My First Voyage to Southern Seas

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“But our worship is to praise and to pray to that God who protects us equally at sea as on shore,” was Mr Vernon’s mild reply. “It will be such that all denominations may join in it, and surely no one on board would wish to be without God’s protection and help; yet, if we do not ask for it when we have the power, how can we expect to obtain it?”

The captain could make no reply to this question, and though he went away grumbling, and would afford no assistance to the arrangements, he did not prevent Mr Henley from rigging an awning on deck, or oppose the assembling together of the passengers and some very few of the crew under it. The second mate, the doctor and I, and Spratt and Tommy Bigg, were the only ones of the ship’s company who took the trouble to attend. Some kept away, they said, because the captain did not encourage the movement; and others had no better reason to offer than that as they never had had to attend services at sea, they did not know why they should now begin. Broom said that he didn’t come to sea to have to go to church; and Sills remarked that, as the captain did not patronise the affair, he did not think it right for the officers to do so, and he wondered how we ventured to be so mutinous. Now, strange as it may seem, these are in no degree more absurd or more contemptible than the kind of excuses offered constantly by people on shore for not attending religious worship; in other words, for not offering up their meed of adoration, for not praying to that great and good Being from whom we all receive our existence and everything we enjoy in this world, and in whose presence and sight we can alone hope to enjoy happiness in the life to come. Mr Vernon, however, persevered; and Sunday after Sunday fresh members, if not converts, were added to his little congregation, till even Sills and the rough Waller, and the still rougher boatswain, occasionally appeared among them.

We had, for the sake of obtaining the north-east trade-wind, kept closer to the coast of Africa than usual; and whether it was from keeping too much to the eastward, or that for some reason the wind did not reach that point, we found the breeze fail us, and the sails began to flap lazily against the masts. There we lay day after day with the hot sun beating down on our heads, making the pitch in the seams of the decks boil and bubble, and drawing up dense masses of steam from the damp and crowded berths below.

One day observing the doctor looking graver than usual, I inquired, as he was passing along the deck, “What is the matter, doctor?”

“Fever has broken out among these poor people, in consequence, it is pretty evident, of the measures I advised not having been taken at Madeira; and if something is not done to get the ship to rights, one-half of them may be carried off,” he replied, with some bitterness in his tone.

“What ought to be done?” I asked.

“Put into port and land the passengers,” he replied. “A bad commencement is certain to cause a great deal of trouble. Had we put back to Plymouth the ship might at once have been, set to rights, and we should probably have reached the Cape in less time and with less suffering than it is likely will now be the case. If this were a Government emigrant ship, I should have the power of compelling the captain to put into port; but all I can do is to represent the state of the case and protest.”

Day after day we lay on the glass like shining ocean, surrounded by the straw and empty hampers and bottles, and all sorts of things thrown overboard, showing that we had not in the slightest degree moved from the spot where the wind last left us. The people grew paler, and more wan and sickly. Many took to their beds; and now one death occurred, and now another. A strong, hardy young man was the first to succumb to the fever, and then a young woman, and then a little child; next a mother was carried off, leaving six or seven children to the care of the heart-broken father. Again death came and carried off an old man, one of those who had left home in the hope of making gold in the far-off land to which we were bound.

A funeral at sea is a very impressive ceremony. Had Mr Vernon not been on board, the dead would have been committed to their floating grave with a scant allowance of it. He, however, came forward and read some portions of Scripture, and offered up some short and appropriate prayers—not for those who had departed; he had prayed with them and for them while they were jet in the flesh—but that strength and support might be afforded to the survivors, and that they might be induced to repent and rest their hope on One who is all-powerful to save, ere they too might be called away. Painful, indeed, were the scenes which took place—the cries and groans of some of the bereaved ones—the silent grief and trickling tears of others, while ever and anon the despairing shrieks or ejaculations of those who feared that they too might speedily be summoned from the world, were heard ascending from below. Notwithstanding this, the captain vowed that he would continue the voyage as soon as the wind returned, without again putting into port.

I had observed that though the captain carried it with a high hand over all the other officers and crew, he always treated Mr Henley with considerable respect, and never swore at or abused him. They, however, very seldom exchanged any words with each other; and, indeed, never spoke except on duty. I had lately remarked Mr Henley constantly watching the captain, who seemed to shrink away from him at times, and avoid his gaze; though when he saw that the second mate was not looking at him, he turned on him a glance of the most intense hatred. One day, after this sort of work had been going on for some time, I asked Mr Henley why it was that he had said he would not, if he could have helped it, have sailed again with Captain Gunnell.