Part 15
I forgot to say that I gave David, the Scot, a drink on July Fourth. He had been throwing out clumsy hints for one on that day, so I filled a four-ounce bottle with Glenlivet and took it to him while he was eating his dinner in his tiny, water-logged cavern forward of the galley. The radiance reflected from his countenance upon the walls as he sighted the grog fairly lit up the gloomy den, and when he had downed the fiery liquid perfectly raw, he put down the bottle and delivered the following oration, his superb figure raised to its supreme height: “Wherever ye may go in this world, sir, may good luck go with ye, hand in hand; may it not be many years till ye get command of a ship and the finest one under the flag; I thank ye for the best drink that ever passed me lips.” I was quite taken aback by his earnestness and the depth of feeling with which he uttered these words in the broadest of brogue so pleasant to the ear; and when he hoped that I would soon command a ship, he was wishing me to hold the most exalted position which the mind of a seaman can conceive.
By the look of the aneroid we are close to some dirt, as sailors say, for now at 3 +P. M.+ the glass stands at 29.08, a fall of an inch in twenty hours; the sky, too, has a hard look, the sun at noon being unable to pierce the gloom, but shining hazy and dim, like a gas-jet behind frosted glass. The altitude at noon now is only 20°, and the sun’s rays are devoid of heat and almost of cheer. Last evening, though, we witnessed another one of those rare and radiant Patagonian sunsets. Every one who has looked at the illustrations in Nansen’s “Farthest North” will call to mind some strange, impossible-looking purple and crimson stratus clouds of the most violent hues. Well, we have actually seen one of these singular and extremely gorgeous skies, unnatural almost in its transcendent beauty. Nansen has caught perfectly the more delicate tints as well as the most flaming colors.
We did fine work to-day, and in the twenty-four hours logged two hundred and forty miles. Latitude, 48° 45′ south; longitude, 65° 5′ west.
+July 8+
At some time during the morning watch we crossed the fiftieth parallel of south latitude, and have, therefore, now commenced the passage of Cape Horn, the stormiest headland in the world, at the worst possible season,--in the heart of the Antarctic winter. When a vessel is between 50° south in the Atlantic and 50° south in the Pacific she is said to be making the passage of the Horn, and is off the Cape when she is anywhere between those parallels; it matters not how far south she may be blown, she is “off” Cape Horn from 50° to 50°. I think that I have somewhere before said that an average passage would be about twenty days, though the bad luck of some men is astonishing. On her last westward voyage, for instance, the American ship “M. P. Grace” was more than six weeks off the Cape,--forty-five days, to be precise.
Late yesterday afternoon the westerly winds which we have carried for two days began to weaken, and at seven last evening had eased down to a gentle breeze. Still, a wind which will drive a vessel three hundred miles in thirty hours in this part of the world and allow her to lay her course at the same time is not to be lightly spoken of, and we are all in a happy frame of mind.
When the wind had almost let go, however, it began to edge stealthily to the southward, and at 8.30 was at southwest, the dreaded point, blowing in unsteady jerks. We had nothing above the topsails on the ship, though she could easily have carried the royals, but there was no use in piling on the canvas with the look that there was in the southern sky. When the glass stands at 29.00 bad weather must be expected; and when the captain left the deck at 8.45, the moon was peering dimly through a gray, thin squall, bleared and sickly; the sea was coming up from various points in short, convulsive, oily heaves and a frowning rampart of dark cloud was rising in the south. “I’m going below now for a wink,” said the skipper to Mr. Rarx, on watch; “keep your eye open, for when it comes it’ll be sharp work.”
He had been down half an hour when, as the second mate and I stood watching the cloud approach nearer, an angry, white glare now below it, suddenly, without a second’s warning, like a blast from a cannon, the wind fell upon us, laying the ship far over, although the spars were almost naked. In a few moments Captain Scruggs rose out of the companion-way and stood for an instant, considering the best move; I have never yet seen him act without thinking, and it doesn’t take him long to decide. “Shall we double-reef ’em, sir?” said Mr. Rarx, meaning the upper topsails. “No, sir,” replied the captain; “let the yards run down and then tie up the sails; call the port watch, sir; all hands shorten sail.” “Ay, ay, sir,” heartily; and the next moment the second mate swung himself down the weather-poop-ladder, stopped for a second to rap on the mate’s door, and then disappeared forward in the wet and gloom, while we could hear his clear, strong voice crying out above the howling wind, “All h-a-n-d-s, shorten s-a-i-l.”
And now what an inspiring scene is enacted as the big ship plunges forward, now on an upright keel, now heeled far down to leeward by the fierce puffs which shriek through the rigging with a din which is absolutely infernal. Standing by the weather-quarter-bitts looms up the burly form of Captain Scruggs, whose keen, vigilant eye takes in every detail of the ship and the weather; while the gaunt, motionless face of the helmsman can be seen through the wheel-house windows, illumined by the glow from the binnacle light. In another moment a dull, rumbling sound is heard forward: it is the upper foretop-sail-yard running down, and then the dim figures of fifteen or sixteen yellow-clad sailors can be perceived as they jump into the rigging and claw out along the yard to windward and to leeward, utterly unmindful of the pelting rain which stings their faces, or the quick, tremendous rolls which one would think must whip them off into the sea. Oh, bold and valiant seamen, toiling so well and so silently up there in the gale and darkness, truly, ye are the bravest and the least rewarded of men!
In another hour the ship was under the shortest canvas thus far,--lower topsail, foresail, reefed main-sail, and spencer,--bending over to the blast, the wind now rushing through the shrouds with that grand, deep hum like the whirr of powerful machinery.
Throughout the night we kept ploughing ahead through an ever-increasing sea, with showers of buckshot hail rattling overhead like storms of bullets, varied now and then with heavy dashes of spray against the cabin-house.
At eight this morning, though, the wind had so moderated that we set the upper topsails, the ship wallowing continuously in a big head-sea which had made during the night. At noon, though, it began to breeze up once more, and at one o’clock the cry rang through the ship, “All hands, reef the maintop-sail.” Again the men trotted up the weather-rigging and turned in a double reef in less than twenty minutes; not bad for a merchantman. It is curious to see the delight with which an order to shorten sail is invariably received by a ship’s company on the approach of heavy weather. No matter what their humor at the moment may be, they always seem actually pleased when the expected order comes from the after-guard; and, with eager glances over their shoulders at the approaching squall, they leap into the shrouds and race aloft to see who shall be the first over the rim of the top.
For the first time we, to-day, had stocking-leg duff for dinner. It consists usually of a quantity of stewed dried apples wrapped up in a roll of dough and boiled in a piece of cheese-cloth. It is by no means a bad substitute for apple-dumpling, and with good sauce is always hailed at sea with extravagant joy. The name originated in the forecastle, where the duff is always boiled in the leg of a stocking. Latitude, 50° 48′ south; longitude, 64° 34′ west.
+July 9+
At twelve o’clock last night it began to blow hard from west-northwest, and we went on deck this morning to find a fresh gale from that quarter, with a surprisingly heavy sea, considering the proximity of the land, for the weather-shore was not more than sixty or seventy miles away. The ship was under the lower topsails, foresail, reefed main-sail, and spencer, going well and easily, a couple of points free, heading into the land for smoother water. Gracious, how the wind yelled around us this forenoon, drenching the ship fore and aft with the tops of the foaming seas, which the gale whipped like the blowing of froth from a vat of beer! In the severest puffs the wind certainly rose to force 10; and on one occasion, when sliding down the weather-side of a sea, being simultaneously struck by a heavy blast, we dipped the lee poop-rail into the sea. At breakfast the skipper said, “There was sharp lightning in the sou’west this morning, early, and when you see this off Cape Horn, look out for bad weather and snug her down.” I should think so, with the barometer at 28.98.
A new bird has made its appearance. It is of a light slate color, looks and flies like a Mother Carey’s chicken, and is familiarly called by sailors the Ice Bird, being supposed to exist chiefly in the vicinity of ice. They are very cheerful little creatures, though, and being small and light, were whisked about by the gale like scraps of paper.
We are just abreast now of the damp, dreary Falkland Islands, which, if I mistake not, form the southernmost of all of Great Britain’s colonies; she may possess islands which are farther south than these, but they are not strictly colonies. The group comprises some two hundred islands, though there are only two of any importance,--East and West Falkland. The area of the former is three thousand square miles, being considerably larger than Rhode Island, and contains the most important settlement, Stanley, a town of one thousand inhabitants. The climate of the Falklands is extremely healthy and equable, the average temperature for the two midwinter months being 37°, that of the two midsummer ones 47°; and although in the corresponding latitude and the precise longitude of the southern part of Labrador, ice seldom forms of sufficient thickness to allow skating. The weather, however, is excessively damp. But, though there are generally two hundred and fifty wet days in the year, the total annual precipitation is but twenty inches, or one-half that of New York; the greater portion of the moisture descending in the form of fogs and dense drizzles. More than fifty vessels a year call at Stanley Harbor, and being so close to Cape Horn, in the vicinity of which more ships are damaged by the elements than in any other region in the world, it is natural that a ship-yard and chandlery for the repair of sailing ships should pay extremely well. But, say the deep-water skippers, woe to the vessel which falls into the clutches of Stanley Harbor; it is almost impossible to escape in less than six months, and the most exorbitant prices are asked for absolutely necessary things. The last vessel of any size which put into Stanley for extensive repairs was the British ship “Pass of Balmaha,” which was detained there for nearly a year. It is stated that the ship-yard, etc., pays forty per cent. on the investment.
At one o’clock this morning we passed Cape Virgins at the Atlantic entrance to the Straits of Magellan, distant about seventy-five miles, and at eleven this morning Mr. Rarx saw the land on the weather-bow, and presently the lonely, barren shores of Tierra del Fuego rose faintly out of the sea and appeared also on the port bow, as though we were sailing into the heart of a deep bight, as indeed we were. Before long great ice-covered peaks began to appear, and I asked the skipper if he was going to keep away for the Straits of Le Maire. “No,” he replied, “I’m not going through now for several reasons; in the first place, I think the wind will head us in the straits, and in the second place, as long as this wind keeps on I’m going to heave to under the land when we get farther down. What’s the good of going through? As soon as we showed ourselves outside Staten Land there’d be this westerly gale, with who knows how much sea; then there’s a two-knot current settin’ to the eastward, and this, with three points of leeway, would send us to leeward like a cask. Better lie snug inside than go smashin’ into those seas. In a day or two perhaps we can go through the Straits of Le Mar.” It is odd that every ship-master whom I have ever heard mention these straits should call it Le Mar instead of Le Maire. Captain Scruggs added that we would have fine views of Tierra del Fuego later on, as he was going to run down to within ten miles of the land; we are therefore anticipating a very great treat.
It is utterly impossible to fitly describe these sunsets or to do justice to the wild grandeur of the scene as the orb slowly and majestically settles into the sea among the far-away, golden-cushioned clouds. In the tropics the sun seems to drop suddenly behind the horizon; but in these high latitudes, he sinks so hesitatingly that it appears as though he were loath to bid us good-night. The air at this time of day is most wonderfully transparent here, with a sparkle of frost in the atmosphere; while the clouds, being almost exclusively of the stratus variety, stretch across the horizon in layers of fiery embers, with sometimes a gorgeous fringe of cloud-fleece crowning the scene with a coronet of dazzling splendor; while if a heavy bar of dark cloud extends almost to the sky-line, the sun will be observed glittering beneath it upon the crests of the far-distant seas, with the appearance as of a phalanx of golden breakers.
The heavens on this side of the Cape seem to be always clear with a westerly wind, even when blowing a gale; and as the twilights are exceedingly long, the days so far are anything but disagreeable. The dismal, rainy weather will come when we get over beyond the longitude of the Horn. Gradually the sun is getting lower at noon, the altitude to-day being but 14°, while the orb rises at a point about northeast by north and sets in the west-northwest. It is a significant fact that at twelve o’clock to-day we were exactly abreast of the southernmost extremity of the mainland of the world. Cape Horn is generally regarded as this point, but the Horn itself is naught but an island, the farthest south of the great archipelago of Tierra del Fuego; the culminating promontory of South America being Cape Froward in the middle of the Straits of Magellan, one hundred and twenty-two miles north of the Horn. Latitude, 53° 54′ south; longitude, 66° 6′ west.
+July 10+
All night we have been lying off and on under shelter of the coast, waiting for a favorable slant. Under easy sail, the lower topsails and foresail, we approach to within six or eight miles of the land; and then wearing round, stand to the northward for twenty miles or so, repeating the manœuvre slowly, never making more than two miles an hour. The wind still holds to the westward, blowing a moderate gale, but with perfectly smooth water here where we are. On the other hand, outside it is doubtless blowing a hard gale with a heavy sea; as the skipper put it, “Outside it’s a regular Cape Horn snorter. I lay in here six days with a westerly gale three years ago. All ships, you know, lie in here when the wind is like this till they get a slant. You see, if we went outside now, while we could get to the s’uth’ard all right, to-morrow at noon we’d likely be a hundred miles to the east’ard of where we are now. As for goin’ through Le Mar, I wouldn’t try it with the wind to the north’ard of nor’west.”
So here we are in water as free from swell as a Central Park lake, taking things very comfortably indeed. But if the sea is free from swell, it is continuously whipped into foam by the succession of tearing snow-squalls which strike us with seemingly cyclonic fury. At eleven o’clock, for instance, it will calm down to a royal breeze; at 11.10 it will be blowing a full gale, accompanied with a driving snow-storm, which whirls the flakes along in a horizontal tempest; and as the temperature was at 33° all day, the drifts lay in the scuppers until shovelled overboard. How cosy and cheerful it is to come down to the great, glowing stove from one of these black squalls and the roaring wind and the sleet and hail, which feel as though they were drawing blood as they sting the face with a fury which is simply resistless! For below everything is delightfully comfortable at a temperature of 65°, and we draw near to the red coals and shiver composedly as we listen to the watch hauling around the yards to the cry of “wear ship.”
We will never forget the spectacle which met our eyes this morning half an hour after daybreak. Right before us lay the bleak shores of Tierra del Fuego, stretching from east to west as far as the eye could see, the wildest, grandest coast which the mind can conceive. Sheer down into the sea fell its almost vertical walls of rock and steep, rugged hills, with their black gorges and frowning chasms filled with the snow which had fallen heavily during the night. Farther inland extended a broad expanse of rolling plateau covered with small knolls; and then in all their desolate sublimity rose the magnificent range of snowy mountains, thousands of feet above the sea, clad in their eternal mantle of dazzling white. I have never before seen such a picture as that presented by this deserted, volcanic land. The gray, mournful hills and snow-clad Alpine peaks, now buried in a raging snow-squall, now rearing their ice-crowned summits far above the mists which shrouded their less exalted companions, filled the mind with the idea that their Maker, displeased at His own handiwork, had abandoned forever these lonely shores to the gloomy pall of cloud which usually enfolds the land in its cold, clammy embrace, and to the fierce, wild gales which sweep everlastingly through its gaunt and spectral mountains. What eerie fancies the dark and powerful genius of Edgar Allan Poe could wreathe about this fantastic, uncouth land! Oh, for a day’s wandering through those valleys and ravines, as cold and cheerless as the moon itself! And how I envied the “Beagle’s” men their months of sojourn amidst the grandeur of these fascinating hills!
Some curious forms are to be seen in connection with many of these peaks. The most conspicuous landmark consists of three hills called the Three Brothers, from twelve to sixteen hundred feet in height; ship-masters always look for them, as they can then tell exactly where they are. One of the loftiest of the ice-peaks, a mountain fully five thousand feet high, bears a strong resemblance to the Matterhorn when the shadows of evening fall across its great snow-cliffs; another looks singularly like the rounded cone of Cotopaxi. And so it goes, one peak apparently more beautiful than its neighbor, till the eye is bewildered gazing upon such wonderful Antarctic scenery. How intensely interesting it must be to pass through the famous Straits of Magellan and look upon the wonderful panorama which is revealed at every turn of the rudder! Steamers are the only vessels that go through now in either direction, as the channel is very tortuous and the currents are powerful and treacherous. The experiment was at one time considered by the Chileans of maintaining a fleet of large tow-boats at Cape Virgins to tow vessels through the straits; but it was concluded that the ships would have to be taken so far out into the Pacific beyond Cape Pillar to get an offing, which would frequently be impossible on account of westerly gales, that the project was abandoned. The expense of towing, too, would be very great, as four hundred miles separate Capes Virgins and Pillar, and no ship-master, of course, would tow to the eastward, as there is nearly always a fair wind coming around this way, so that the tug-boats would have to return empty-handed.
The climate of this country is as equable as that of the Falklands, though even more humid. The temperature seldom falls below 30° even in July; but, on the other hand, it seldom rises above 50° in midsummer, and the wind at all times is extraordinarily cold and penetrating. In spite of this, however, the natives pass their lives in absolute nakedness, their sole protection against the rigors of the inhospitable climate being a smearing of oil upon their bodies, and in this state they go out to meet vessels passing through the straits. It seems almost inconceivable that human beings can live thus in such severe weather, for their exposure is infinitely greater than that of the Esquimo even in his temperature of minus 70°, for the latter is warmly clad and housed. The Yahgans, as the inhabitants of the lower portion of the archipelago are called, are of particularly low intelligence, and, according to Dr. Fenton, they not infrequently kill and eat the old and useless women of the tribe. Their language comprises about thirty thousand words, but, strangely enough, only five numerals.
Since 1881 the eastern portion of Tierra del Fuego, together with Staten Island (usually called by sailors Staten Land), has belonged to the Argentine, and the western end to Chile, the boundary-line being supposed to run from Cape Espiritu Santo due south to Beagle Channel, the only settlement within hundreds of miles being Punta Arenas (Sandy Point) on the Patagonia side of the straits, where the Chileans have a convict and coaling station. The Straits of Magellan were discovered by the celebrated Portuguese of that name, though he spelled it Magalhães, who sailed through them in 1520. If any one wishes to look at a remarkable sight, let him possess himself of one of Imray’s charts of Tierra del Fuego and examine the prodigious number of channels, fjords, and inlets in this remote and vast archipelago which forms the abode of eight thousand people as low in the gauge of civilization as can be found upon the earth.