Part 20

At eleven o’clock last night we heard the rasping voice of old Goggins sing out, “Land ahead!” The captain turned out at once (he goes to bed now at seven, and sleeps till midnight if the weather isn’t too outrageous), and immediately ordered the ship on the other tack; and, after we had come around, three pinnacles of rock were seen standing sharply up out of the sea, for the night wasn’t a very dark one. They were the Diego Ramirez Rocks, which, lying eighteen marine leagues southwest of Cape Horn, form unquestionably the most dangerous obstruction in the entire Southern Ocean, rearing their jagged peaks vertically out of a depth of two hundred fathoms, right in the track of westward-bound ships. If the weather is thick and dark, there is nothing to apprise the mariner of their proximity, even if he keeps the lead going, until the thunder of what is perhaps the most tremendous surf in the world warns him, too late, that he is within hailing distance of the dreaded Diego Ramirez. A crash, a great shout, and lo! a stately ship and her company are effaced in a moment of time, a few bits of timber cast upon the shore by those vast surges of the South Pacific being all that remains of what was one of man’s most beautiful works, a full-rigged ship.

The last vessel to go ashore on these rocks was the American ship “Arabia”; and, although she went to pieces immediately, all of her crew miraculously escaped and were taken off by another vessel and landed at Montevideo. Ship-masters call the rocks ‘Dyeego Rammerreez’, though they inconsistently pronounce San Diego as it ought to be,--Deeaigo. Why is it, I wonder, that this land is always spoken of as being eighteen marine leagues from Cape Horn? Why not say fifty-four miles. Yet all ocean directories say that they are eighteen marine leagues from the Horn, though all other distances are given in miles.

We would really have passed several miles to leeward of the rocks if we had kept on, but no ship-master will ever take any chances with them; however, we are much elated at finding ourselves an appreciable distance to the westward of the Cape. Throughout the day we have been fanning along under a main-royal! But that’s the way of this region. Yesterday morning under reefed topsails; this morning courtesying quietly along over an almost smooth sea, bar the southwesterly swell.

A few minutes ago, at about two o’clock, we witnessed another exhibition of what is called “discipline” on American ships, but what is elsewhere known as brutality. These are the facts: After dinner a man was sent down into the lazarette to bring up a barrel of split pease; it was the luckless Swede, Brün. This man, who is not particularly strong at best, and is now in very bad shape, found great difficulty in shoving the barrel, which seemed to weigh about one hundred and fifty pounds, up the lazarette hatch-way; and care must then be exercised never to allow the chimes of a barrel to touch the deck, as it would leave a scar. Brün finally got the barrel clear of the hatch and was rolling it flat along the poop, when the mate, looking as sour as lime-juice, came hobbling along the alley-way and, pointing to some old marks in the deck, said, “What d’you do that for?” Now, I am perfectly sure that Brün had not made those marks, and so was the mate; but Goggins was in one of his snarling moods, and without further ado he applied his boot to Brün’s person with such severity that he fell sprawling over the barrel, which then rolled over to leeward and struck the rail with a loud crack. Without a word, or even a look, the man gathered himself up, and, grasping the barrel, continued on his way, only remarking, “I’m doing the best I can, sair,” in the weak, precise tones of a foreigner speaking English. “What! answerin’ back?” yelled Goggins. “Who learned yer that, eh?” and running up to Brün, he seized him fiercely by the throat with his left hand and then drove his right fist with full force into the man’s face. The latter staggered and fell backward half over the rail into the lanyards of the mizzen-shrouds, where he remained some moments before he came to; and then, well knowing that he would have been pounded almost to death with any handy weapon if he so much as opened his mouth again, he once more started forward with the barrel. This is a nice state of affairs when men in the merchant service of the United States are suffered to be beaten and kicked into insensibility, and in some cases actually killed at the hands of brutal, savage mates. Before we sailed in this ship I had often heard that sailors under the stars and stripes underwent the most cruel punishments, in many cases of so unusual and low a description as to preclude mention in these pages, but I hardly believed it. Now, however, after knowing how Yankee ships are run and that such brutes as Goggins sail as mates in them, it is my opinion, and that of my wife also, who understands sailors, that the published accounts of seamen’s cruelties and sufferings at the hands of the officers of our sailing ships are, in nearly every instance, true and straightforward descriptions of what took place at sea. And what is the usual result? The justice dismisses the case with the remark, “Justifiable discipline.” This is the way that the marine law is generally administered in our lower courts. There appears to be but little attempt at justice for the sailor, though I think that their chances of obtaining their rights in the future are considerably brighter than they used to be. Does any one of the other three great maritime nations--Great Britain, France, and Germany--permit such acts in their merchantmen as the beating of sailors? Decidedly not. In those countries’ ships sailors are treated as such and not as anthropophagical savages. Yet our marine laws are practically the same as theirs. Their laws are enforced, ours are not, by reason of petty briberies and deceits. It is a different story on our steamers, where the officers would not dare to maltreat the men. Discipline, far better than we have here, can be maintained without recourse to violence, which is proved by the vessels of other nations. Contrary to the statements of captains and mates, who make them to shield their bad deeds, foremast hands are _not_ continually trying to create a disturbance. I will leave this question to be answered by two American ship-masters, who run their vessels as deep-water ships ought to be, and who never have any trouble with their crews. These two men, I do not say that there are no others (though there are lementably few of them), are Captain Gates of the “S. P. Hitchcock,” and Captain Banfield of the “St. James”; these skippers believe in decent treatment and they see that their men get it. Among twenty or thirty men there are sure to be two or three hard cases; these should be dealt with according to their deserts; yet on this ship the black legs have, in every instance that we have seen, escaped punishment, while such inoffensive and well-meaning men as Brün, Karl, and others, have been made the mark for the violent tempers of both mates. The reason for brutality on Yankee ships is traceable in every instance to one man, the captain; for, if he did not countenance it, such acts could not be committed. It is passing strange that American captains, who have almost invariably risen from before the mast, should have so little sympathy for sailors, in view of the fact that only a few years ago they suffered from the tempers of mates just as now the men do who are under them. Latitude, 57° 22′ south; longitude, 68° 55′ west.

+July 24+

Our light winds didn’t last long, for the cross-jack had to be hauled up, the three top-gallant-sails furled, and the main-sail reefed during last night. We made excellent headway, though, doing five miles more than three degrees of longitude, though we were driven off to the southward too much, being at noon to-day one hundred and sixty miles south of Cape Horn and well below the northern limit of drift-ice, though the temperature is not low, 39° at noon. Thus far this has been a slightly warmer winter passage than the average, though it will surprise many people to know that the thermometer rarely falls below 30° north of 60° south; the lowest that Captain Scruggs ever saw it was 28°, though a Dutch ship, of which I have forgotten the name, reported the mercury as low as 20° on one occasion some seventy-five years ago.

Fogs form a very disagreeable feature of the Southern Ocean after the meridian of the Horn is passed, and the dampness likewise generally increases. A pretty good idea of the excessive moisture in this part of the world may be obtained by reading the report of the surveying steamer “Sylvia,” which was stationed in the Magellan Straits for fourteen months. Throughout that period rain fell on an average for eleven hours out of every twenty-four, the amount per day being half an inch.

As for fogs, we have been in one for twenty-four hours now, and a lookout is stationed on the forecastle-head by day as well as by night. Indeed, it is probable that the hardest and most tedious part of the passage still remains; usually it is not very difficult to reach the seventieth meridian, the heaviest westerly gales generally being experienced between that point and 50° south, which vessels aim to cross in 90° west. We should very much like to see the wind come out of the southwest again, by which it will be perceived how hard we are to please, for the first ten days off Cape Horn we had nothing but southwesterly gales, and we rebuked them and would be satisfied with naught but northerly breezes; now a southerly blow would be most welcome.

This morning at eleven the skipper shouted down the companion-way that there was a vessel on our weather beam, steering east, and that she would pass close aboard. So we went on deck at once, and there, looming high out of the fog, under a heavy press of sail, was a large, three-masted bark. She was the first homeward-bounder that we had seen, was probably from Australian or New Zealand ports, and she presented a noble appearance as she swept rapidly by, distant not more than a third of a mile. She was an old-style vessel, although built of iron, with no sheer and a phenomenally long jib-boom, the practice in these days being to rig sailing vessels of both iron and wood with short, thick, pole bowsprits. We thought she was going to ask us for her position, for she was two degrees south of the homeward-bound track; so we chalked “59°” and “72°” in large figures on a slate, ready to hold up, for she was near enough to make them out with the glasses. She flew onward, though, without a sign; and as it was none of our business what she was doing a hundred and twenty miles out of her course, we didn’t offer any suggestions. This vessel was a good illustration of the difference in carrying sail between close-hauled and running free, for we had nothing set above the topsails, while she was under all three royals.

Yesterday was a grand rest-day for the men,--that is, a cessation from being continually drenched with salt-water, and a few days of this sort would go far toward healing their sea-boils. As Paddy put it, “To-day’s worth tin dollars to any one of us, sor.” It was, in truth, an unusual sight to see the men going about without their oil-skins once more, for fully two whole weeks have passed since they could work on the main-deck without these yellow garments. Oil-skins really do not do very much good in heavy weather, though, as has been mentioned before. Nothing but a suit of diving armor would keep a man dry on deck off Cape Horn; still, oil-skins keep a great deal of water out, and also protect a man against the cold. So much bad weather lately has deprived me of my customary exercise at the pumps, for it is dangerous to go knocking about the decks in a heavy sea; but yesterday I had nearly an hour of hard work, doing forty strokes to the minute. Both watches pumped together, as a rope was passed over one of the handles; two thousand strokes at a ship’s pumps is exceedingly lusty exercise if a man doesn’t shirk his work, and, I should think, would satisfy Sandow himself.

[Illustration: Forty to the minute]

As far as the atmosphere here is concerned, to-day is typical Southern Ocean weather: drizzly, foggy, clammy, and dismal to an incredible degree. There is hardly any light at all below at noon, and everything is dim and obscure, in spite of the fact that the sun commenced his southern journey more than a month ago. The cabin bill of fare, however, has not shown the least symptoms of debility; on the contrary, when we got down past the Falklands the diversity and excellence of the edibles seemed to increase. The immense variety of tinned goods put up in these days is astonishing; for to the old list, which comprised meats, pease, and beans, are added such things as spinach, cabbage, and pumpkin for pies, all of which seem to be nearly, if not quite, as good as fresh vegetables. The only article of food on board that is really bad is the pie-crust; there are not adjectives enough in any language to describe this atrocious stuff. So surprisingly good is the eating now that I have copied down what we had at each meal for one week, in the very worst weather. Here it is, with the hope that the reader will not be bored in the perusal thereof.

+Sunday+

_Breakfast._--Salt mackerel, smoked sausage, boiled hominy, and potatoes.

_Dinner._--Pea soup, pressed corned beef, boiled potatoes, spinach, tapioca pudding, _demi-tasse_!

_Supper._--Pressed corned beef, fried potatoes, jam, and cheese.

+Monday+

_Breakfast._--Oatmeal, ham and eggs, corn bread.

_Dinner._--Vermicelli soup, beef stew, boned turkey, asparagus, boiled potatoes, deep apple pie.

_Supper._--Boned turkey, corned-beef hash, baked potatoes, canned strawberries, “Hamburg process.”

+Tuesday+

_Breakfast._--Fried tripe, scrambled eggs (questionable), griddle-cakes.

_Dinner._--Vegetable soup, Hamburg steak of fresh pork, Boston baked beans, pumpkin pie.

_Supper._--Mutton stew, baked beans, stewed corn, marmalade.

+Wednesday+

_Breakfast._--Oatmeal, salt herring, bacon, potatoes, rolls.

_Dinner._--Oyster soup, prawn curry and rice, boned turkey and string-beans, blackberry pie.

_Supper._--Salt beef stew, baked potatoes, stewed apples, canned pears.

+Thursday+

_Breakfast._--Hominy, bacon and eggs, muffins.

_Dinner._--Beef broth, roast fresh pork, asparagus, tinned plum pudding.

_Supper._--Boned chicken, corned-beef hash, rolls, fig preserves.

+Friday+

_Breakfast._--Smoked salmon, omelette (questionable), rice pan-cakes.

_Dinner._--Clam chowder, picked-up codfish, meat pie, pease, huckleberry pie.

_Supper._--Fish-balls, cold tongue, marmalade.

+Saturday+

_Breakfast._--Lobster curry and rice, bacon rolls.

_Dinner._--Vegetable soup, roast fresh pork, Boston beans, macaroni, quince pie.

_Supper._--Cold pork, baked potatoes, baked beans, stewed prunes.

To this excellent bill of fare I must add that every single item is of the very best, and when it is mentioned that the ship was stored by Morris & Co., who include the White Star Line among their patrons, further comment is hardly necessary. All the pickles and preserves are in glass jars and put up by Crosse & Blackwell, Worcestershire sauce by Lea & Perrin, while olives, Edam cheese, and several varieties of biscuits are always on the table. With such eating, we can exclaim with Nansen, “Are we to be pitied when such cheer for the inner man is provided?” Coffee that is actually delicious washes down all these good things. Would that sailors fared as well in proportion.

But oh, the surroundings! The captain in his table manners really isn’t so very much out of the way, but the mate and the table-cloth are utterly beyond language. The crust of dirt upon every visible portion of old Goggins’s anatomy is rapidly increasing, and mire of various sorts is crystallized in the folds of his corrugated skin. It is true that the second mate of the “Mandalore” was no better, but then he didn’t eat with us, while this creature does, instead of with his pachydermatous relatives in the sty.

The table-cloth is a marvellous piece of work at the end of the third day, with islands of gravy, continents of soup, lakes of coffee, and dollops of all kinds of grease, so that it looks like a sort of hideous crazy quilt. All this could be avoided by using a piece of white oil-cloth instead of the soiled cotton cloth, and it could be wiped clean after each meal. But no deep-water skipper who ever lived could be induced to abandon his table-cloth, which he cherishes with an extravagant affection. To him it is one of the boundaries between the cabin and the forecastle, and anything reminding him of those evil days when he himself lived in that odious den is too monstrous for thought. Latitude, 58° 40′ south; longitude, 72° west.

+July 25+

And still to the southward we go. A little more of this will be more than sufficient; but the northwesterly winds continue, and we cannot choose but steer whither they will permit us. Already we are nearly four degrees south of the Horn, and we will no doubt cross the sixtieth parallel in a short time. Many captains prefer going even as far as 64° south, and make their westing down there where the degrees of longitude are less than thirty miles, and then steer north on a meridian, if they can. _If they can._ Ah! that’s the point; for often, after penetrating far into the high latitudes, they cannot get north again when they want to, and these vessels then make very long passages. For instance, about three years ago several ships were in sight of each other, all bound to the westward. Some of them, including the “Reuce,” a Yankee ship, of which Mr. Rarx was then second mate, knocked about near the land, waiting for a slant; the others dove into the southward immediately, including the “St. Paul.” All of the latter made very long passages, the “Reuce” having discharged her cargo in San Francisco and commenced reloading before the “St. Paul” arrived. Captain Scruggs is one of those who do not advocate the southern passage, and he has no chart that reaches below 58° south, so that my track chart of the world is the only one that can be used just now. This doesn’t seem right, for ships in the Cape Horn trade ought to be provided with charts to the South Polar Circle. Suppose a ship were blown down among the South Shetlands without a chart? Such a thing is quite possible, and once in that archipelago without a knowledge of the land or any of the courses, a ship would stand mighty little chance of getting out again in bad weather.

This wind is just exactly in the wrong place; of course, we could go round on the other tack, but we couldn’t do better than north-northeast by compass, which would be an absurd course, so we have to go pegging away at it and trust to luck. We are now almost exactly south of New York, and can imagine the people eating and sleeping there at the same time that we do ourselves, though under somewhat different conditions. Steady rain has commenced again; the aneroid stands at 29, and the melancholy, doleful appearance of the heavens and the sea has apparently increased. Latitude, 59° 40′ south; longitude, 75° 20′ west.

+July 26+

At last we are steering our course, west-northwest true. A very light breeze has just now (4 +P.M.+) begun to breathe softly out of the southeast, so faint that we are not doing a mile an hour against a head-sea; but even such a progression is most welcome, being in the right direction.

We had all the wind that we wanted yesterday afternoon, though from the westward. It began to blow hard at three o’clock, and at 4.30 the upper fore- and mizzen-top-sails were clewed up; the main-topsail was double-reefed at five; the main-sail was furled at six; at seven the foresail was hauled up, and it was blowing a furious gale. So violent was the wind that all hands were more than an hour and a half making fast the foresail alone. At midnight there wasn’t a breath of wind, and we have ever since floundered about in a heavy swell from several simultaneous directions, and we presented the singular appearance of a ship becalmed under a double-reefed maintop-sail. Of such is the weather in the heart of the Southern Ocean. We have crossed the sixtieth parallel, and at noon we were two hundred and forty miles farther south than Cape Horn; and so silent and desolate is this vast ocean that, like Nansen in the “Fram,” we pursue our journey in deepest solitude, a molecule in this, the largest body of water on the globe.

There is no alteration in the dark weather, save that at one this afternoon the sun showed himself for a moment, and I tried to get an ex-meridian, but failed because of the poor horizon. It has now been almost a fortnight since we have had either a chronometer or a meridian sight, and our reckoning is probably far from true. There is always something adverse in taking sights down here; for, if the sun isn’t obscured, a bad horizon makes the correct altitude impossible; and if the sea-rim is well marked, there is sure to be a gale of wind blowing to drench the sextant with spray. Happy is the mariner who can get an accurate observation once every ten days south of Cape Horn, and ships often reach 30° south in the Pacific without a glimpse of the sun. At four yesterday afternoon the heaviness and the oppressiveness and foreboding look of the atmosphere were almost terrible; while the disk of the sun, weak and pale through the mist-squalls, glared down upon the wild scene with sickly eye. Hope has arisen within our breasts, though, with the present southeasterly airs, and perhaps it will not be long now until we are in bright sunshine again, which will dry out everything below. The stove seems powerless to reduce the humidity of the cabin, and the condition of the dining-room is absolutely outrageous.

At supper last evening we had a pleasant little diversion. An unexpectedly heavy sea had come up from the northwest, which, catching the ship on the quarter, would heave her over to leeward in tremendous rolls. The supper-bell had rung, and my wife and I had seated ourselves at the table on the weather-side, the cat perching itself between us upon the bench; the skipper and mate had not yet come in.