Part 16

I wonder how many persons are aware of the fact that the famous old “Dreadnaught” laid her bones upon the bleak rocks of Tierra del Fuego as her final resting place! She drifted ashore near the Straits of Magellan, while on a voyage to San Francisco, during a heavy swell in a dead calm, with her main-sky-sail set. What a sorrowful end for that grand old ship, the “Wild Boat of the Atlantic,” the queen of the clippers, the fastest of all the great fleet which sailed the ocean from Sandy Hook to Queenstown! Peace to her remains in her grave by these iron-bound shores! Latitude, 54° 19′ south; longitude, 65° 45′ west.

+July 11+

Late yesterday afternoon the sun astonished us by bursting out in glorious splendor, and for the two remaining hours of daylight we sailed along parallel with the land distant only eight miles, in plain view of the Three Brothers, past Cape St. Vincent and Thetis Bay. Truly, the days are none too long now, for the sun rises at 8.30 and sets at 3.30, so that on dark days--and there are plenty of them here now--we have not more than six hours of what can be called daylight. Last night was very fine, too, with an almost full moon soaring through a cloudless sky. Throughout the earlier part of the evening we continued to hold an easterly course, for the captain wanted to have a look at the Straits of Le Maire to consider the chances of going through at daybreak. Some little time after we had finished supper, about seven o’clock, I think, we caught sight of the huge, snow-bound cliffs of Cape San Diego, the southeasternmost extremity of Tierra del Fuego, lying calm and cold in the white moonlight, and a little later we opened out the clear water of the Le Maire Straits. Then we saw outside a thick bank of woolly cloud low down in the southwest, and the skipper concluded that he wouldn’t risk going through the next day, as that bank was the infallible indicator of a heavy blow. Added to this, too, was the long, heaving swell of the Southern Ocean piling in through the fourteen miles of open water in the straits, so we wore round and stood to the northward again. It was very pleasant last night on deck, for though it was blowing hard the lee side of the wheel-house made a delightfully snug retreat, and, enveloped in mountains of rugs and shawls, we sat there in the deck-chairs till nearly eleven, discussing the voyage and enjoying the clear, soft moonlight.

We awoke this morning to the howling of the wind and Captain Scruggs’s voice raised in furious anger, the helmsman sustaining the full shock of the vocal hurricane. It was the unhappy Brün, who throughout the voyage has suffered more than any one else from the temper and violence of both captain and mates. “Hey you, what the blank’s the matter with yer? Put yer wheel hard down there and let her come up to the wind. The other way, the other way. Don’t yer know the difference yet between up and down, eh? What the blank did yer come to sea for anyway? You’re a haymaker, that’s what you are. Look at the ship now; d’ye want to get her aback? Hard up yer wheel; hard up, you blank-blanked farmer’s hound! How yer headin’ now?”

“Nor’west by south, sir,” answered the poor devil, nearly out of his head. “Now, by the jumpin’----” Here the wind cut off the rest, but there was a tumultuous scuffle of feet, and I could very well imagine the scene which was being enacted overhead; so as quickly as possible we dressed and went on deck to find a fresh gale blowing from the westward, with a very steep, quick sea. It was just daybreak and both sky and sea had a very ferocious aspect, the atmosphere being charged now and then with long spears of sleet. After looking at the weather for a few minutes I happened to glance to leeward, and was almost stunned to behold the ponderous headland of Cape St. Anthony, at the western end of Staten Land, towering into the sky, not more than three miles away! No wonder the old man was almost in convulsions. “We must be in the Straits of Le Maire,” said I to my wife. And so we were. It appears that Captain Scruggs had determined to try it, and had gone half-way through, when, at the eleventh hour, he decided that he couldn’t fetch by the land; and as the wind came on to blow a gale which the woolly bank had foretold, he wore ship to stand to the northward once more. He probably miscalculated the strength of the current, which runs through the straits with astonishing velocity, often reaching five knots an hour, for all at once the mate, whose sight in semi-darkness is better than the skipper’s, called out, “Land on the lee, sir.” Our position was really one of great peril, for we were on a dead lee shore and unable to carry sail enough to double the point with any degree of certainty. If we didn’t weather it, it was good-by for all hands, for even now we could see the great surges seething against that terrible coast, where the land is so bold that a ship may lay her jib-boom end head on against the cliffs and still have fathoms of water beneath her keel. With the canvas which was on her at the moment, lower topsails and foresail, it was an impossibility for the ship to hold her own, and as quickly as possible a double-reefed maintop-sail was set, the difference in going to windward being felt at once. But could she carry it? She _must_, for the lives of twenty-seven persons depended upon the ship’s weathering Cape St. Anthony. No one thought of breakfast, and at half-past eight it was blowing harder than ever, and in the heavy, windward rolls it seemed as though the masts themselves would succumb to the terrific puffs. From the shore we must have presented a magnificent spectacle indeed, had any one been there to witness the struggle going on between man’s skill and Nature’s power. Slowly we forged ahead; but slowly and far more certainly we drove down toward the foaming rocks; and all hands by this time, even the most callous of the sailors, realized that we were fighting in earnest now, fighting to save the ship. Not a word was spoken by any one; the men were collected at the weather-rail in the waist watching the land draw nearer and nearer, while the captain stood on the cabin-house motionless, except when he slightly revolved his arm as a signal to the helmsman to hold her up all he could between the puffs. Oh, how deserted and bleak the immense gray-brown cliffs and snow-streaked hills of Staten Land appeared, broken now and then by gigantic fissures which extended far inland between vertical walls, against which the sea broke furiously, throwing cascades of spray high into the air! Astern, too, the view was equally rugged and grand, for across the Straits of Le Maire we could see the ragged coast of Tierra del Fuego and the massive white cone of the Bell Mountain rising up beyond the Bay of Good Success.

All at once it became apparent to us that we were holding a better wind, the land no longer seemed to advance upon us, and at the end of another half-hour, during which no one seemed to scarcely breathe, to our unspeakable joy it was plain that the worst was over and that, bar accident, we would fetch by without further anxiety; and presently the skipper turned to Louis, the Frenchman (for this splendid seaman had steered the ship beautifully since eight o’clock), and said, “Now give her a good rap-full”; in thirty minutes more all danger was over and we stowed that upper maintop-sail which had done such noble work.

One +P.M.+ The wind has risen to a full gale with puffs of almost hurricane force; and though we are still protected by the land, the sea is running high, probably thirty feet from crest to trough, and breaking in an ugly manner. At noon the order was passed, “All hands haul up the foresail.” This was the first occasion on which it was blowing too hard to carry that sail; and when it has to be stowed it is blowing what sailors call a heavy gale. The wind, indeed, almost blew the breath back into one’s throat; but the brave old ship behaved finely, and after the foresail was hauled up, no matter how high or fast the advancing wave was or how suddenly it broke, the back-wash would rush out from the vessel’s side, and, meeting the on-rushing sea, they would shoot far up into the air, to be blown in drift all over the ship, while she rode calmly and safely over the crest. We have not set the spencer lately, as we have been wearing every few hours, which would necessitate brailing it up every time; I was surprised that the captain didn’t set it this morning, but he seemed to depend more upon the maintop-sail.

There are two vessels to windward knocking about under easy sail as we are,--one a small bark, the other a large four-masted ship, square-rigged all over,--waiting for a slant. My wife has recovered her equanimity now (about three in the afternoon), for she was not unnaturally upset by the events of this morning. She behaved astonishingly well, though, during that crucial hour, and her courage and fortitude cannot be too highly commended. Latitude, 54° 20′ south; longitude, 64° 30′ west.

+July 12+

It came on to blow so hard yesterday afternoon that tackles were put on the tiller, and a little before four o’clock the ship was hove to, so that when we went on deck at eight bells, after writing up yesterday’s journal, the ship was riding the seas smoothly and dryly. Perhaps it wasn’t absolutely necessary to heave the ship to, though she was far more comfortable that way, the difference being quite remarkable. The first object which attracted us as we went on deck was a three-masted ship head-reaching past us on the starboard tack under lower topsails and foretop-mast stay-sail, distant about half a mile. When yachts pass each other on opposite tacks they lie so close to the wind that they cross at right angles to each other, thus: But when two square-riggers pass each other, close-hauled, they are so far off the wind, especially in a high sea, that they run past each other parallel. This shows how the stranger and ourselves passed by: It did not require much of an eye to discern that this was the Frenchman, the “La Pallice,” which we spoke about ten days ago bound round the Horn from Hamburg; and I must say that she commanded admiration as she slowly ran by us in the gathering dusk, a beautiful specimen of the iron ship-builder’s art. As previously mentioned, the relieving tackles were put on the tiller at about four o’clock, after the wheel had thrown the helmsman completely over itself and through the lee wheel-house door, for he clung heroically to the spokes.

[Illustration]

When the “La Pallice” was about half a mile astern, she put her helm up to wear round on the same tack which we were on. At that moment the whole spectacle was a most thrilling one, ourselves plunging into a fierce head-sea, the flocks of sea-fowl whirling through the gale, and the angry sky, each contributed its part to the sombre picture; while a great rent in the western clouds cast a broad shaft of light through the gloom full upon the big Frenchman, now in the act of wearing. Even Captain Scruggs and the second mate were impressed with the solemnity of the scene until they were attracted by the actions of the stranger. She had now worn completely around on the port tack, and as she had passed us so close to windward, we all thought that she would come up on our lee-quarter. But what is this? Can it be possible that her captain is going to try to put himself on our weather to show how his ship can hold a wind? He can scarcely be so mad as that. On comes the ship, however, nearer and nearer; fathom by fathom she hauls up on us till she is not more than a quarter of a mile astern and not two hundred yards to windward, and we can plainly see the whole of her forefoot, as her great bows, shearing through a sea, are flung high up, and then come crushing down in a smother of foam. All of our men have crowded to the side, for here is a spectacle indeed: a vessel bearing down upon another hove to and without steerage-way! However, she has still time to put her wheel up and pass under our stern; but no such notion is entertained by the maniac in command of her, and he is pinching her till her weather-leeches shiver in his mad endeavor to pass us to windward; and as the ship rises to a sea and pauses for an instant on its crest, it seems as though she would topple right down upon us. At this juncture Captain Scruggs begins to grow anxious, as well he might, and mutters, “Is that d---- fool really going to try it?” Five minutes more pass, and it becomes evident that we must get out of her way or be cut down by that sharp iron stem. Now this is quite a long job, being hove to, for it would be at least several minutes before we could gather headway. But we must do something, so the skipper sings out, “Cast off those tackles,” and two men are sent to the wheel. Anxiously we watch to see her head fall off, but she stubbornly hangs. “Square that crojjick-yard.” This is done; and then very heavily and clumsily we fall off and begin to gather way. So close are we to the Frenchman now that we could talk to those on board if the wind were not so strong. But we are not out of danger yet, for the French skipper seems possessed of a devil, and follows us up, as his vessel appears to handle like a yacht. It is but a few minutes more, though, until we have put half a mile of clear water between ourselves and M. Crapeau, and the danger is, for the time being, a thing of the past.

All through the night, though, this demon ship haunted us, as if we were a magnet which resistlessly attracted her iron hull. I believe that if Captain Scruggs and the second mate could have laid hands on the French skipper, they would have strangled him. At supper, whither we repaired after the excitement, the captain delivered the following address: “If you see an English, or a Dutch, or a German, or a Danish, or a Norwegian, or an American vessel near you, don’t be afraid, for he’s all right. But if it’s a Frenchman or an Eyetalian, get behind the horizon just as soon as you can, for nobody can tell what he’s goin’ to do.”

During the night sail was made, the wind having dropped to force 7, and this morning broke fine, clear, and cold, and showed us the frog-eater to windward. Will it be credited that no sooner did he catch sight of us than he started down the wind toward us? At least, so it looked; but he had only squared away for Cape St. John, at the other end of the island, having evidently given up all hope of the Le Maire Straits.

We were presented with a beautiful view of the middle part of Staten Land this morning at eleven o’clock. It differs from the western end in that the snows, instead of being confined to the upper half of the mountains, appeared to reach down to the sea itself. How silent and cold the hills looked with the sun striking the sharp peaks and throwing its purple shadows across the great snow-fields between! So dazzling were the mountains that, had we not known them to be land, we would have supposed that they were icebergs. It is singular that such a scene is not one of desolation, but of immutable repose, and seems to partake of that calm, fascinating peace and quiet which so irresistibly attracts explorers to the Polar seas. It was a vista of enchantment, and it was difficult to believe that in the region of Cape Horn there existed scenes of such surpassing loveliness.

It was the captain’s intention to try the straits once more this afternoon; but, alas! the implacable westerly winds began to lash out again; and it is now, 3.30 +P.M.+, blowing as hard as ever, the sky is covered with heavy snow-clouds, and everything is gloomy and dreary once more. We now have to light the lamps below to read by soon after two o’clock; this is the third day of westerly gales, and goodness knows how long they may have been blowing before we got down here; these are the winds which keep ships off Cape Horn for a month at a time. One of the most arduous and protracted passages of the Horn was that of Lord Anson on his famous voyage in 1740-41, when he was three months in doubling the stormy Cape; while in modern times the cases of the British ships “Natuna” and “The Hahnemann” offer examples of what the weather can do down here. They each made passages within the last year of about two hundred and thirty days from Great Britain to San Francisco. The “Natuna” had a particularly hard passage; she made four distinct attempts to round the Horn, but was driven back so far each time that Captain Fretwurst decided to square away for the Good Hope passage, which he did, running down the eighty-five degrees of longitude which separate the capes in nineteen days. The cargo was a miserable one, cement and creosote, and while off the Horn some of the casks containing the latter were stove, and the drinking-water became tainted with the disagreeable stuff. To the eastward of Good Hope the parrels of several of the yards carried away in a gale of wind, and the captain had to lash them with chains and wire, while he ran away over into 130° west before hauling up to the northward. The other vessel, “The Hahnemann,” had just as hard a passage, though she stuck to Cape Horn, and her captain died during the voyage. About eighty-five guineas premium had been paid on both vessels.

A curious phase of the weather to the northward and eastward of the Horn is that a westerly gale generally doesn’t blow steadily for more than twelve hours, when it will clear up for a while and then begin again; while fine, clear nights often succeed the most villanous weather during the daytime.

This morning we sent down the three sky-sail-yards and secured them on top of the forward house; this is the practice of some ship masters, while others never do so; but to strike them must certainly greatly relieve the strain on the backstays, for each sky-sail-yard, including sail and gear, weighs about seven hundred pounds, and the leverage of a ton one hundred and sixty feet from the fulcrum must be very considerable. Latitude, 54° 20′ south; longitude, 64° 20′ west.

+July 13+

All last night it blew a fresh breeze and we gradually fell away to leeward, and at two o’clock this morning the captain decided to abandon Le Maire and kept off for Cape St. John. When we went on deck after breakfast (it was too dark to see anything before eight o’clock) we were startled at the sight. Broadside on, and parallel with our course, lay the extreme eastern end of Staten Land, distant not more than two miles, with the tiny, cosy harbor of St. John just abeam. So close to the land were we that we could easily see the stunted evergreens that covered the hills up to the snow-line, which is much higher here than towards the middle of the island, where the breakers seem to fling their spray upon the fields of snow; while high up on a rugged mountain side there stood an isolated, lonely pine-tree, bringing to mind those exquisite lines of Heine:

“Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam im Norden auf kahler Höh’, ihn schläfert, mit weisser Decke umhüllen ihn Eis und Schnee.

Er träumpt von einer Palme, die fern im Morgenland einsam und schweigend trauert auf brennender Felsenwand.”

Now that we had approached so closely we hoped to get some photographs of the hills, especially when the sun, bursting from a cloud on the horizon, threw his horizontal rays upon the distant peaks. But, alas! they showed up as nothing but a blur upon the finder. St. John, comparatively speaking, looked like a snug, comfortable little place, but hardly such a one as a man would voluntarily choose to winter in, as do a colony of hardy sealers. The harbor seems to be formed by a neck of land projecting out from the right-hand side of the entrance, upon the verge of which we perceived the diminutive light-house which guides the rugged South Shetland seal-catchers into safety. On the port hand going in, over against the light-house, rises a lofty cone composed of a single huge crag, standing sentry-like over the safe harbor within; while roundabout on all sides tower great, dark, scowling mountains and vast precipices, the harbor being in reality naught but a cleft in the hills, after the manner of a Scandinavian fjord. Yet the wild beauty of the place enchants one, and long before we had lost sight of the little light-house I had acknowledged to my wife that, after all, the thought of a winter spent in St. John was not such a very dreadful one, for the fascination of Nature in her grander forms far outweighs bodily inconveniences; it is safe to say that von Humboldt in the deep recesses of the Ecuadorian Andes and Hooker in the awful solitudes of the Himalayas often longed for even the rude comforts provided in a settlement like St. John.

We looked in vain with the glasses for the little steamer which makes regular, monthly trips to the Falkland Islands and at times even to Montevideo; but she was not visible, and was no doubt away on one of her voyages. A truly turbulent life in one sense this one on the little vessel, but hardly so dreary as the lives of the seal-fishers who winter at St. John, which is, I believe, the southernmost permanent settlement on the globe, and from October to April penetrate deep into the Southern Ocean in pursuit of their livelihood.

Two strange, natural formations attract the attention far out on Cape St. John. The first is a mass of gray rock perched upon the very brim of a vertical cliff, almost overhanging the surf that boils furiously around it, bearing a striking resemblance to an ancient feudal castle; and one can see, as it were, the high walls with heavy battlements, and the lofty crenellated towers of the massive edifice. The second object is another monolith so closely resembling the Sphinx that one starts on first catching sight of it, for it seems impossible that mere chance could produce so accurate a counterpart of the famous Egyptian monument.