Part 4

Today, rails and the steam engine do in an hour what in the old days took ten.

Before we weigh anchor I will mention my visit to Table Mountain, 8000 feet above the level of the sea. This mountain is usually covered by a thick mist or fog-bank, called by the natives and seamen “Table-cloth,” but when it is perfectly clear one can depend on fine weather.

A party of sixteen men and women, led by Guide Wilson, started on our journey up the mountain, by way of the bridal path, at three a.m. We went round the Lion’s Rump, then round and round, reaching the top at 8 a.m. Such a wonderful sight I never before witnessed! The ship in the bay looked like a toy vessel, and the town itself was full of tiny houses. The top of the mountain was very flat--called Table-land from the flatness of the surrounding Table Mountain--here is situated a lake, said to be in some places more than 200 fathoms deep, and filled with small thorny fish. We breakfasted and rested here until 11 a.m., and then gradually made our descent, reaching the town at 4.30 p.m., well compensated although weary from our journey.

I went to the end of the Long Pier and, signalling for my boat, was soon on my barque enjoying my evening meal.

We started to get under way; I gave orders to the chief officer to heave short loose top-sails and top-gallant sails, and it was done with a merry good will, as sailors are always glad to reach port and to leave it. While heaving up the anchor, Captain Smith and his crew came on board to assist us in getting under way, a courtesy usually extended in foreign ports by all ships.

The heavens were beaming with stars, a bright moon was shining, and a light wind blowing from the southwest helped to make a lovely night and a still one. Judson, our “Shanty-man,” started the crew up to sing the old “Shanty songs,” such as “Bonney was a Warrior,” “I am going away to leave you,” “Santa Anna was a one-legged man,” and numerous other songs. The singing was fine, causing large crowds to gather on the pier-heads, and the verandahs of the houses were filled with people.

The first officer shouted, “All away, sir,” meaning the anchor was off the bottom, we hoisted jibs and filled away, heading out to the westward, bidding good-bye to Captain Smith, whose boats-crew gave three rousing loud cheers for the old “Otago,” who picked up her skirts and started around the Cape for Algoa Bay, about 600 miles away.

At 10 p.m., or four bells by ship time, we tacked ship and ran in to clear the Cape. At this time the wind had changed to north-west, about an eight-knot breeze, which was a fair wind to lead us around the Cape. We made the run to Cape Receme in 78 hours, hauled around to the northward for about ten miles and cast anchors, mooring the ship from east north-east to south-east with “open-horse,” as the sailors say. As the east wind comes into this bay and causes a very heavy swell, we adopted this position to make the ship ride easy and take off the strain on chain and windlass. After a gale is over, great care and watchfulness on the part of the officers is necessary so that the slack chain may be hove in or paid out when the wind increases so as to avoid fouling the anchors. The wind often changes several times in twenty-four hours, and if the ship swings around there is much hard work and time lost in clearing the foul chain.

Some of the ships used a long shackle, which saves trouble, but was not considered as safe to ride to, as it did not give an equal strain on each anchor. We now proceeded to enter at the Customs and go through the regular formalities, reporting to Taylor Bros., consignees, who were agents of Isaac Taylor, the ship’s owner. While in port I made my stay with them and was royally entertained. Saddle-horses and carriages were placed at my disposal, and we saw much of the country.

Unfavorable weather delayed landing of the cargo, as it was necessary to discharge into large flat-bottomed lighters which could be used only in a fairly smooth sea. A large anchor is placed about 300 feet off shore, to which a hawser is attached and then made fast to one end of the lighter; on the shore end is another anchor fastened to forward end of lighter, and by manipulating these hawsers the lighters are run back and forth and the cargo discharged. Once on shore, the goods are put on the heads and shoulders of the Hottentots, who worked clothed only in a breech-cloth. They work all day long and receive very good pay; at that time they got a half-crown a day, about 62 cents in American money. The Kaffir gang of carriers were kept apart from the Hottentots, as they never mixed. Many of the Hottentots in this neighborhood had attained great wealth as cattle dealers, and came out gaily decked on Sunday afternoons. Having discharged our cargo at Port Elizabeth, we proceeded with fine west wind to Port Natal, E. N. East from our departure. A sand-bar prevented our entering this harbor until part of the cargo was taken off by lighters. Having reduced our cargo till we drew but 12 feet of water, we were now able to get over the sand-bar and proceed up the river. This port is the center for all East African goods, and raw-hide and sheep skins are the principal exports. The Boer farmers bring in their goods in the bullock-wagons, sometimes being thirty days on the road before getting into Port Natal. Here they rest up for a week and enjoy themselves drinking Dutch brandy. Then they load up with household goods and provisions enough to last them until next sheep-shearing season.

Many of the farmers were very wealthy, owning 75,000 head of sheep and cattle, visiting Europe every year, and keeping well posted on market conditions. Game was very abundant, and the farmers were all expert with the rifle. In later years this prowess was well shown in their dealings with the English army. We made the acquaintance of a Mr. Hoffenhimer, who had lost the previous night some twenty head of cattle by a tiger. He had prepared a large cage, baited it with a lamb, and the next morning was rewarded by catching an immense big tiger alive. European zoological gardens paid a big price for these fellows, and the skins were also valuable.

We now put ballast in our barque and returned to Port Elizabeth to load with wool, hides and skins for Boston, Mass. At Natal we had taken on board a Mr. Thompson and wife, who were bound out West to settle, and we now embarked twelve more passengers who were a mixture of Dutch, Irish and Africanders, or native-born whites. These had “made their pile” and were returning to civilization to settle down.

With a good easterly breeze and threatening weather, we got under way, close-hauled by the wind and a heavy swell on. We stood south, hoping to clear Cape Receif, which we did without tacking ship. In fact, it would have been difficult to tack, as we were too near the shore to wear ship. I ordered the lead to be hove, and fully expected to strike bottom every moment. By good luck the wind hauled around and we headed up two points to eastward, and at dark, with the roar of the surf breaking under our lee, we cleared the rock.

Outwardly I showed no nervousness, but I assure you my heart was in my mouth, and it was a happy moment when I shouted, “Hard up your wheel, brace in main and fore yard, and keep her west by south.” It was now blowing a living gale, east-north-east, nearly astern, but hauling up the clews of our mainsail, we set the main top-gallant sail and sent up a silent prayer for safe deliverance.

An easterly gale prevailed through the night, and our good ship bowled off 15 knots an hour until 8 a.m. next morning. However, under fore-sail, fore-topsail, main-topsail and main top-gallant sail, she made splendid weather, although there was a very heavy swell from the East.

During the evening the chief officer had very foolishly told the passengers what a narrow escape they had had in rounding Cape Receif, and it had caused considerable uneasiness among them as to their safety, for the wind was blowing fiercely. After I had assured them that there was not the least danger, I got Mrs. Thompson to play a few good old Methodist hymns on the organ, and we all sang until confidence was restored, and all retired saying, “God bless Captain Taylor.”

The next morning at eight bells, 8 o’clock a.m., the wind moderated and hauled round to the S. S. East, and all sails were set and we passed the next twenty-four hours in comparative comfort.

The next day we made land about fifty miles to the westward of Cape of Good Hope. Here we passed several Cape fishing boats, fishing for the famous Cape snook. We passed so near that many of the men, thinking we were going to run them down, shouted out to us in their Hottentot language.

At sundown that evening we made Cape Light, distant about eight miles under our starboard lee-bow. With a good south breeze we shaped our course at 8 p.m. for the island of St. Helena, lying directly in the path for all homeward-bound American vessels. A beautiful breeze followed us until we struck the S. E. Trades, in latitude 28° S., and from there we had fine weather until we hauled to close under the land and cast anchor at this island, made famous by the exile of Napoleon. We had been twenty-three days on the voyage from the Capes to the Island, most of the time the sea being like a mill pond it was so smooth. Casting anchor at early daybreak, and so close that our jib-boom touched the rocks, found twenty fathoms of water, and, after breakfast, launched the boats and gave the passengers a day’s liberty to visit the island.

The older part of the town was in ruins, caused, strange to say, by the fact that the St. Helena ants had worked their way into the mortar and undermined the foundations. The township is located in the center of the island, and is surrounded by high hills on both sides. On the top of the hill on the northwest side are the English barracks, where several companies of troops are stationed, ready for call to any part of the Cape or British India. The island is also used as the recruiting ground of the invalid soldiers.

We spent most of the day on the southeast side visiting the home of Napoleon, while he was exiled on the island, and the place on the hillside where he was buried, before his body was removed to France.

We returned to the town, and I made purchases of fresh ship stores, green groceries, fowl, and a few sheep, for fresh meat to be used as needed on the voyage home.

At 6 p.m., pretty tired but delighted with our visit to St. Helena, we boarded the ship, and after supper, with sails all aback, we drifted off a piece and squared away on our homeward journey.

We crossed the equator in sight of Cape St. Rourke, and taking the N. E. Trades we made straight course, with yards eased in a little, to 30 degrees north latitude, when the wind headed us off a little to the westward, and passing Cape Hatteras, about thirty degrees off shore. The wind favored us until South Shoal Lightship was made at 10 a.m. We had been fifty-seven days out from Algoa Bay, South Africa, and thirty-four days from St. Helena. After leaving Nantucket Lightship, we shaped our course to clear the shoal ground, and hauled in under the Cape. Fifteen miles off the Cape, the wind hauled to the eastward and it commenced to snow. The barometer commenced to fall, and there was every indication of a nasty night. First it would blow, then a snow squall, then clear a bit. We finally got sight of Race Point Light, and got good cross bearing and at nine o’clock shaped our course for Boston Light. Noting that our patent log was set, I ordered one of our best helmsmen to take the wheel, and the chief officer to have the anchors off the bow ready to let go at any moment. The wind had commenced to blow N. E. to E. with terrific force, and at times one could not see a ship’s length ahead, but with light sails furled, only running under two topsails and jib, the ship bounded along.

I have often thought how imprudent I was to run for port on such a night, yet I had confidence that my course was right, and all hands were on the lookout both port and starboard.

For one instant I at last caught a glimmer of Boston Light on our starboard, and all hands forward shouted, “Light ho, right ahead!” We hove wheel hard down, let sail run, and dropped both anchors, just forty-eight hours from Nantucket Shoals Lightship. Next morning everything was covered with snow, but we took a tug at nine o’clock, and docked at Lewis Wharf at ten o’clock. Later in the day I reported at the office, and the first words that greeted me were, “Foor goodness’ sake, Captain, where did you come from and how did you get here?”

LAST VOYAGE OF THE BARQUE OTAGO.

(J. N. TAYLOR, _Master_).

On this voyage we were from New York to the Cape Colonies and different ports on the south and east coasts of Africa.

We sailed from New York on March 18th. 1867, and had pleasant winds and clear weather with fine start, for a good voyage. But the fine weather did not last long. The wind hauled around to the north east and thick weather set in. At noon-time the wind kept hauling to the eastward and increasing, so we shortened sail accordingly and at 2 p.m. there was every prospect of a hurricane.

We now “wore” ship, with her head up to the N. E., close reefed topsails, and hove the ship to. At this time there was a high cross sea and the ship labored heavily, making considerable water. Through the night and up to the noon of the 21st. the heavy gales and high seas increased. It turned out that we were caught in a rotary storm, the wind going around the compass every 24 hours and the barometer very low, 28-15. The sky was dark and the spray flew in all directions and she pounded so much she strained badly and commenced to leak so that we were obliged to pump all the time to keep her free from water.

We had very little sail on her, only 2 lower topsails, and fore-stay-sail, but she rolled badly and shipped tremendous seas. At midnight she made several heavy rolls to windward and all of a sudden on the return roll to the leeward, the strain was so great, it caused 2 of the weather chain-plate bolts to draw out from the side, and slacking, swayed inboard.

We hove up the wheel, braced in and got her round on the starboard tack and put on temporary tackles, but they were of little use, our mainmast head weakened with the strain, and crash, down it came. A heavy flaw now struck us and ripped our topsails and staysails as though they were paper.

At daylight the weather had moderated some so we got up the mainmast head and after a great deal of work fixed up the damage done to the chain plates. She still rolled fearfully so that we were obliged to drive in new eye-bolts from the inside and then key them up.

On the morning of the 21st. of March, 1867, there was no change in the weather and it looked as if we might have to abandon the ship and take to the boats. The water was gaining on us all the time and the crew were worn out with the tiresome job of pumping, and as I came on deck the whole crowd came rushing aft and their spokesman demanded that I put back to New York, as they were afraid the ship would sink, she was so unseaworthy. I well knew that myself, so at 8 bells we turned the ship’s head for New York and had proceeded on that course for about 15 hours, when, as the sailors say, “we were struck butt end foremost.” It blew a hurricane from the N. West and we were obliged to run dead before it under bare poles. We now found ourselves back in the same place as we had been before we started back for New York.

Search had been made to find the leak, and aft, in the port run, we found water running in through several seams. These were caulked with oakum and backed up by heavy tarred canvas, until, to our great joy, we had the leak stopped and about 100 strokes to the hour at the pumps seemed to hold it.

At about 8 bells on the morning of the 22nd we saw a wreck under our lee bow, about 8 miles off, with signals of distress hung on the stump of his mizzen-mast, as all his masts had evidently gone by the board. I succeeded in getting a little sail on the Barque, and we bore down on him. About 9 a.m. we made out his signals, which read, “Will you stand by, am in sinking condition?”

Everything was gone from his decks except the stump of his mizzen-mast, to which he had rigged his signals. I came as close as I could to him and made him out to be the British Barque Blond, of Lanely, England, and she was on her beam ends, rolling frightfully. She had left New York with us, bound for Sligo, on the West coast of Ireland with a load of grain, and had been struck by the gale, dismantled, and thrown on her beam ends as the cargo had shifted.

It now began to blow so hard that we were obliged to take off what little sail we had on and let her run under bare poles again. At about 2.30 P.M. we discovered a boat astern of the barque, about a mile under his lee, with six men in her. One big sea now struck the boat and over she went, throwing them all into the water. They managed, however, to reach her and upright her, but had only one oar and a small piece of board left. We now bent on a stout rope to some pieces of boards and payed it out toward them, and by good luck they caught it and we drew them by degrees alongside of us. As we were rolling heavily at the time their boat caught under our rail and again they were all turned into the sea, but we hove ropes to them and they were all pulled aboard, wet and exhausted, and with but little clothing, as they had cast off what they could when they were tipped over the first time.

A long boat had now been launched from the Blonde, and four more men had succeeded in jumping into her, but a big sea had carried them away from the Barque, leaving the captain and mate aboard of her. It took them some time to get back near enough for these two men to jump in and then began the hard task to row to the Otago. The sea was running mountains high, sometimes we could see the boat and then she would disappear as though she were swallowed up. They reached us at last, just as night came, and they all managed to jump aboard, without the loss of a man.

Now we had 12 extra men to feed and help work the ship, but it seemed as if they had almost jumped from the frying pan into the fire. We fed them all and fitted them out with clothes from the “slop chest,” and at midnight I turned in, not to sleep, but to moralize, and wonder how we were going to get out of our troubles.

We carried a cat and a dog and as soon as I was in my bunk they both jumped up close to me, the cat meowing and the dog howling. After a time they both calmed down and I patted them and talked to them and I guess we all felt better.

The crew of the Blonde had been helping at the pumps, but now refused to work any more. I soon settled this by making them sign articles with me at 3 pounds a month. The weather now moderated and I told the crew that as we were nearing the tropics the weather would improve and I should hold the ship on her original course to Cape Town, but if we could not keep the leak down, would put her in the nearest port, which would be far better than going back to New York in a bad season. To this they all agreed but I had already made up my own mind to carry the ship to Cape Town, if she would keep afloat that long.

Things ran along smoothly until we reached 35 degrees south, where we were to “run our eastern down” when some more things happened. At noon-time, aboard ship, we take the sun, and work out the ship’s position. On this particular day I had performed that duty, and Capt. Bently, the commander of the ill-fated Blonde, had also worked out our position. The weather was fine and looked as if it would continue, so I went below to take a nap.

I had not been asleep more than half an hour when I awoke and very naturally looked over my head at the telltale compass, which told me whether or not, the man at the wheel had her on the course. I also looked at the barometer, and to my surprise, it had dropped 3/10th.

I ran out on deck and everything seemed pleasant and the barque was running dead before the wind. I looked all around and about 5 degrees above the horizon, I saw a big white mist, increasing rapidly. I sang out, “All hands on deck, and let go all sails and clew up.” The officer of the deck looked at me as though I had gone mad, and he afterwards said he thought I had become suddenly insane from the hard strain I had been under since we had left New York. But when I pointed aft at the mist, he understood. We had let go all the halyards we could reach and all hands had got about half the sail off her, when it struck us. It carried away the foreyard, the main top-gallant mast, all the light sails, and flooded the decks with water. It seemed as if she would founder the pressure was so great, but it lasted for only a short time, ending with a terrific downpouring of rain which beat the sea down as smooth as a mill-pond.