Just as George the Greek had finished his story we heard the mate calling to shorten sail. All hands sprang up in a minute. For us Christmas was over—the wind had increased rapidly and the sky had assumed a very threatening appearance. The sea soon rises off Cape Horn, and in a very short time it was rolling mountains high, and breaking on board with terrific effect. The barque was at once reduced to lower topsails and foresail. The captain had been steering to pass through the Straits of Le Maire, but the wind chopping into the south-west, made him alter his mind and pass to the eastward of Staten Island.
So far we had been sheltered while to leeward of the island, but as soon as we opened out into the Pacific we got a most terrible dressing down. The sea rolled down like mountains. In no part of the world do you meet with such gigantic rollers as off Cape Horn, and it looked as though every sea that came along must engulf the “Stormy Petrel.” The crew were kept employed re-fastening and re-lashing things about the deck, everything moveable was put into a place of safety and thoroughly secured. The sea was making clean sweeps over her. Then the wind backed into the west-northwest and blew a perfect hurricane. There was no comfort for anyone on board, the sky was clear as a bell, and the immense rollers were a sight to see. The gale continued with unabated fury, the water falling on the deck in huge green seas, sometimes it seemed as if she had settled down, then she rolled and rose gradually; the water washing from side to side like cataracts until about a foot of water was on the deck. Day after day and week after week were we striving to get round that terrible Cape, but like “Vanderdecken,” in the old legend of the flying Dutchman, who swore that no power in heaven or hell should hinder him from entering Table Bay off the Cape of Good Hope, and for this oath was condemned for ever to beat about the entrance, but was never able to enter, so for six long weary weeks we were plodding at it, heartsore and limbsore with not a ray to comfort or cheer us.
One morning, just as we were about to wear ship, a gigantic sea struck her on the side between the for and main mast, the top of it going clean over the ship and the spray actually going over the upper topsail yard.
On Sunday, the first day of the seventh week since we passed Staten Island, the wind suddenly shifted into the south, and began to blow just as hard as ever. This caused a terrible cross sea, which was very nearly fatal to the “Stormy Petrel” as well as to some of our crew. We had just wore ship, and were about to set the upper topsails, when I saw a terrific sea rolling up on the weather quarter. I sang out for all I was worth to everybody on deck to hold tight—the words were hardly out of my lips when the sea broke over the stern. I just managed to spring into the rigging out of the way. First the sea engulfed the man at the wheel, tearing him from it, and washing him overboard, then it swept the cabin skylight off in pieces, smashed the raised part of the cabin flat on the deck and flooded the deck fore and aft. When the helmsman was killed and washed overboard, the ship’s head swung round to the westward and brought the terrible cross sea abeam, and almost before we realized our position another sea broke on board, just abaft the fore rigging, striking the cookhouse fairly on the side, smashing it up like so much matchwood and crushing to death two men who had taken shelter there. In the meantime the captain had sprung to the wheel, I dropped from the rigging and went to his assistance. By God’s mercy there was a lull for a minute, and the gallant little vessel swung off to her course, but for a few moments it looked doubtful if she could clear herself of the water on her deck, but a great headless sea came rolling along under the weather quarter almost throwing her on her beam ends and emptying the water off her. I looked along the deck and everything forward of the mainmast was swept clean. The cookhouse, the pigstye, the hencoop, a sheep-pen that had been built on the fore-hatch, all were gone, leaving not a stick to show even where they had stood. The forecastle also had been gutted by the sea and most of the sailors’ effects washed overboard.
“Loose the foresail,” sang out the captain at the wheel.
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered George the Greek, and the big Frenchman together, springing up and casting off the lashing. The sail was set, and the storm-battered “Stormy Petrel” bounded on her way.
“All hands lay aft!” called out the mate.
When the men got aft to the poop the roll was called, and it was found that three of the men were missing. The Manilla man, Antonio Lopez, was washed overboard from the wheel, two of the Turks, Enrico Hermos and Suleman Sulemore were killed and washed overboard with the cookhouse. We were indeed in a sad plight, but we did not stand long idle, the boats were gone, the cookhouse had gone, and we had lost nearly all our clothes, but we all set to with a will and made the best of it.
The weather moderated a bit, and we turned to unbending the old sails, and getting up the new ones, for a ship, unlike people on shore puts on her best clothes in bad weather, and we were soon on our way before a favourable wind. Captain Glasson had also given us a stock of clothes out of the slop chest onboard.
Next the carpenter put up a temporary cookhouse, and we made some cooking utensils out of some empty paint and oil drums. It is said that necessity is the mother of invention, that was so, for in this case we made some wonderful and useful cooking pots.
We had a good spell of fine weather that carried us up to abreast of Valparaiso, and on the Sunday, there being no work done, all hands turned to and cleared up the forecastle. The wet and soiled clothes were brought out on deck, the chests moved, brooms, buckets of water, swabs, scrubbing brushes and scrapers were carried down and used with a right good will until the floor was once more as white as chalk, and everything neat and in order. The bedding from the berths was spread on deck to dry and air, the deck tub filled with water, and a grand washing began of all the clothes brought out. Shirts, drawers, trousers, jackets, stockings of every shape and colour, wet, dirty, and many of them mouldy from having been left in a wet foul corner since the storm, all were well scrubbed and washed and then made fast to the rigging to dry. Wet boots and shoes were put in sunny places on deck to dry and the ship looked like a floating laundry. Then we had what sailors call a freshwater wash, which means each one gives a little of his allowance of fresh water, this is all put into buckets and one after the other uses the same water to loosen the grime and dirt off the skin, and finishes off with buckets of salt water being thrown over each other, then, having shaved and combed and put on clean dry shirts and trousers, we sat down in the clean forecastle, which, with us, looked several degrees lighter for its clean up. We spent the rest of the day reading, talking and sewing at our ease. At sunset all the clothes, boots, bedding, etc., were taken in, and we felt we had got back to the pleasant part of a sailor’s life and hoped it would continue. But, alas for these hopes—the very next day we got a nasty set back, the wind suddenly died away, and after a few hours calm, it sprang up from the north-west, and in a couple of hours was blowing a perfect hurricane. The sea rose just as quickly, and the “Stormy Petrel” was soon reaching on the starboard tack, and burying herself in the sea. When midnight came the sea was running mountains high again, threatening all that came in its path with destruction.
Just as the watch was being relieved, the lookout reported a ship on the weather beam, and directly afterwards another on the starboard or weather bow. Both ships seemed to be running before the gale, the one on the bow was under topsails and foresails, the ship abeam had her topgallant sail set and seemed to be coming straight for us. All hands stood watching to see them pass.
When the weather ship, which appeared to be light, got within a couple of miles of us she appeared to haul to the eastward to pass astern of us, but when she came within a mile of us, those on board seemed to change their minds and she shewed us her red light only. The next moment, to the surprise and horror of all on board, the ship broached to and as the enormous pressure of wind and sea was brought to bear on her side, she capsized and sank at once with all on board. There was not a moment to get a boat out; they were all launched into eternity without a moment’s warning. We were powerless to help, having lost our boats, and if we had had the best boats in the world, they could not have lived in such a sea. What caused that terrible accident will never be known, there are so many causes to bring about such a disaster—bad and careless steering, broken steering gear, the helmsman may have been thrown over the wheel and hurt, as so very often happens, but whatever the cause, it was a terrible sight to see, and at the same time to be unable to render any assistance. It cast a gloom over our crew, and brought back to our memory the very narrow escape we had had, when in just such a storm we had lost three of our shipmates off Cape Horn.
The following day the wind veered into the south-west, and again we stood on our course. Soon we had all sail set, and were making a good ten knots per hour. We passed close to the island of Juan Fernandez, made famous by Defoe as the island home of Robinson Crusoe, or, as his real name was, Alexander Selkirk, and his man Friday. The island is so situated as to make a splendid setting to that most interesting story, standing as it does in the South Pacific, about 400 miles from the coast of Chili, and about twenty-five miles long and about four in breadth. The land is very high, rising in rugged peaks. One of them, called Yunque, being 3,500 feet above the level of the sea. The peaks are generally overhung with clouds, and the valleys are very fertile, the grass growing to a height of six and eight feet. The most delicious fruits grow in abundance, and in their season the trees are loaded with figs, peaches, and cherries, the valleys and hillside being crowded with trees. An immense number of goats run wild on the island, and an abundance of fish is taken on every coast, while the water is obtained from the never failing rivulets that trickle down the rugged rocks like threads of silver from the cloud-capped mountains. All things considered, Robinson Crusoe must have had a good time during his stay there.
All hands were now employed getting the cargo gear ready for use; there were strops to make, pennants to overhaul, purchase blocks to examine, and scores of other jobs to do before we reached Callao, but, as most of our deck stores had been washed overboard, and lost off the Horn, we could only wash her down, having no paint to put on her. Many think a ship is in her finest condition when she leaves port for a long voyage, not so, far from that, for unless a ship meets with a bad accident, or comes upon the coast in the dead of winter, when it is impossible to do work upon the rigging or, like us, loses her deck stores, she is generally in her finest order at the end of the voyage, and captains and mates alike stake their reputation for seamanship upon the appearance of their ship when they haul into dock. Everything from the rigging to the forecastle is scraped and scrubbed, painted or varnished, the rust is pounded off the chains, bolts, and fastenings, everything that is useless is thrown overboard, then, add to this all the neat work about the rigging that only a sailor can understand—the knots, flemish-eyes, splices, seizings, coverings, pointings, and graffings—which shew a ship in the best of order, and then that which looked still more like coming into port, the getting the anchor over the bows, bending the cables, rousing the hawsers up from between decks, and overhauling the deep-sea lead line.
Then another thing, the voyage being nearly over, everybody is in the best of spirits, the strictness of discipline is relaxed, for everything is done with a cheery goodwill, the little differences and quarrels that crop up during a voyage are forgotten, everybody seems friendly, even Mr. Ross, the second mate, who had been like a bear with a sore head since we left Liverpool, unbent and smiled at the little jokes that passed round amongst the men. From each and all the strain was lifted as we dropped anchor in the Bay of Callao, after a passage of one hundred and thirty-five days.