Part 5

Heaven grant that she may be in safety! But we all fear she cannot have withstood the violence of the gale, which continued until morning, and throughout the whole of the following day, with unremitted fury. Our anxiety was also much augmented, from having seen masts, spars, and other pieces of wreck, float by the side of our ship, when the storm abated. Until now I had regarded the sailing in company with a fleet as a kind of social protection; but henceforth I shall feel no desire to move in crowded society on the ocean. Being alone, we are exposed to the risk of falling into the hands of the enemy; but, compared to our late suffering, even the vilest of French prisons loses its horrors; for, what can be so truly afflicting as to see a number of our fellow-creatures plunged into the deepest distress, and to feel withheld from tendering them relief! Our solitary situation must prevent a repetition of such a scene: it also removes the peril of our being injured or destroyed, by other ships; of which we had much dread, while we were amidst the fleet.

It is not only during a storm that there is danger of one ship running foul of another: it is equally, perhaps more likely to happen when the wind abates, particularly if this occur suddenly, for then the ship, not being supported by the resistance of the gale, gives way to the heavy seas, and, from disobeying the helm, is liable to be driven aboard other vessels. Often, at this moment, as well as during the storm, the ships appear to have no weight, nor depth of purchase in the water, but they toss and roll about at the mercy of the waves, like empty barrels floating upon the surface.

At the period of separating from the fleet we knew not our place of destination: it became expedient therefore to open the sealed instructions; from which we discovered that Carlisle Bay, in Barbadoes, was fixed as the general rendezvous of the fleet. Here, therefore, all our attractions lie, and to this port we are endeavouring to steer; but adverse winds and violent tempests perpetually oppose our progress. It is now more than three weeks from the date of our departure, and we are yet beating about much nearer to you than you imagine, having, hitherto, advanced, on our passage, only twelve degrees of longitude, and three of latitude. But in whatever latitude or longitude, amidst whatever storms or dangers, I am always

Yours.

LETTER XIII.

At sea, Jan. 24, 1796.

I had hoped not to resume my pen upon the face of the restless Atlantic; but that, long ere this, I might have addressed you from the island of Barbadoes; unhappily however, nearly four more tedious weeks have been consumed, in struggling against the united violence of merciless winds, and a relentless ocean. The _new year_ set in, with mildness, and we began to sail pleasantly on our passage. The breeze was fair; the sea smooth and tranquil; the sun shone with genial warmth; the ship advanced in steady motion; and our cares were dissipated in the hope that all our disasters were buried in the grave of the _old year_. But, alas! our flattering prospect had not the duration of a day.

Before the next morning the storm was renewed, and from that moment gale has succeeded to gale, and storm to storm, defeating all our happiest calculations; even the best established prognostics have deceived us; clouds separating, a change of wind, heavy rain, and the like, are no longer any indication of an abating tempest. At one time, under the clearest azure sky, and the brightest sun, the dry wind tears in keenest violence, as if rushing, from the parched clouds to devour all the fluids of the ocean: at another, loaded with moisture, it bursts into sudden gusts and squalls, heaving the ship, almost out of the sea, and leaving her as it were suspended in the air; and, as if the fates had resolved to torment us, whenever the wind, and the heavy waves have a little subsided, and we have looked for steady sailing on our passage, a breeze has sprung up, from the most unfavorable point, and though moderate, for a moment, has quickly increased, again, to a storm. Seven long weeks have passed, and with difficulty can it be said that we have had an interval of one diurnal round, free from the perils of raging winds, or of the huge and troubled mountains thereby engendered!

Did I not feel that I am steering _from_ my friends, the cruel perplexities of this tormenting voyage would lead me into a vow, perhaps somewhat rash, never again to intrust my body to so fickle a guardian as the sea. But, not all the perils of which she is mistress, nor any thing short of death, can deter me from again hazarding my person in order to return amidst those I love. Novelty has many charms; and it is pleasing to regard society under its various forms, in every country and every clime; but, even in this, the great enjoyment centres in the endearing hope of being, some day, stationary amongst our friends; for to associate with those of similar minds, whose dispositions, whose interests and pursuits are congenial with our own, is the highest boon of civilized life: beyond this, the world has nothing to offer.

I still look forward to the happy termination of our passage; and feel that the present sufferings will arm me against a multitude of future alarms. I can almost fancy that a good ship is imperishable on the open sea; and could you know all that ours has borne, you would be inclined to countenance the opinion. She has amply proved herself to be what the sailors term “_a good sea boat_;” and, from the events of our voyage, you will feel the force of the technical expression that “_she can live in all weathers_.” The shocks and beatings she has withstood, are almost incredible. Her topmasts, yards, and different parts of the rigging have been carried away—her sails split—the quarter boards stove in: things have been washed overboard from the deck—seas have broken over her—sprays dashed in the cabin windows—and various other accidents have befallen her: yet all have been repaired, and she still rides triumphant!

During the severity of a storm I have often remarked how differently the scene has affected the minds of those accustomed, and those who are unaccustomed to the sea. The sailor patiently observes the gale, lowers the yards and topmasts, furls or reefs his sails, makes all snug, and thanks the tempest for a holiday; heedless of the perils which surround him, he extends himself in his hammock, or reclines his head on a plank or a locker, and, sinking into the arms of Morpheus, regards the howlings of the storm as his peaceful lullaby. The landsman, on the contrary, is restless and impatient; listens in terror to the wind; and shrinks in agitation at every sound: the dangers that are, he magnifies, and his mind is tortured in the creation of others, which do not exist. Each moment, to him, breeds new alarm. He asks a thousand questions, dictated by a thousand fears. He goes upon deck—looks round with affrighted eyes—his feet are unable to support his trembling body—he clings to the companion door-way, and, thence, ventures to cast a look at the ocean and its waves. His head grows giddy—nausea seizes him, and he again descends to the cabin in extreme anxiety. He fixes himself in the leeward corner—places his elbows on his knees—his head on his hands, and, concealing his eyes, bewails his wretched fate! Suddenly he again seeks the deck—multiplies all the perils of the moment—torments the captain and sailors with new questions, all expressive of his terror—fastens again to the companion door-way—gazes at the masts and sails—observes the yards dip into the ocean—feels the yieldings of the ship—imagines she is upset—fancies the masts are falling overboard, and, in each rolling wave, beholds a devouring sea. Destruction occupies his mind! He returns below—impatiently seats himself—seeks relief in a book—is unable to read—throws away the volume—again takes it up, and again throws it down: nausea returns, and he is seized with dizziness and retching. His bodily feelings now augment the disquietude of his mind, and, at length, as a remedy for both, he prostrates himself in his birth; but is still wretched and comfortless—all rest is denied him—sickness and anxiety remain—and he lies rolling, in fear and anguish, to wear out the fury of the storm!

Strong as this contrast may appear, I have often seen it, fully, verified. During a gale we sometimes feel amazement at observing the carpenter and his mates working, quietly, in the tops; and the sailors hanging about the yards and rigging, in seeming unconcern—tossed by each rolling sea from side to side, far beyond the limits of the ship, and, not unfrequently, while seated at the end of the yard, dipped and drenched in the foaming billows! The indifference of seafaring men to the dangers around them is exemplified in every part of their conduct, and, even, in their common expressions. Many times when we have felt the most vivid apprehensions from the fierceness of the tempest and the roughness of the ocean, and have, tremblingly, sought relief, by an appeal to the captain or mate, we have met only a look of unconcern, or, at most, the laconic reply “_It blows fresh._” From their quaint and technical terms it is difficult for any one, unaccustomed to the sea, to know precisely what they mean to convey. Their degrees of comparison are peculiar to themselves, and, at first, not easily to be comprehended: taking the term fresh as the positive, they say it blows _fresh_—it blows _strong_—it blows _hard_; and again, to denote the severest possible gale, they assume hard as the positive—add an oath to form the comparative, and augment that oath to constitute the superlative: thus, it blows _hard_; it blows _d—— hard_; it blows _d—— hard, by ——_. Previous to this extremity we are commonly furnished with an omen, by the captain coming below, to change his long coat for a short round jacket; from which we always prognosticate unfavorably; it being a precaution which denotes busy, and perhaps, perilous employment.

Our steward is a very old sailor, tough as the ropes of the ship, and callous to every alarm; being the person more immediately about us, it most frequently falls to his lot to be teased with questions regarding the weather, the wind, and the sea; and the steady apathy of his feelings, together with his excessive and _sang froid_ and unconcern, have been subjects of remark—sometimes, indeed, of vexation to us; for his utter insensibility to the circumstances calling forth our cares and alarms, has, occasionally, provoked us. During one of our perilous storms, the wind having shifted to a point somewhat less unfavorable, although still blowing a terrific gale, the usual question was asked—“Well, steward! how is the weather?”—“_Squally, squally, gentlemen—the wind’s coming about—be fine weather soon._” According to the feelings of this old tar, the severest tempests that we have suffered, were only squalls, for, in the midst of the most tremendous gales, his reply has always been, “_Squally, a little squally gentlemen._”—“Are we making any way, steward?”—“_Oh yes, fine wind, quite free, going large, make six or seven knots._”—“But surely we have too much of this good wind, steward?”—“_Oh, no! fine wind as can blow, gentlemen—but a little squally—rather squally._”

Our dinner ceremony is often rendered a humorous scene: at this hour the cabin being the general rendezvous of the party, we meet—crawl, trembling, towards the table, and tie ourselves in the chairs. A tray is set before us, with deep holes cut in it for the dishes, plates, and glasses; the table and chairs are lashed to the deck; yet one or other frequently gives way, and upsets half the things in the cabin! Presently enters the steward with soup, followed by his little slave with potatoes; and the servants with such other covers as there may chance to be. But scarcely are the things upon table, and the servants stationed, clinging to the backs of our chairs, before a sudden lurch of the ship tumbles all into disorder. Away go steward, servants, and little Mungo, to the lee corner of the cabin: the soup salutes the lap of one of us; another receives a leg of pork; a third is presented with a piece of mutton or beef; a couple of chickens or ducks fly to another; the pudding jumps nearly into the mouth of the next; and the potatoes are tossed in all directions, about the deck of the cabin. One seizes his plate; another stops his knife and fork; some cling to the table, thinking only of saving their persons; this secures the bottle; the next, half fallen, holds up his glass in one hand, and fixes himself fast to his chair with the other. Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and glasses clatter together in all the discord of the moment. Every thing is in confusion. The ship now becomes steady for a moment; the scattered parts of the dinner are collected; and those who have escaped sickness, again attempt to eat. Some, foreseeing all these accidents, fix themselves in a corner upon the cabin-deck, and take the plate between their knees, fancying themselves in security: but, quickly, they are tumbled, in ridiculous postures, sprawling, with outstretched limbs, to the other side of the cabin. One cries out with sore bruises; another from being wetted with the sprays: this calls for help; that relieves his stomach from sickness: some abuse the helmsman; others the ship; and others the sea; while all join in a chorus of imprecations upon the wind.

With pleasure I feel myself able to inform you that we have indications of having passed the Azores. The temperature of the atmosphere is become very genial to our feelings, and, amidst our tossings and bufferings, we seem to have brought all-inspiring May close upon the heels of Christmas. A considerable quantity of sea-weed appears floating upon the water, and this, the sailors observe, is never seen to the north of the Western Isles, it being supposed to proceed from the gulf of Mexico, and not to be carried beyond these islands. We are steering more to the south than our direct course; but we are glad to make _Southing_ at the expense of a little _Westing_, in the hope of beating out of the latitude of the tormenting gales, which have, almost incessantly, beset us: but I forget that I am tiring you with uninteresting details, and that my letter is growing as tedious as the voyage.

Adieu.

LETTER XIV.

Carlisle Bay, Feb. 13, 1796.

After all our perils and dangers we are, again, safe at anchor, with terra firma in view! What a delightful element is the solid earth! During nine long weeks have we been wandering, upon the fickle waters, without obtaining even the most distant sight of land: but of this enough! Let me not recal, to your mind, scenes that we are endeavouring to forget. Throughout the last fortnight the tumults of a boisterous ocean have been assuaged. For two or three days, after writing my last notes, we were nearly becalmed, and the foaming Atlantic became smooth and tranquil as the fish-pond of a pleasure-ground. This placid interval was occupied in making preparations for fair sailing; the top-gallant masts were got up—the royals and steering sails made ready—fishing lines were thrown into the still sea—and an awning prepared for the quarter-deck; all of which imply steady breezes, warm regions, and pleasant sailing. On the 25th of January we were in latitude 27° 49′, the thermometer at 69°. The morning was mild; the sea still and smooth, as a lake: all nature seemed hushed in silence, and no wind could be felt. We rose early, and enjoyed a steady walk on the, now, quiet deck. The sun, protruding from the bosom of a tranquil ocean, softly stole above the horizon, swelled into globular form, mildly assumed refulgent brightness, and spread his cheering rays around. From excess of motion we had lapsed into perfect rest. We hailed the change with admiration; yet wished enough of wind to carry us on our voyage. The timoneer left the helm; and the ship remained immoveable upon the water. Two strange vessels were observed to be in sight—a brig and a schooner. The former was directly in our wake. Viewing this, amidst the universal stillness which prevailed, we remarked, with surprise, that she was moving, towards us, with full sails. At this moment the sky darkened; the thermometer fell to 64; a gentle rippling spread over the still surface of the water; and, almost imperceptibly, brought us——a favorable breeze! It was from the north-east; and so soft and steady, that scarcely did we feel the vessel in motion, before we were advancing at the rate of five knots an hour! What we had so long and anxiously sought, was now arrived, and we most cordially welcomed——_the trade-wind_! The sailors announced it in loud greetings: need I say that we partook in their liveliest joy? Never was a happier moment! All sense of our long sufferings vanished, and we were quite in raptures on this glad event. Indeed we had cause to think ourselves fortunate on being received by the favoring _Trades_ in their very earliest latitude. This was a most grateful period of our passage, and, together with the weather we have since experienced, has, in some degree, compensated former evils. The temperature grew cooler than it had been during the few days of calm. The breeze freshened, and all hands were busily occupied in setting every possible sail, to obtain the full benefit of this great and constant trader’s friend. Quickly new canvass stretched from every point of the masts and yards, and the ship, winged with five additional sails, widely spread her expanded pinions to catch the breeze. What a change! transported, at once, from the perils of severe tempest, to the finest, smoothest sailing! Sickness, and all other uneasy feelings were banished; we exercised, freely, upon the deck; and advanced on our passage, almost without perceiving the vessel move! So rapid, indeed, was our progress, that the ship seemed to feel no resistance, in her easy course through the water!

As soon as we entered _the trades_, our _ports_ and _scuttles_ were beat open, and we had a free circulation of air, through the cabin, night and day. The windows were likewise opened; and, as we sailed before the wind, the Venetian blinds admitted the breeze, whilst they excluded the rays of the sun. By these means we were kept pleasantly cool, below; and when upon deck we were protected by a canvass awning, under which we had a shaded walk, ventilated by a free current of air. Having several bathing tubs on board, we had, likewise, the comfort, the luxury I might say, of plunging into sea-water every morning; and, in order not to meet these burning regions, with all the rigid fibre, and strong vascular action of Europe, I have adopted the plan of using a very abstemious diet, and have submitted to a short preparatory course of medicine. My comrades smile at the precaution, but, _although doctors may disagree_, I shall hope, on some future day, to exhibit, to you, the good effects of this early discipline.

Many days previous to our arrival in Carlisle Bay, the increase of temperature had brought out upon our skins that troublesome eruption called _prickly heat_. Our bodies were covered with it, and the irritation and itching it occasioned were intolerable. Our companion, Dr. Cleghorn, being an early sufferer from it, demanded of those who had been accustomed to the West Indies, how long his skin was to be thus tormented? So long, good doctor, as you remain in health, was the reply! Upon which, with additional rubbing and scratching, the doctor jocosely, although somewhat impatiently exclaimed, in the accent of his country, “Faith, captain, and would you carry us into never-ceasing torment? ’Bout ship, and tack for England immediately.”

On the morning of the 10th instant the boatswain descried the highest points of Barbadoes, when _land! land!_ was instantly echoed throughout the ship, to the great joy of all on board; and to the boatswain’s profit, who, being the first to sound the glad tidings, became entitled to the customary fee of a bottle of rum. It required the eye of a sailor to distinguish the all-delighting terra firma, amidst the clouds: the passengers looked, and looked in vain! a nearer approach of several leagues, was necessary, to render it visible to the eye of a landsman, and when we, at length, discerned it, the earth appeared, only, as the more fixed of the clouds, forming a dark streak a little above the horizon. This streak became, gradually, more and more distinct, till, breaking as we advanced, it assumed the rugged form of mountains; and, at length, the appearance of land. Soon we discovered it to be the northern point of the island of Barbadoes: but Carlisle Bay is to the south: we had, therefore, to coast round nearly half the extent of the island, before we could reach the harbour. This delay afforded us a good opportunity of viewing the country. We stood near in, and could observe, distinctly, the objects on shore. I took my seat upon deck, and with an anxious eye, aided by the telescope, minutely, examined every thing we passed. The mind, ever active, generally forms to itself some image of the things we hear spoken of, before any opportunity occurs of seeing them. Often the picture is very incorrect and extravagant; but, upon the present occasion, I discovered that my imagination had painted a tolerably accurate copy of the West Indies, from the descriptions which I had heard and read.

Our coasting view of the island was not the most favorable: for a nakedness, which Barbadoes does not possess, appeared to prevail: nor did the general verdure equal our expectations: houses, huts, windmills, and sugar-works, although plentifully distributed, did not present the scenery, or the air of richness and comfort which we had expected. There seemed to be a want of inclosures, and a deficiency of trees and hedges. The buildings looked bare and exposed, and there was a deficiency of that protecting shade, for the cattle, which our feelings had deemed requisite in such a climate. The houses being without chimneys, and devoid of ornament, conveyed the idea of barns: nor could we associate them in the picture of wealth and abundance which had been called up in our minds. We wished that the numerous windmills, houses, and other buildings we saw, had been more protected by the deep-shading foliage of the tropical vegetation. If a variety of trees had been interspersed, or the branching silk-cotton, or stately mountain-cabbage had contributed its shelter, the appearance of comfort would have been preserved, and the picturesque effect rendered more striking. The land is considerably varied, being hilly and unequal; and, from the general view in sailing along the coast, it appears to rise into two or three distinct tables, which elevate themselves abruptly, one above another.