsomely, and anchored in thirty-two fathoms.
All eyes are directed to the shipping. A French man-of-war has already saluted us; a national courtesy which we have promptly returned. But we are looking for the American flag; only one can be seen, and that is flying over a merchantman. No national vessel holds out any hope of letters from home by the Isthmus. Our disappointment is confirmed by our consul, who informs us that no dispatches have been received from the United States of a date subsequent to our departure, except a copy of the President’s message, which was brought in the English mail, and which was considered quite belligerent in its tone. The news of the resignation of the Peel ministry greatly surprises us, and has in it, as we fancy, quite a little war-cloud. A national ship abroad catches every premonition of hostilities as quickly as a barometer the approach of a storm.
So, here we are at last in front of Valparaiso, with a continent and an ocean between us and our homes; another ocean still to be traversed, and to roll us yet wider asunder; and then this war-cloud on the horizon! But there is one separation, one which awaits us all, still wider than this—the chasm of the grave. Over that no signals extend, and no messenger-bird hath winged its way. I have walked in its pale light for years, hovering between the sun and a total eclipse.