Preface
My only object in combining the reminiscences and memoranda of my first voyage as a shipmaster into a connected narrative is to leave some slight record of that voyage in my family. Although I am not one of those who regard everything beyond the smoke of their own chimneys as marvellous I think my expedition to the Northwest Coast was made a little remarkable from the circumstance that I met at Norfolk Sound his Excellency Baron von Resanoff, to whom I sold my vessel, and then crossed the Pacific in a little craft of twenty-five tons burden, and after an overland journey of twenty-five hundred miles returned home by way of St. Petersburg. This was a voyage and travels more than half a century ago, and I was probably the first American who passed through Siberia. I know that others have claimed to be the first, and have published descriptions of the country; but I had gone over the same route before any of these claimants were born. I have often regretted that I did not make any note of what I saw, and that I had not the requisite qualifications to write an extended account of it; but business called my thoughts in other directions. I must now be content to give this imperfect sketch, the materials of which are drawn principally from memory.
VOYAGE.
I.
The Ship Juno.—Her Outfit.—And Voyage to the Northwest Coast.
I commenced a seafaring life at the early age of thirteen, and followed it through all its changes, continually rising in rank, until I reached my twenty-fourth year. Then, after a series of long voyages to the eastward of the Cape of Good Hope as chief mate, in the summer of 1804 I returned to my native town, resolved on a short respite of a few months from a close application of eleven years. I had enjoyed this leisure but a little while, however, when my employers, Messrs. Charles, James, and George D’Wolf, purchased a fine ship,[24] called the Juno, of about two hundred and fifty tons burden, and projected a voyage to the Northwest Coast of America to collect furs for the China market. They proposed that I should take the command. I had no expectation of such an offer, since I thought myself too young and inexperienced to enter upon an entirely new branch of trade, and entertained some misgivings of my qualifications for such an enterprise. At the same time I could not so far doubt my abilities as to neglect so advantageous an opportunity, and I therefore accepted the trust.
Having engaged in the undertaking, we lost no time in making the necessary arrangements, in procuring a cargo suitable for traffic, and in preparing the vessel for the voyage. When ready for sea, the Juno and her lading were valued at $35,000. The Juno at that day was considered a crack ship, and her outfit embraced all that was needed for both comfort and convenience. She mounted eight carriage guns, and was otherwise armed in proportion, and when hauled into the stream presented quite a formidable and warlike appearance. Such an equipment was essential in her time for the dangerous business for which she was destined. The crew also would now be considered too large for a craft of the same tonnage,—for it numbered twenty-six men and boys, viz: Samuel G. Newell, First Mate; John A. Thomas, Second Mate; James Moorfield, Clerk; Richard Cammett, Joseph Hooper, Armorers; Thomas Hunt, Boatswain; John Jones, Carpenter; D. Bucklin, E. Bucklin, W. H. Tripp, D. Tatton, J. Stokes, J. Wheeler, W. Foy, J. Marshall, J. D. Cook, W. Phipps, J. Wheesner, J. Powers, S. Patterson, Seamen; J. Hanson, Cook; E. D. Parker, Musician; R. Hitchcock, Tailor; T. Murphy, J. Mahoney, boys. Thus manned and equipped, we took leave of our friends, weighed anchor, and put to sea on the 13th of August, 1804.
Having now fairly embarked again on the ocean, which had become a home to me, I began immediately to attend to those duties which its dangers imposed. Our anchors and cables were soon stowed away, the crew divided, the watch set, and everything prepared for all winds and weathers. We sailed in a southeasterly direction, with light breezes, and for a number of days nothing varied the monotony which the sea wears to those who have been long accustomed to it. On the 20th of September we saw at a distance St. Antonio, one of the Cape de Verde Islands. We then bent our course to the south, and were favored with fine leading winds until we reached that region of the ocean between the northeast and southeast trade-winds, which is doomed to perpetual squalls and calms, thunder, lightning, and rain. This vexatious weather was the source of one advantage, however. It afforded an opportunity for filling our water-casks, which was essential in the long voyage and moderate progress we were making.
On the 9th of November we crossed the equator in longitude 24° W. Fifty-six days to the line! Well, this certainly seems to be a long passage in comparison with those made in more modern times by the straight course pointed out by Lieut. Maury. Yet the difference is not so very extraordinary, when we consider the improvements in the sciences of navigation and naval architecture. Clippers may pursue a route with impunity which was not so safe or practicable for the square-built, seven-knot ships of half a century ago. The straight course was by no means unknown in those days, and it was sometimes followed; but with dull sailing vessels it was necessary to be more cautious, and make their “easting” while in the region of variable winds. That we crossed the Atlantic, in my time, thrice, as it is said, in going to the Cape of Good Hope, I deny. A majority of the passages made by the circuitous track would compare favorably with those made now by the same class of ships, notwithstanding the superior knowledge of winds and currents, and the numerous nautical instruments of which sea-captains avail themselves. At all events, navigation is not now carried on with more, if as much safety as formerly. Inducements are held out, in these go-ahead days, to make quick passages, regardless of ship and cargo, and the interests of the underwriters. Too implicit reliance is placed on instruments and figures at the expense of that most essential point in navigation, a vigilant lookout, and to the neglect of the use of the lead.
October 10th. We fell in with a large Spanish ship from Havana for Rio Janeiro, ninety days out. Being now several degrees in south latitude, the weather was serene and the sea smooth; there was a fine breeze from the southeast. On the 12th, we spoke a Portuguese ship from Oporto, also bound to Rio Janeiro. She had a large number of passengers on board, many of whom were sick, as they were destitute of all kinds of vegetables. I supplied them with potatoes and onions, for which they were very grateful, and presented in return a quantity of Port wine. A continuance of the pleasant weather enabled us to make various repairs in the rigging, which had been drenched and buffeted by incessant tempests to the north of the line. The change seemed to put new life and animation into the whole crew. All hands were actively employed with a good will in their various departments,—the armorers at the forge, the carpenter fitting the boats for service on the coast, the sail-makers upon the sails. Thus the vessel was put in fine condition for meeting the rough gales of Cape Horn. These we began to encounter in lat. 40° S.