Having made his way aft across the dark and steeply-inclined deck, the captain called the steward, and then apprised Hartley of what had occurred. That young man had not slept for some hours, and upon learning of the accident was most anxious to render all the assistance in his power; for the bo’s’un was a good-natured fellow, liked by all.
While Hartley struggled into his clothes, Captain Meade procured splints and bandages from the medicine-chest. When both were ready, they opened the storm-door leading onto the main deck, and awaited a favorable moment. The night was black, but the gloom was relieved somewhat by the foam-covered water surging about the deck. Holding to the life-lines with one hand, they dashed forward along the lee side, stopping once to seize the line tightly and haul themselves up off the deck to avoid a deluge that tumbled over the weather bulwarks, and poured down to leeward.
The steward was already in attendance on the patient, and Hartley at once set about uniting the broken bones and applying the splints. What Captain Meade would have considered a painful and disagreeable necessity, he regarded from a professional standpoint only, and went about his work with a coolness and assurance that greatly relieved both captain and patient. The abominable rolling was the worst obstacle to be overcome, but the task was at last accomplished, and in a highly creditable manner.
Merrell was resting easier when Captain Meade and “the surgeon” proceeded aft. The former stretched the chart of the Cape Horn region upon the cabin table and examined it long and closely; for Staten Land—rocky, uninhabited, and with no lighthouse to reveal its position—was rapidly being neared, and great caution was necessary.
There was now an apparent lull in the gale, but it was not for long. At daylight the Sagamore entered a “tide-rip” whose waters, lashed into fury by the gale, presented an awful spectacle. The ocean resembled a gigantic mill-race; the tide flowing one way, while a swift current set in the opposite direction, forming a whirlpool. Huge waves came from all directions at once, pouring tons of water on the main deck and forecastle. Progress was well-nigh impossible, but the captain kept resolutely on, knowing that the ship’s only salvation lay in running through the tide-rip before she should be hurled upon her side by some sea more mountainous than the rest. This nearly happened once when a towering wave half as high as the fore yard broke on board, staving in the heavy door of the galley and flooding the interior, washing everything movable from the decks; while the ship went over, and over, and over, till her yard-arms almost touched the water, and her decks were like the sloping roof of a house.
But the crisis was safely passed, and the maelstrom left behind. The gale blew itself out during the forenoon, the sky cleared, the sun shone brightly through the clear frosty atmosphere, and land was visible from the deck.
Land!
If you have never been so situated that for many weeks your eyes have not beheld a solitary foot of ground you can hardly appreciate the emotions of all on board the Sagamore as they looked on that bleak and forbidding promontory rising out of the mist—Cape St. John. A few hours later, the ship was opposite the treacherous straits of Lemaire, and very near the shore. The entire length of Staten Land from Cape St. John on the east to Cape St. Bartholomew on the west, was stretched out like a grand panorama; forty miles of low mountains, jagged rocks, and broken valleys, without a sign of animal or vegetable life, and with naught save great patches of snow to relieve its black nakedness. The straits of Lemaire separate this body of land from Tierra del Fuego, and on the latter might now be seen Bell Mountain,—a distant but lofty peak, on whose snow-capped summit the sun shone in wintry splendor.
Hundreds of large sailing vessels pass Cape St. John every year on their long voyages from New York, the British Isles and Continental Europe to our Pacific coast. It is a great rendezvous, and the Sagamore presently found herself in the midst of an imposing fleet of merchantmen of all nations. Here, at the southern extremity of the American continent, were ten ships and three barks, carrying the world’s products to San Francisco. Scores of eager faces lined the bulwarks, while on the poop of the nearest craft stood a woman—the first representative of the fair sex that anyone on the Sagamore had seen for three months. As the large vessels, with all their canvas set, slowly mounted the regular swell, a murmur of admiration burst from the passengers, who longed for a far-reaching camera to preserve the beautiful picture through years to come. Those ships had completed the first half of their long journeys, and now sailed in company for a few hours, soon to be scattered far and wide upon the mighty Pacific, to meet again at the Golden Gate, thousands of miles away. It was a sight to make the pulses thrill.