Rounding Cape Horn



Through drizzling fogs and vapors, and under damp, double-topsails,

our wet-decked frigate drew nearer and nearer to the squally Cape.



Who has not heard of it? Cape Horn, Cape Horn--a horn indeed, that has

tossed many a good ship. Was the descent of Orpheus, Ulysses, or Dante

into Hell, one whit more hardy and sublime than the first navigator's

weathering of that terrible Cape. Turned on her heel by a fierce west

wind, many an outward-bound ship has been driven across the southern

Ocean to the Cape of Good Hope--that way to seek a passage to the

Pacific. And that stormy Cape, I doubt not, has sent many a fine craft

to the bottom, and told no tales. At those ends of the earth are no

chronicles. What signify the broken spars and shrouds that, day after

day, are driven before the prows of more fortunate vessels? or the

tall masts, imbedded in icebergs, that are found floating by? They but

hint the old story--of ships that have sailed from their ports, and

never more have been heard of.



Impracticable Cape! You may approach it from this direction or that--in

any way you please, from the east or from the west; with the wind

astern, or abeam, or on the quarter; and still Cape Horn is Cape Horn.

Cape Horn it is that takes the conceit out of fresh-water sailors, and

steeps in a still salter brine the saltest. Woe betide the tyro; the

fool-hardy, Heaven preserve!



Your Mediterranean captain, who with a cargo of oranges has hitherto

made merry runs across the Atlantic, without so much as furling a

t'-gallant-sail, oftentimes, off Cape Horn, receives a lesson which he

carries to the grave; though the grave--as is too often the

case--follows so hard on the lesson that no benefit comes from the

experience.



Other strangers who draw nigh to this Patagonian termination of our

Continent, with their souls full of its shipwrecks and

disasters--topsails cautiously reefed and everything guarded snug--these

strangers at first unexpectedly encountering a tolerably smooth sea,

rashly conclude that the Cape, after all, is but a bugbear; they have

been imposed upon by fables, and founderings and sinkings hereabouts

are all cock-and-bull stories.



"Out reefs, my hearties; fore and aft set t'-gallant-sails! stand by

to give her the fore-topmast stun'-sail!"



But, Captain Rash, those sails of yours were much safer in the

sailmaker's loft. For now, while the heedless craft is bounding over

the billows, a black cloud rises out of the sea; the sun drops down

from the sky; and horrible mist far and wide spreads over the water.



"Hands by the halyards! Let go! Clew up!"



Too late.



For ere the ropes' ends can be cast off from the pins, the tornado is

blowing down to the bottom of their throats. The masts are willows,

the sails ribbons, the cordage wool; the whole ship is brewed into the

yeast of the gale.



And now, if, when the first green sea breaks over him, Captain Rash is

not swept overboard, he has his hands full to be sure. In all

probability his three masts have gone by the board, and, ravelled into

list, his sails are floating in the air. Or, perhaps, the ship

broaches to, or is brought by the lee. In either case, Heaven help the

sailors, their wives and their little ones; and Heaven help the

underwriters.



Familiarity with danger makes a brave man braver, but less daring.

Thus with seamen: he who goes the oftenest round Cape Horn goes the

most circumspectly. A veteran mariner is never deceived by the

treacherous breezes which sometimes waft him pleasantly toward the

latitude of the Cape. No sooner does he come within a certain distance

of it--previously fixed in his own mind--than all hands are turned to

setting the ship in storm trim; and never mind how light the breeze,

down come his t'-gallant-yards. He "bends" his strongest storm-sails,

and lashes everything on deck securely. The ship is then ready for the

worst; and if, in reeling round the headland, she receives a

broadside, it generally goes well with her. If ill, all hands go to

the bottom with quiet consciences.



Among sea-captains, there are some who seem to regard the genius of

the Cape as a wilful, capricious jade, that must be courted and coaxed

into complaisance. First, they come along under easy sails; do not

steer boldly for the headland, but tack this way and that--sidling up

to it. Now they woo the Jezebel with t'-gallant-studding-sail; anon,

they deprecate her wrath with double-reefed-topsails. When, at length,

her inappeasable fury is fairly aroused, and all round the dismantled

ship the storm howls and howls for days together, they still persevere

in their efforts. First, they try unconditional submission; furling

every rag and heaving to; lying like a log, for the tempest to toss

wheresoever it pleases.



This failing, they set a spencer or trysail, and shift on the other

tack. Equally vain! The gale sings as hoarsely as before. At last, the

wind comes round fair; they drop the foresail; square the yards, and

scud before it; their implacable foe chasing them with tornadoes, as

if to show her insensibility to the last.



Other ships, without encountering these terrible gales, spend week

after week endeavoring to turn this boisterous world-corner against a

continual head-wind. Tacking hither and thither, in the language of

sailors they polish the Cape by beating about its edges so long.



Le Mair and Schouten, two Dutchmen, were the first navigators who

weathered Cape Horn. Previous to this, passages have been made to the

Pacific by the Straits of Magellan; nor, indeed, at that period, was

it known to a certainty that there was any other route, or that the

land now called Terra del Fuego was an island. A few leagues southward

from Terra del Fuego is a cluster of small islands, the Diegoes;

between which and the former island are the Straits of Le Mair, so

called in honor of their discoverer, who first sailed through them

into the Pacific. Le Mair and Schouten, in their small, clumsy

vessels, encountered a series of tremendous gales, the prelude to the

long train of similar hardships which most of their followers have

experienced. It is a significant fact, that Schouten's vessel, the

Horne, which gave its name to the Cape, was almost lost in weathering

it.



The next navigator round the Cape was Sir Francis Drake, who, on

Raleigh's Expedition, beholding for the first time, from the Isthmus

of Darien, the "goodly South Sea," like a true-born Englishman, vowed,

please God, to sail an English ship thereon; which the gallant sailor

did, to the sore discomfort of the Spaniards on the coasts of Chile

and Peru.



But perhaps the greatest hardships on record, in making this

celebrated passage, were those experienced by Lord Anson's squadron in

1736. Three remarkable and most interesting narratives record their

disasters and sufferings. The first, jointly written by the carpenter

and gunner of the Wager; the second by young Byron, a midshipman in

the same ship; the third, by the chaplain of the Centurion.

White-Jacket has them all; and they are fine reading of a boisterous

March night, with the casement rattling in your ear, and the

chimney-stacks blowing down upon the pavement, bubbling with

rain-drops.



But if you want the best idea of Cape Horn, get my friend Dana's

unmatchable "Two Years Before the Mast." But you can read, and so you

must have read it. His chapters describing Cape Horn must have been

written with an icicle.



At the present day the horrors of the Cape have somewhat abated. This

is owing to a growing familiarity with it; but, more than all, to the

improved condition of ships in all respects, and the means now

generally in use of preserving the health of the crews in times of

severe and prolonged exposure....



Ere the calm had yet left us, a sail had been discerned from the

fore-topmasthead, at a great distance, probably three leagues or more.

At first it was a mere speck, altogether out of sight from the deck.

By the force of attraction, or something equally inscrutable, two

ships in a calm, and equally affected by the currents, will always

approximate more or less. Though there was not a breath of wind, it

was not a great while before the strange sail was descried from our

bulwarks; gradually it drew still nearer.



What was she, and whence? There is no object which so excites interest

and conjecture, and, at the same time, baffles both, as a sail, seen

as a mere speck on these remote seas off Cape Horn.



A breeze! a breeze! for lo! the stranger is now perceptibly nearing

the frigate; the officer's spyglass pronounces her a full-rigged ship,

with all sail set, and coming right down to us, though in our own

vicinity the calm still reigns.



She is bringing the wind with her. Hurrah! Ay, there it is! Behold how

mincingly it creeps over the sea, just ruffling and crisping it.



Our top-men were at once sent aloft to loose the sails, and presently

they faintly began to distend. As yet we hardly had steerage-way.

Toward sunset the stranger bore down before the wind, a complete

pyramid of canvas. Never before, I venture to say, was Cape Horn so

audaciously insulted. Stun'-sails alow and aloft; royals, moonsails,

and everything else. She glided under our stern, within hailing

distance, and the signal-quarter-master ran up our ensign to the gaff.



"Ship ahoy!" cried the lieutenant of the watch, through his trumpet.



"Halloa!" bawled an old fellow in a green jacket, clapping one hand to

his mouth, while he held on with the other to the mizzen-shrouds.



"What ship's that?"



"The Sultan, Indiaman, from New York, and bound to Callao and Canton,

sixty days out, all well. What frigate's that?"



"The United States ship Neversink, homeward bound."



"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" yelled our enthusiastic countryman,

transported with patriotism.



By this time the Sultan had swept past, but the lieutenant of the

watch could not withhold a parting admonition.



"D'ye hear? You'd better take in some of your flying-kites there. Look

out for Cape Horn!"



But the friendly advice was lost in the now increasing wind. With a

suddenness by no means unusual in these latitudes, the light breeze

soon became a succession of sharp squalls, and our sail-proud

braggadocio of an Indiaman was observed to let everything go by the

run, his t'gallant-stun'-sails and flying-jib taking quick leave of

the spars; the flying-jib was swept into the air, rolled together for

a few minutes, and tossed about in the squalls like a football. But

the wind played no such pranks with the more prudently managed canvas

of the Neversink, though before many hours it was stirring times with

us.



About midnight, when the starboard watch, to which I belonged, was

below, the boatswain's whistle was heard, followed by the shrill cry

of "All hands take in sail! jump, men, and save the ship!"



Springing from our hammocks, we found the frigate leaning over to it

so steeply, that it was with difficulty we could climb the ladders

leading to the upper deck.



Here the scene was awful. The vessel seemed to be sailing on her side.

The main-deck guns had several days previous been run in and housed,

and the portholes closed, but the lee carronades on the quarter-deck

and forecastle were plunging through the sea, which undulated over

them in milk-white billows of foam. With every lurch to leeward the

yard-arm-ends seemed to dip in the sea, while forward the spray dashed

over the bows in cataracts, and drenched the men who were on the

fore-yard. By this time the deck was alive with the whole strength of

the ship's company, five hundred men, officers and all, mostly

clinging to the weather bulwarks. The occasional phosphorescence of

the yeasting sea cast a glare upon their uplifted faces, as a night

fire in a populous city lights up the panic-stricken crowd.



In a sudden gale, or when a large quantity of sail is suddenly to be

furled, it is the custom for the first lieutenant to take the trumpet

from whoever happens then to be officer of the deck. But Mad Jack had

the trumpet that watch; nor did the first lieutenant now seek to wrest

it from his hands. Every eye was upon him, as if we had chosen him

from among us all, to decide this battle with the elements, by single

combat with the spirit of the Cape; for Mad Jack was the saving genius

of the ship, and so proved himself that night. I owe this right hand,

that at this moment is flying over my sheet, and all my present being

to Mad Jack. The ship's bows were now butting, battering, ramming and

thundering over and upon the head seas, and with a horrible wallowing

sound our whole hull was rolling in the trough of the foam. The gale

came athwart the deck, and every sail seemed bursting with its wild

breath.



All the quartermasters, and several of the forecastle-men, were

swarming round the double-wheel on the quarter-deck, some jumping up

and down, with their hands upon the spokes; for the whole helm and

galvanized keel were fiercely feverish with the life imparted to them

by the tempest.



"Hard up the helm!" shouted Captain Claret, bursting from his cabin

like a ghost, in his nightdress.



"Curse you!" raged Mad Jack to the quartermasters; "hard down, hard

down, I say."



Contrary orders! But Mad Jack's were obeyed. His object was to throw

the ship into the wind, so as the better to admit of close-reefing the

topsails. But though the halyards were let go, it was impossible to

clew down the yards, owing to the enormous horizontal strain on the

canvas. It now blew a hurricane. The spray flew over the ship in

floods. The gigantic masts seemed about to snap under the world-wide

strain of the three entire topsails.



"Clew down! clew down!" shouted Mad Jack, husky with excitement, and

in a frenzy, beating his trumpet against one of the shrouds. But,

owing to the slant of the ship, the thing could not be done. It was

obvious that before many minutes something must go--either sails,

rigging, or sticks; perhaps the hull itself, and all hands.



Presently a voice from the top exclaimed that there was a rent in the

main-topsail. And instantly we heard a report like two or three

muskets discharged together; the vast sail was rent up and down like

the veil of the Temple. This saved the mainmast; for the yard was now

clewed down with comparative ease, and the top-men laid out to stow

the shattered canvas. Soon the two remaining topsails were also clewed

down and close reefed.



Above all the roar of the tempest and the shouts of the crew, was

heard the dismal tolling of the ship's bell--almost as large as that of

a village church--which the violent rolling of the ship was

occasioning. Imagination cannot conceive the horror of such a sound in

a night tempest at sea.



"Stop that ghost!" roared Mad Jack; "away, one of you, and wrench off

the clapper!"



But no sooner was this ghost gagged than a still more appalling sound

was heard, the rolling to and fro of the heavy shot, which, on the

gun-deck, had broken loose from the gun-racks, and converted that part

of the ship into an immense bowling-alley. Some hands were sent down

to secure them; but it was as much as their lives were worth. Several

were maimed; and the midshipmen who were ordered to see the duty

performed reported it impossible, until the storm had abated.



The most terrific job of all was to furl the mainsail, which, at the

commencement of the squalls, had been clewed up, coaxed and quieted as

much as possible with the bunt-lines and slab-lines. Mad Jack waited

some time for a lull, ere he gave an order so perilous to be executed;

for to furl this enormous sail in such a gale, required at least fifty

men on the yard, whose weight, superadded to that of the ponderous

stick itself, still further jeopardized their lives. But there was no

prospect of a cessation of the gale, and the order was at last given.



At this time a hurricane of slanting sleet and hail was descending

upon us; the rigging was coated with a thin glare of ice, formed

within the hour.



"Aloft, main-yard men! and all you main-top men! and furl the

mainsail!" cried Mad Jack.



I dashed down my hat, slipped out of my quilted jacket in an instant,

kicked the shoes from my feet, and, with a crowd of others, sprang for

the rigging. Above the bulwarks (which in a frigate are so high as to

afford much protection to those on deck) the gale was horrible. The

sheer force of the wind flattened out to the rigging as we ascended,

and every hand seemed congealing to the icy shrouds by which we held.



"Up, up, my brave hearties!" shouted Mad Jack; and up we got, some way

or other, all of us, and groped our way out on the yard-arms.



"Hold on, every mother's son!" cried an old quarter-gunner at my side.

He was bawling at the top of his compass; but in the gale, he seemed

to be whispering, and I only heard him from his being right to

windward of me.



But his hint was unnecessary; I dug my nails into the jackstays, and

swore that nothing but death should part me and them until I was able

to turn round and look to windward. As yet this was impossible; I

could scarcely hear the man to leeward at my elbow; the wind seemed to

snatch the words from his mouth and fly away with them to the South

Pole.



All this while the sail itself was flying about, sometimes catching

over our heads, and threatening to tear us from the yard in spite of

all our hugging. For about three-quarters of an hour we thus hung

suspended right over the rampant billows, which curled their very

crests under the feet of some four or five of us clinging to the lee

yard-arm, as if to float us from our place.



Presently, the word passed along the yard from windward, that we were

ordered to come down and leave the sail to blow, since it could not be

furled. A midshipman, it seemed, had been sent up by the officer of

the deck to give the order, as no trumpet could be heard where we

were.



Those on the weather yard-arm managed to crawl upon the spar and

scramble down the rigging; but with us, upon the extreme leeward side,

this feat was out of the question; it was literally like climbing a

precipice to get to windward in order to reach the shrouds; besides,

the entire yard was now encased in ice, and our hands and feet were so

numb that we dared not trust our lives to them. Nevertheless, by

assisting each other, we contrived to throw ourselves prostrate along

the yard, and embrace it with our arms and legs. In this position the

studding-sail-booms greatly assisted in securing our hold. Strange as

it may appear, I do not suppose that, at this moment, the slightest

sensation of fear was felt by one man on that yard. We clung to it

with might and main; but this was instinct. The truth is, that in

circumstances like these the sense of fear is annihilated in the

unutterable sights that fill all the eye, and the sounds that fill all

the ear. You become identified with the tempest; your insignificance

is lost in the riot of the stormy universe around.



Below us, our noble frigate seemed thrice its real length--a vast black

wedge, opposing its widest end to the combined fury of the sea and

wind.



At length the first fury of the gale began to abate, and we at once

fell to pounding our hands, as a preliminary operation to going to

work; for a gang of men had now ascended to help secure what was left

of the sail. We somehow packed it away at last, and came down.



At noon the next day, the gale so moderated that we shook two reefs

out of the topsails, set new courses, and stood due east, with the

wind astern.



Thus all the fine weather we encountered, after first weighing anchor

on the pleasant Spanish coast, was but the prelude to this one

terrific night, more especially that treacherous calm immediately

preceding it. But how could we reach our long-promised homes without

encountering Cape Horn? By what possibility avoid it? And though some

ships have weathered it without these perils, yet by far the greater

part must encounter them. Lucky it is that it comes about midway in

the homeward-bound passage, so that the sailors have time to prepare

for it, and time to recover from it after it is astern.



But, sailor or landsman, there is some sort of a Cape Horn for all.

Boys! beware of it; prepare for it in time. Graybeards! thank God it

is passed. And ye lucky livers, to whom, by some rare fatality, your

Cape Horns are placid as Lake Lemans, flatter not yourselves that good

luck is judgment and discretion; for all the yolk in your eggs, you

might have foundered and gone down, had the Spirit of the Cape said

the word.





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