LETTER XIII.
I had hoped not to resume my pen upon the face of the restless Atlantic; but that, long ere this, I might have addressed you from the island of Barbadoes; unhappily however, nearly four more tedious weeks have been consumed, in struggling against the united violence of merciless winds, and a relentless ocean. The new year set in, with mildness, and we began to sail pleasantly on our passage. The breeze was fair; the sea smooth and tranquil; the sun shone with genial warmth; the ship advanced in steady motion; and our cares were dissipated in the hope that all our disasters were buried in the grave of the old year. But, alas! our flattering prospect had not the duration of a day.
Before the next morning the storm was renewed, and from that moment gale has succeeded to gale, and storm to storm, defeating all our happiest calculations; even the best established prognostics have deceived us; clouds separating, a change of wind, heavy rain, and the like, are no longer any indication of an abating tempest. At one time, under the clearest azure sky, and the brightest sun, the dry wind tears in keenest violence, as if rushing, from the parched clouds to devour all the fluids of the ocean: at another, loaded with moisture, it bursts into sudden gusts and squalls, heaving the ship, almost out of the sea, and leaving her as it were suspended in the air; and, as if the fates had resolved to torment us, whenever the wind, and the heavy waves have a little subsided, and we have looked for steady sailing on our passage, a breeze has sprung up, from the most unfavorable point, and though moderate, for a moment, has quickly increased, again, to a storm. Seven long weeks have passed, and with difficulty can it be said that we have had an interval of one diurnal round, free from the perils of raging winds, or of the huge and troubled mountains thereby engendered!
Did I not feel that I am steering from my friends, the cruel perplexities of this tormenting voyage would lead me into a vow, perhaps somewhat rash, never again to intrust my body to so fickle a guardian as the sea. But, not all the perils of which she is mistress, nor any thing short of death, can deter me from again hazarding my person in order to return amidst those I love. Novelty has many charms; and it is pleasing to regard society under its various forms, in every country and every clime; but, even in this, the great enjoyment centres in the endearing hope of being, some day, stationary amongst our friends; for to associate with those of similar minds, whose dispositions, whose interests and pursuits are congenial with our own, is the highest boon of civilized life: beyond this, the world has nothing to offer.
I still look forward to the happy termination of our passage; and feel that the present sufferings will arm me against a multitude of future alarms. I can almost fancy that a good ship is imperishable on the open sea; and could you know all that ours has borne, you would be inclined to countenance the opinion. She has amply proved herself to be what the sailors term “a good sea boat;” and, from the events of our voyage, you will feel the force of the technical expression that “she can live in all weathers.” The shocks and beatings she has withstood, are almost incredible. Her topmasts, yards, and different parts of the rigging have been carried away—her sails split—the quarter boards stove in: things have been washed overboard from the deck—seas have broken over her—sprays dashed in the cabin windows—and various other accidents have befallen her: yet all have been repaired, and she still rides triumphant!
During the severity of a storm I have often remarked how differently the scene has affected the minds of those accustomed, and those who are unaccustomed to the sea. The sailor patiently observes the gale, lowers the yards and topmasts, furls or reefs his sails, makes all snug, and thanks the tempest for a holiday; heedless of the perils which surround him, he extends himself in his hammock, or reclines his head on a plank or a locker, and, sinking into the arms of Morpheus, regards the howlings of the storm as his peaceful lullaby. The landsman, on the contrary, is restless and impatient; listens in terror to the wind; and shrinks in agitation at every sound: the dangers that are, he magnifies, and his mind is tortured in the creation of others, which do not exist. Each moment, to him, breeds new alarm. He asks a thousand questions, dictated by a thousand fears. He goes upon deck—looks round with affrighted eyes—his feet are unable to support his trembling body—he clings to the companion door-way, and, thence, ventures to cast a look at the ocean and its waves. His head grows giddy—nausea seizes him, and he again descends to the cabin in extreme anxiety. He fixes himself in the leeward corner—places his elbows on his knees—his head on his hands, and, concealing his eyes, bewails his wretched fate! Suddenly he again seeks the deck—multiplies all the perils of the moment—torments the captain and sailors with new questions, all expressive of his terror—fastens again to the companion door-way—gazes at the masts and sails—observes the yards dip into the ocean—feels the yieldings of the ship—imagines she is upset—fancies the masts are falling overboard, and, in each rolling wave, beholds a devouring sea. Destruction occupies his mind! He returns below—impatiently seats himself—seeks relief in a book—is unable to read—throws away the volume—again takes it up, and again throws it down: nausea returns, and he is seized with dizziness and retching. His bodily feelings now augment the disquietude of his mind, and, at length, as a remedy for both, he prostrates himself in his birth; but is still wretched and comfortless—all rest is denied him—sickness and anxiety remain—and he lies rolling, in fear and anguish, to wear out the fury of the storm!
Strong as this contrast may appear, I have often seen it, fully, verified. During a gale we sometimes feel amazement at observing the carpenter and his mates working, quietly, in the tops; and the sailors hanging about the yards and rigging, in seeming unconcern—tossed by each rolling sea from side to side, far beyond the limits of the ship, and, not unfrequently, while seated at the end of the yard, dipped and drenched in the foaming billows! The indifference of seafaring men to the dangers around them is exemplified in every part of their conduct, and, even, in their common expressions. Many times when we have felt the most vivid apprehensions from the fierceness of the tempest and the roughness of the ocean, and have, tremblingly, sought relief, by an appeal to the captain or mate, we have met only a look of unconcern, or, at most, the laconic reply “It blows fresh.” From their quaint and technical terms it is difficult for any one, unaccustomed to the sea, to know precisely what they mean to convey. Their degrees of comparison are peculiar to themselves, and, at first, not easily to be comprehended: taking the term fresh as the positive, they say it blows fresh—it blows strong—it blows hard; and again, to denote the severest possible gale, they assume hard as the positive—add an oath to form the comparative, and augment that oath to constitute the superlative: thus, it blows hard; it blows d—— hard; it blows d—— hard, by ——. Previous to this extremity we are commonly furnished with an omen, by the captain coming below, to change his long coat for a short round jacket; from which we always prognosticate unfavorably; it being a precaution which denotes busy, and perhaps, perilous employment.
Our steward is a very old sailor, tough as the ropes of the ship, and callous to every alarm; being the person more immediately about us, it most frequently falls to his lot to be teased with questions regarding the weather, the wind, and the sea; and the steady apathy of his feelings, together with his excessive and sang froid and unconcern, have been subjects of remark—sometimes, indeed, of vexation to us; for his utter insensibility to the circumstances calling forth our cares and alarms, has, occasionally, provoked us. During one of our perilous storms, the wind having shifted to a point somewhat less unfavorable, although still blowing a terrific gale, the usual question was asked—“Well, steward! how is the weather?”—“Squally, squally, gentlemen—the wind’s coming about—be fine weather soon.” According to the feelings of this old tar, the severest tempests that we have suffered, were only squalls, for, in the midst of the most tremendous gales, his reply has always been, “Squally, a little squally gentlemen.”—“Are we making any way, steward?”—“Oh yes, fine wind, quite free, going large, make six or seven knots.”—“But surely we have too much of this good wind, steward?”—“Oh, no! fine wind as can blow, gentlemen—but a little squally—rather squally.”
Our dinner ceremony is often rendered a humorous scene: at this hour the cabin being the general rendezvous of the party, we meet—crawl, trembling, towards the table, and tie ourselves in the chairs. A tray is set before us, with deep holes cut in it for the dishes, plates, and glasses; the table and chairs are lashed to the deck; yet one or other frequently gives way, and upsets half the things in the cabin! Presently enters the steward with soup, followed by his little slave with potatoes; and the servants with such other covers as there may chance to be. But scarcely are the things upon table, and the servants stationed, clinging to the backs of our chairs, before a sudden lurch of the ship tumbles all into disorder. Away go steward, servants, and little Mungo, to the lee corner of the cabin: the soup salutes the lap of one of us; another receives a leg of pork; a third is presented with a piece of mutton or beef; a couple of chickens or ducks fly to another; the pudding jumps nearly into the mouth of the next; and the potatoes are tossed in all directions, about the deck of the cabin. One seizes his plate; another stops his knife and fork; some cling to the table, thinking only of saving their persons; this secures the bottle; the next, half fallen, holds up his glass in one hand, and fixes himself fast to his chair with the other. Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and glasses clatter together in all the discord of the moment. Every thing is in confusion. The ship now becomes steady for a moment; the scattered parts of the dinner are collected; and those who have escaped sickness, again attempt to eat. Some, foreseeing all these accidents, fix themselves in a corner upon the cabin-deck, and take the plate between their knees, fancying themselves in security: but, quickly, they are tumbled, in ridiculous postures, sprawling, with outstretched limbs, to the other side of the cabin. One cries out with sore bruises; another from being wetted with the sprays: this calls for help; that relieves his stomach from sickness: some abuse the helmsman; others the ship; and others the sea; while all join in a chorus of imprecations upon the wind.
With pleasure I feel myself able to inform you that we have indications of having passed the Azores. The temperature of the atmosphere is become very genial to our feelings, and, amidst our tossings and bufferings, we seem to have brought all-inspiring May close upon the heels of Christmas. A considerable quantity of sea-weed appears floating upon the water, and this, the sailors observe, is never seen to the north of the Western Isles, it being supposed to proceed from the gulf of Mexico, and not to be carried beyond these islands. We are steering more to the south than our direct course; but we are glad to make Southing at the expense of a little Westing, in the hope of beating out of the latitude of the tormenting gales, which have, almost incessantly, beset us: but I forget that I am tiring you with uninteresting details, and that my letter is growing as tedious as the voyage.