Under Sail 12

Under Sail 12

A faint blue streak on the horizon held my eyes. Accustomed to the

sight of land from out at sea, through my voyages in the schoolship;

still I hesitated to name it land. We were sixty-two days out, and

land looked strange. Again I brought my sight to bear upon the distant

skyline ahead; there was no mistaking the dim outline of land rising

from the sea at a point immediately to the south of us and reaching

westward.

 

"_Land ho!_" I hailed the deck.

 

"Where away?" came the voice of Captain Nichols.

 

"A point on the lee bow, sir!"

 

"All right! Lay down!" shouted the mate, evidently not intending that I

should further enjoy my lofty perch on the skysail yard.

 

We raised the land rapidly, the breeze increasing slightly as the day

advanced. At noon Staten Land was visible from the deck, and by eight

bells in the afternoon watch we were sailing past the bold shores, some

ten miles distant, and drawing the land well abeam. Running south for a

good offing, and taking in our light sails with the coming of darkness,

we hauled our wind to the starboard quarter at the end of the last dog

watch and headed bravely for old "Cape Stiff."

 

Captain Nichols might have ventured through the Strait of Le Maire,

with the weather we were having, though at the best it is taking

chances to keep the land too close aboard when in the troubled

latitudes of Terra Del Fuego. Countless ships, with the fine _Duchesse

de Berry_ among the last of them, have ground their ribs against the

pitiless rocks that gird those coasts. However, we were enjoying the

rarest of Cape Horn weather--sunshine, fair wind, and a moderate sea.

 

For the first time in many weary days we livened things up with a

chantey as we swigged away on the braces and tautened every stitch of

canvas with well stretched sheets and halyards.

 

Jimmy Marshall had just started "Whiskey for my Johnnie," and the

captain came forward on the break of the poop and joined in the chorus

in a funny, squeaky voice--but none of us dared laugh at him. He was

so delighted with the progress we were making and the chance that we

might slip by the "corner" in record time, that nothing was too good

for us. The mate came down from his high horse and with Mr. Stoddard

and Chips, who had just finished their supper and were stepping out on

deck, to join them, the full after guard took up the refrain--and the

words rose in a great volume of deep sea song.

 

"Oh, whiskey--my Johnnie;

Yes, whiskey made me sell my coat

Whiskey, my Johnnie.

Oh, whiskey's what keeps me afloat,

Oh whiskey for my Johnnie."

 

When we pumped her out that night at the main pump, for the ship was

almost on an even keel, we noted the skipper had begun to stump the

quarter deck in a very excited way, constantly ducking up and down the

companion, and scanning the horizon with an anxious eye. Cape pigeons

were circling close to the ship with an endless chatter, and far above

us swung a huge, dun-colored fulmar gull, its white belly clean against

the grey sky.

 

"There is something doing with the glass," remarked Frenchy, eyeing

the skipper. "We'll have some weather to look out for before long,"

and all of us watched the gull with fascinated eyes. Jimmy and Brenden

agreed with Frenchy that we were in for heavy weather.

 

But in spite of these dire predictions, and in spite of a "red dawn,"

the day broke and continued fair, and we were again regaled with a

glimpse of land, jagged somber peaks, jutting into the sky to the north

like the cruel teeth of a ragged saw, grey blue above the far horizon.

 

I was aft flaking down the mizzen tops'l halyards on the morning

following the landfall when Captain Nichols stumped past me from the

break of the poop to the companion. He had been up all night, and the

continuation of fine weather evidently pleased and surprised him. He

had a pair of binoculars in his hand, and, in passing, he stopped and

offered the glasses to me, pointing to the southernmost promontory, a

cold blue knob rising from the sea.

 

"That's Cape Horn over there, Felix. Take a good look at it. You may

never see it again, if you were born lucky."

 

Almost staggered by this sudden good fortune, I brought the captain's

glasses in focus on the dreaded cape, my whole being thrilled with

the pleasure of looking through those excellent binoculars at that

distant point of rock, the outpost of the New World, jutting far into

the southern ocean. I doubt if the gallant old Dutchman, Schouten, who

first "doubled" it, experienced half the exhilaration that I did on

first beholding that storied headland. At four bells in the morning

watch I went to the wheel, and while the watch swabbed down the decks

after the morning washdown, I was privileged to look at the Cape out of

the corner of my eye, between times; keeping the "lubber's line" of the

compass bowl on sou'west by sou', for the skipper had shaped a course a

point or so further off shore, as the currents had evidently set us in

toward the land during the night and he wished to keep his safe offing.

 

[Illustration: Martin]

 

The wind in the meantime had veered round to west-nor'-west, blowing

directly off the land and with increasing force. The light sails were

taken in again, and by eight bells we were under t'gans'ls, upper and

lower tops'ls, reefed fores'l, reefed mains'l, spanker, jib and topmast

stays'ls.

 

As I left the wheel and went forward, I determined to attempt a pencil

sketch of Cape Horn, the weather being too dull for a photograph,

even if the land were not too distant. The result, after some trials,

and the loss of my breakfast, which was nothing, resulted in a fair

representation of what we saw of the Cape, and I turned into my bunk

with a feeling of satisfaction. After all, it was worth a good deal to

have actually set eyes upon the Horn.

 

When we turned out at one bell, for dinner, we found the wind had

veered farther to the west, we were sailing by the wind with the

starboard tacks aboard, the cold spray from a rising sea, breaking over

the fo'c'sle head, and spattering against the fo'c'sle door.

 

Jimmy sat up and rubbed his eyes as the watch was called and swore

gently under his breath. Brenden went out on deck to take a look at the

weather. "Hell, we got it now. I have seen this before. D'you feel the

ice?" he asked.

 

Indeed we all felt the drop in temperature, and the short snappy jerk

of the ship, as she met the new direction of the sea, was anything but

pleasant.

 

Coffee was served out to us that noon instead of lime juice, and the

warmth was welcome; it helped wash down the last cooked meal that Chow

was able to prepare for ten days.

 

Mustering on deck at eight bells, we found we were driving south under

a leaden sky. Cape Horn, still dimly visible, was soon shut off,

vanishing in a cloud cap over the land astern. We were sailing due

south, the wind having headed us, and at four bells, the wind rapidly

increasing in violence, the starboard watch turned out to help in

shortening down. We at once took in the t'gans'ls, mains'l, and jib,

and these were followed in quick succession by other canvas until at

eight bells we had the _Fuller_ stripped to her lower tops'ls, close

reefed main upper tops'l, and storm stays'ls. The sea rose to mammoth

proportions, fetching as it did from the very edge of the Antarctic ice

barrier.

 

The canvas aloft soon became stiff with ice and all gear on the ship

was coated with frozen rain, as we were swept by a succession of rain

and hail storms. At nightfall we were hove to, on the starboard tack

under goose winged main lower tops'l, reefed main trys'l, and storm

stays'l. The oil tank forward was dripping its contents on the sea, and

two oil bags were slung from the fore and main weather channels.

 

The storm, for the wind had now increased to fully sixty miles an hour,

held steady from the west until midnight. Then it suddenly went to

nor'west, and in the squalls, when the wind rose to hurricane force,

the _Fuller_ lay over on her beam ends. A vicious cross sea added

its danger to the situation. All hands were then on deck, remaining

aft near the mizzen rigging. The fo'c'sle, galley, and forward cabin

were awash. Four men braced themselves at the spokes of the wheel,

under the eye of the second mate, and relieving tackles were hooked to

ease the "kick" of the tiller. Preventer braces and rolling tackles,

got up earlier in the day, were hove taut to steady the heavy spars

aloft. All loose gear was streaming to leeward, washing in the sea,

through the open scuppers and freeing ports. A fierce boiling of

white phosphorescent wave caps lit the sea as it broke over the ship,

intensifying the black pandemonium overhead. The sleet-laden spume shot

over the prostrate vessel in a continuous roar, drowning all attempts

at shouting of orders.

 

It was during the wild but fascinating hours of this night that I

realized the high quality of seamanship that had prepared us for an

ordeal such as we were going through. The consummate skill with which

the great wooden craft was being handled came home to me with a force

that could not be denied. How easily a bungling lubber might have

omitted some precaution, or carried sail improperly, or have done, or

not done, the thousand things that would have spelled disaster!

 

The captain and mate stood at the lee of the mizzen mast, each with a

turn of the tops'l sheets about him, and hitched over the monkey rail.

The rest of us, crouching at the lee of the cabin trunk, knee deep in

the water when she went over in the heavier squalls, held our places

wondering what turn things would take next. Looking through one of

the after cabin ports, on my way to the wheel, I saw Chow and Komoto,

the cabin boy, packing a box by the light of the small lamp swinging

in its gimbals. They were evidently getting ready to leave--where

to--themselves and their gods alone knew.

 

All things have an end, and the Stygian blackness of the night gave

way to gray streaks of dawn that broke upon us, revealing a scene of

utmost desolation. A note of order was given to the wild confusion of

the gale-wracked fabric, when Chips, his lanky figure skimming along

the life line, and his sounding rod sheltered under his long oil coat,

ventured to the main fife rail to sound the well. As for the crew, we

were soaked with salt water and frozen to the marrow. The main lower

tops'l had blown from the bolt ropes during the night; we never missed

it until morning. Twenty feet of the lee bulwark--the port side--was

gone, and a flapping rag of canvas at the main hatch told us that the

tarpaulin was torn. Looking forward through the whistle of wind and

spume that cut across the sharply tilted rigging, the scene was one

of terrific strife, as though some demon ruler of the sea had massed

his forces, and was making a desperate drive for the destruction of

the wooden handiwork of man upon which he dared to venture over those forbidden wastes.