“I want to show you a fine sight,” said he, standing by the door leading onto the main deck, which he cautiously opened part way as Hartley and Wilbur approached.
The hurricane had spent its force, and the young men looked out upon a night scene of rare beauty. Every cloud in the sky had vanished as if by magic, and the blue vault of the firmament was brilliant with countless myriads of stars. Some were large, some small; and to the admiring gaze of the watchers it seemed as if they had never seen so grand a sight, even in the Southern Hemisphere, where the numerous planets, constellations, and single stars illumine the night sky with a splendor surpassing anything of the kind to be seen in the North. But among all those stars, and groups of stars, none could compare with that blazing constellation that had now nearly reached the zenith—the Southern Cross. It is first seen just before crossing the equator, but is then dim and very low in the horizon, and visible but a short time each evening. Gradually, as Cape Horn is approached, it rises higher and higher, its appearance each night being foretold by its two flashing “pointer” stars, which, like heralds announcing the coming of their sovereign, are visible above the horizon a short time before the Cross itself appears. In the vicinity of the Horn this matchless constellation may be seen high in the heavens, in all its glory—the stars composing it not larger than several others in the sky, but as completely eclipsing them in brilliancy as diamonds do pieces of glass. Now, after three days and nights of warring winds and waters, that Cross looked down upon the Sagamore’s naked masts and flooded decks like an emblem of promise and of peace. Not a great way off were the two curious patches of luminous film known as the Magellan Clouds, looking strange and mysterious as they floated among that sea of stars.
The foam-covered water washed about the deck as the ship rolled, and a heavy sea tumbling aboard caused the steward to close the door in a hurry. Then the passengers took a gin-fizz as a night-cap, and turned in.
Chapter III.
Becalmed off Cape Horn!
This may sound paradoxical, but calms do occur, though they are not common. But for indescribable grandeur, and as a manifestation of the powers of nature, there are few things that will compare with a calm in this region.
One degree south of the Horn, on the 57th parallel, there is no land around the whole earth’s surface—not even an island; and this is the primary reason why the largest waves to be found anywhere are met with in this locality. Here, unchecked and unconfined, they sweep entirely around the globe; gathering strength and size as they move on, with nothing to bar their resistless march or to make them swerve aside even a hair’s breadth. Lashed into fury by a gale, these waves are sufficiently remarkable, but they are then in such a state of turmoil as to destroy all regularity, making it impossible to tell where one begins and another ends. So, strangely enough, it is in a dead calm that one is more nearly able to conceive of their vast proportions. These periods generally follow a hard westerly gale, and then it is a sight no words can depict, to stand upon a vessel’s deck and watch the approach of those vast walls of water; each one sharply defined, and wonderfully regular in form. From the base of one to the base of the next following is frequently a space of one thousand feet—a great valley, which, contrasted with the long hills on either side, gives one some idea of the magnitude of these waves.
Such a condition of things prevailed on the day after the equinoctial hurricane. The Sagamore had not even steerage way, and lay broadside on to the heavy swell, rolling as only a vessel can roll in a Cape Horn calm. The great blue hills came on slowly but regularly; and each one, as it came beneath the ship, lifted her up on its crest as though she had been a feather, instead of a vessel three hundred feet long, drawing twenty-six feet of water, and with four thousand tons of railroad iron and other heavy stuff in her hold. Then, as it passed on, there was a rattling of blocks and the heavy reports of canvas banged against the rigging, as the Sagamore slid down the side of the hill with her decks at an angle of fifty degrees.
She had the usual nondescript crew found on deep-water ships, and after hearing some of them talk, one might well agree with Mr. Marsh “That the captain or mate who goes to sea now-a-days, should understand Chinese, Greek, Hindostanee, Russian-Finn, and a dozen other tongues, besides having the patience of Job.” It being Sunday, no one was required to do any work but what was necessary in navigating the ship, and the men improved their leisure time in various ways. A few spruced up a bit; among them, Gene, the Frenchman, who was far above the rest in intelligence and ability. After arraying himself in a scarlet woolen shirt, new trousers and shoes, he lay down in his bunk to read, unmindful of the turmoil about him. Several produced sewing materials and mended their clothes, keeping time with their feet while an agile young fellow danced; others sang coarse songs, or told stories. Jack, a tow-headed Scandinavian, devoured “Demon Dick, the Dare-devil.” He had purchased a number of these hair-raising effusions, and read them in preference to the tracts and pious books furnished by the Sailors’ Aid Society, only one of which had been opened, and that was being used up for cigarette papers. Some played gambling games, using plugs of tobacco for stakes, while Jumbo, the smallest man on board (formerly a trapeze performer), gave an exhibition on a tight rope which won applause. One group discussed the subject of provisions, and though all agreed that the “grub” on the Sagamore was satisfactory, some found great fault with the cookery. Then they abused the mates, decided that Captain Meade was afraid to carry sail enough, and speculated as to how much Hartley and Wilbur were worth—for whenever there are passengers on merchant ships the crew seem to consider them millionaires.
But the great “character” in the forecastle was Andrew,—usually called San Quentin, from the fact of his having “done time” in the California penitentiary of that name. He was a hoary-headed old sinner, whose three-score odd years would have rendered him of little account before the mast had he not belonged to that past age when merchant sailors had to know their business, and were able seamen in something besides name. Andrew was a voluble talker, and frequently related with gusto how he had once “knifed” a fellow sailor who had roused his ire.