We had fine clear weather when leaving Wellington, the sea was smooth so that the “Bertie” made fair speed through the water with every stitch of canvas set. When passing Chatham Islands we saw in the distance an unusual disturbance on the surface of the water, which, on our getting nearer, we found to be caused by a school of bottle-nosed whales. Hundreds of them were playing about, turning over and over on the surface of the water. The sailors said we should have a gale before the day was out, and sure enough we had. At sunset heavy woolly-looking clouds began to rise in the south and the wind had a moaning, sad sound.
In search of information as usual, I went to the second mate, and asked him how they could tell that a gale was near while the weather was so beautifully fine.
“Ah, my boy,” he replied, “there are many signs that warn a watchful seaman of the coming storm, first, the falling barometer, then the appearance of the sky, then the swell, and the height the seabirds fly. The sea, too, has a peculiar smell like stale kelp. Nature has many ways of warning mariners to prepare for rough weather. The Almighty never sends a storm without first warning his children of its coming—look at that,” he continued, pointing to the sunset, it was a showering of gold under the raven black wing of a cloud, and the rolling sea was black and golden underneath that rain of splendour. “That is another warning given to us by the great Master Artist, much of the beauty and wonder of the sea lies in the lights and shadows which the mighty mirror borrows from the heavens above, many and marvellous, some awe-striking as the miracles of old, are drawn by the pencil of the Great Hand.”
I looked up into his face, and dimly read the earnest thoughts there, I felt more and more convinced that if there was on board the “Bertie” a good man and a gentleman it was Mr. Weeler, and besides this he was an ideal sailor and knew his work.
The storm was gathering force, the dancing white-capped waves had given place to huge seas, the wind began to howl menacingly about her as she bent over to the bidding of the swift succeeding blasts. The heavy seas were at times breaking over the rail amidships and flooding the decks, the crew were merely standing by and reducing sail as the gale increased. Day after day the gale lasted; the ship was under topsail and foresail, labouring heavily and ploughing her way through the black waves, while the snowy foam flew high over her stout bulwarks.
“Looks as though we are in for a hard time getting round, Mr. McLean,” said Captain Crosbie to the chief mate, as he eyed the barometer somewhat apprehensively, “the glass is still going down and the air is thickening fast.”
“It looks like it, sir,” responded the chief mate grimly, “but the ‘Bertie’ is a good staunch ship, and she’ll weather it all right.”
There certainly was something weird and depressing about the environment of the ship. The sky was hanging dark and lowering above her, with never a ray of sunshine to pierce the gloom, mysterious shapes darted hither and thither through the sullen waters at her bow, while the mollymawks screeched through the rigging and in her wake in scores.
Through those days of storm and stress, while the “Bertie” fought bravely with the wind and the waves, I learned a lesson that was stamped indelibly on my mind. Uncomfortable as it was on deck, I could not bear to be cooped up below, and though there was no work for me to do, yet I kept in the open air, loath to miss anything of that gallant contest.
So fiercely did the seas break over our bows that the men could not stay forrard, but were driven back to the waist of the ship, where they stood against the bulwarks, each one, however, having taken the precaution to secure himself with a bowline at his waist to prevent him from being swept into the scuppers by the heavy seas that leaped aboard from time to time.
Captain Crosbie had called me to the quarter deck and given me a post at the foot of the mizzen-mast, where I was safe from the seas, but partly exposed to the wind and spray, which I did not mind.
“Are you getting enough of the sea, my lad,” he said, standing beside me, “you did not reckon on having such a time at this, I expect?”
“Well hardly, sir,” I replied, “I thought the hurricane we had before we reached Wellington bad enough, and had no idea a storm could be so dreadful or keep up so long; but don’t think, sir, I’m wishing myself ashore for all that, I’ve just got to learn to get used to all weathers, that’s all about it.”
“That’s the only way to look at it, my boy,” Captain Crosbie replied, and his voice sounded as if he was pleased, “sailors need stout hearts, and those that haven’t them should stay on land, there are no back doors at sea, but there are no slates and chimney-pots to fall around our ears. The “Bertie” and I have weathered worse storms than this.”
Time and again it seemed to me that this must surely be the worst storm that ever raged, and that, good ship as the “Bertie” was, she must give in to the terrible buffeting. In spite of our running under almost bare poles the ship would again and yet again be pressed down and down through the force of the blast, until her going over on her beam ends seemed only a matter of another few seconds. Then, if the wind eased for a moment, she would right herself, only to be met by a yeasty surge leaping madly aboard, ready to sweep the deck clear of everything that was not lashed beyond the possibility of moving.
It was well that the men had secured themselves to the rail by the bow-lines, or the waves would surely have washed them off the ship to a watery grave. The cook had a terrible time, for the men had to have meals, even if the storm still raged, and he was at his wits end how to prepare them, and more than once his big pot of soup that we were all looking anxiously for, was sent flying into the lee scuppers by a wave bursting into the galley, and the getting of the captain’s dinner into the cabin was a gymnastic display, at the conclusion of which we all breathed freely. But on the last day of the gale, even Tommy’s acrobatic feats were not sufficient to avert the catastrophe, for it happened that a leg of fresh pork had been boiled for the cabin dinner, and, as everyone knows, there is nothing more wobbly to carry in calm weather than that joint. Tommy had managed two or three journeys from the galley to the cabin under difficulties. With an anxious look on his face he came out of the galley with the leg of pork smoking on the dish, the cook coming to the door to see its safe transit, when, as if in protest against such a comfortable meal being enjoyed by our much harrassed captain, a huge sea broke over the ship, down went Tommy and the dish, and the tasty leg of pork went slithering along the deck and through the main deck port, and was lost to view before one of us could make an attempt to stop it, leaving Tommy still clinging to the dish.
The weather moderated as we drew near the dreaded Cape Horn, and we soon repaired the damage done by the gale we had just passed through. We had a splendid crew, mostly, as I said at the beginning, Scandinavians, steady and willing men. The ship was rolling and surging along at about 9½ knots, the weather was clearer, but getting much colder. When within about two hundred miles of Cape Horn, running before a strong south-west wind, with a light haze, it was about 3 p.m., when one of the seamen, Johan Hansen went aft to the second mate, who had charge of the deck.
“Sir,” he said, “I think we are close to ice, and I think this haze is thicker than it seems to be.”
Mr. Weeler was alert instantly.
“Can you see anything, Hansen?”
“No, sir, but I was several years in the Iceland trade, and though I cannot tell why or how, I feel that we are near field ice.”
“All right, go on the lookout and tell me if you can see any.”
Then calling me to him, Mr. Weeler told me to ask the captain to come on deck. I did so, and he was up in a few minutes. He was engaged talking to the officer, when a tremendous yell came from Hansen on the lookout.
“Hard a-port,” he cried, “hard a-port! Ice ahead!”
In a moment every man aboard was on deck, the helm put down, the top-gallant halliards let go, starboard braces slacked away, the yards flew forward, and, as the ship came up with the wind, she heeled over and a heavy sea struck her amidships, shaking her from stem to stern, and filling the decks with water. Then came a crash aloft, and we found the fore and main top-gallant masts had been carried away and fallen alongside. A dozen hands were soon cutting away the wreckage, and looking to leeward, we were horrified to see the terrible fate we had just escaped. There, within a mile of us, floated a gigantic iceberg about 700 feet long and 300 feet high, shaped like a church, with a square tower at one end. Presently the haze lifting, the setting sun cast its rays on the iceberg filling it with flaming jewels of light, kindling all kinds of rich and glowing colours, the effect was beautiful, and truly magnificent. It seemed to stand on a mountain of pure crystal, bathed in silver radiance. We were not allowed much time to admire it, however, for there was work to be done, the wreckage to clear away, and the gear to secure for the night. We then wore ship, and stood towards the Horn again.
We had a marvellous escape for our ship had been pointed directly for the berg, in another few minutes our bows would have been into it, and the ship would have ground herself to splinters. Until daybreak came we went on our way very stealthily, and then we saw vast fields of ice to the south of us, stretching for miles away to the eastward.
When passing Cape Horn there was an awful sea running, the shadows of black clouds whirling overhead and darkening the air with heavy snowfalls, which blew along in thick masses like the contents of a feather bed. The tops of the dark green waves were on a level with our upper topsail yards, and their white roaring heads seemed to brush the flying scud of the heavens as they came rushing madly upon us. In no place in the world have I seen such mountainous waves as are met with off Cape Horn, the rigging was glazed with ice, the decks full of water, to let go of a rope, or obey an order, was to do so at the risk of life and limb. At one minute the vessel was on a level keel in the trough, in a valley, with moving walls of water on either side of her, then for a brief moment there would be a lull, and you heard nothing but the howl of it on high, and the savage hissing of the foam. Then she would sweep up the huge liquid incline, up and still up with a sickening rush, until the deck looked like the roof of a house, then with the shrieking anew as she soared into the full weight of the gale, another moment’s breathless pause, as she hung poised on the peak of the sea that had hoisted her up, when once more she would slip down again, reeling as she went, shuddering like a frightened thing, into the heart of the valley of water, with its terrifying interval of calm below, and uproar of storm above. But the “Bertie” was a splendid sea-going boat, buoyant as a bird, rising and falling like a thing on wings and full of life, and as I stood by the mizzen rigging watching those giant waves I thought of Christ on the sea of Galilee, and His words to the angry billows, “Peace, be still.”
From Cape Horn we had a run to Falkland Islands, thankful to have escaped after our dressing down, but passing to westward we ran into another snowstorm, and in a remarkably short time the ship was covered with a thick white mantle.