A THOUSAND MILES’ WALK.
CHAPTER I.
PASSAGE TO THE RIVER PLATA.
One cold November morning, in compliance with previous orders, I reported myself ready for duty at the shipping office of Messrs. S. and K., Commercial Street, Boston, and having received, as is customary, one month’s wages in advance, proceeded with my baggage to Battery Wharf, at the foot of which lay the bark M., destined to be my future home for many weeks. As but one of the crew had already gone on board, I had ample leisure for examining the vessel, on board of which I was to receive my first lessons in practical seamanship, and to endure privations hitherto happily unknown to me. The M. was not prepossessing in appearance, and I confess that her model did not give a favorable idea of her sailing qualities: vessels, like horses, have peculiar external points by which their virtues may be judged, and their speed determined. As I gazed upon her long, straight sides, square bows, and box-like hull, it seemed to me that her builders must have mistaken her ends; for, certes, had her spars been reversed, she would have made better progress by sailing stern foremost. Some knowing ones, who have since examined this specimen of marine architecture of twenty years ago, have sustained my suspicion that the M. belonged to that enduring fleet of cruisers, now scattered over the great deep, which were originally built in the State of Maine, of which report is made that “these vessels are built by the mile, and sawed off according to the length ordered by the buyer.”
The mate, who was occupied in receiving live stock,—i. e., two young pigs,—ordered me to stow my things “for’ard;” an order somewhat difficult to comply with, as the forecastle was well filled with firewood, ropes, blocks, swabs, and the various other articles used on shipboard.
I crawled down the dark passage, and was feeling about to discover the dimensions of a sailor’s home, doubting, meanwhile, whether, in reality, this narrow hole could be the abode intended for human beings, when suddenly a gruff voice called down to me, “Come, youngster, bear a hand! Make yourself lively! We must clean out this shop before the crew come down; stir yourself, and pass me up the pieces.” Obeying these peremptory commands, I applied myself to work, and in an hour’s time my companion declared the place “ship-shape, and fit for sailors.” I would remark, en passant, that this declaration was made in the face of the fact that mould and dust covered the timbers and boards, and cockroaches filled the many crevices. “But,” said my companion, with a philosophical air, “if the place were carpeted, and lighted with a fine lamp, the fellows would be the more dissatisfied; the better treated they are, the worse they growl.” At the time I inwardly dissented from the truth of this remark; but subsequent experiences taught me the old salt was right.
As I had been of service in removing all the lumber, I thought to repay myself by securing a good bunk, and therefore chose an upper one. After I had given it a thorough cleaning, and had carefully stowed away my mattress and blanket, one of the new crew entered the forecastle, and, on noticing my labors, at once removed my bed, and placed his own in its place, remarking, at the same time, that it was a highly impolite and lubberly action for an understrapper to “bunk down where he didn’t belong; upper bunks were men’s bunks; lower ones, boys’.” Although I pleaded ignorance of the etiquette of the forecastle, and selected another resting place, my shipmate continued his lecture on the rules of the sea, and hinted at the future “rope’s-endings from the little man aft,” as he called the mate, in store for me.
During his harangue two or three of my old schoolfellows came aboard, and, on visiting my quarters, remarked upon the poor accommodations and filthiness to which I was to be doomed; upon which remark the old tar broke out with, “And so this is a young gentleman going to sea for the first time? O, ho! All right. I’ll be his guardian, and keep an eye on him when he’s aloft, and, to start fair, if my opinion was asked, I’d say we’d better go up the wharf, and splice the matter over a social glass.” At this hint, so delicately conveyed, we gave the fellow a sum sufficient to allay his thirst, had it been never so great, and he at once took leave of us, only to return, however, in a few minutes, declaring that he had lost every cent, at the same time reiterating his offer to become my friend for a consideration.
The noise of the tow-boat now called us on deck, where we found a perfect Babel of confusion, caused by the throng of porters, boarding-house runners, idlers, and sailors’ friends, who were giving and receiving advice in quantities to last until the vessel returned to her port. About this time I was touched on the shoulder by a rough-looking personage in a sailor’s dress, who took me aside, and inquired if I really intended going to sea. “Because,” said he, “if you are, let me give you a bit of advice. I’m an old shell, and can steer my trick as well as the next one; and as we’re to be shipmates, and you’re young, all you’ve got to do is to stick close to me, and I’ll larn yer all the moves.” After showing so kind an interest in my affairs, he hinted, like the other man, that there was “still time enough to step up to the house, and splice the main brace.” As I was ignorant of this point in seamanship, I handed him some money, that he might perform it alone, when he disappeared. I saw nothing more of him for the next half hour; and it was only when the vessel was about moving off that he staggered over the rail, to all appearances well braced; and as he expressed a desire to handle all on board, from the “old man” (the captain) “in the cabin to the doctor” (cook) “in the galley,” I concluded that his splicing had received especial attention, and that his strands would not unravel for several hours to come.
These scenes on board of the M., while getting under way, were comparatively tame to others that I have since witnessed on other vessels. I have known men to be carried on board ship by boarding-house keepers, who had enticed them into their dens of infamy, and who had drugged them so powerfully that they did not recover their senses until the vessel had left the port. In this manner, fathers of families, mechanics, tradesmen, and other persons wholly unfitted for a sea life have been carried off, unknown by their friends. When full consciousness returned to the unhappy victims, they sought the officers for an explanation, when I have seen them so beaten and kicked, that in apprehension for their lives, they bowed in submission to a tyranny worse than that of slavery itself.
After lying for more than twenty-four hours, wind-bound, in the outer harbor, all hands were called before daylight, and though the mercury stood but a few degrees above the freezing point, the decks were washed down; after which operation the anchor was weighed, and we set sail out upon the bosom of the broad Atlantic. When we were fairly under way, we were set to work stowing away chains and ropes, securing the water casks upon deck, lashing the anchors upon the rail; then a short breathing spell was allowed us. While looking to windward, an old sailor, with whom I had commenced a friendship, which I was determined to strengthen, said, “Here, boy: do you see that land, there? It is the last you will see until we drop anchor in the River Plata.” I gazed long upon it. It was Cape Cod. Its white sand-hills looked cold and drear as the sea beat against their bases, some of which were smooth and sloping, others steep and gullied by the rains. An hour after this the breeze freshened, the light sails were taken in, and the topsails double-reefed; and as the sea ran higher, and our little vessel grew proportionally uneasy, I began to experience the uncomfortable nausea and dizziness of seasickness, which, added to the repulsive smell and closeness of the forecastle, completely overcame my fortitude, when retiring to my bunk I tried to make myself comfortable.
About five o’clock in the afternoon all hands were mustered upon the quarter-deck, and the watches chosen. To my satisfaction I was selected by the mate, and had the further gratification of finding that old Manuel, my friend, had also been chosen for our watch—a result which evidently delighted him as much as myself. Ours was the larboard watch, and remained upon deck, while the captain’s, or starboard watch, went below. The duties of sea life had now fairly commenced.
The two hours that followed, from six to eight, were passed in a pleasant conversation with the old Frenchman, Manuel. He informed me that he had his eye on the moves of the crew, and he concluded that there was but one sailor on board: it was left to my sagacity to infer that he meant himself.
Two of the crew, who had shipped as ordinary seamen, were ignorant of the duties for which they had contracted, and each man in the forecastle had shipped as an American-born citizen, with protection papers received from the Custom House, which legally asserted him as such. These papers they had obtained from their boarding-house masters, who had purchased them at twenty-five cents each, and had retailed them to their foreign customers at seventy-five cents apiece. Of this American crew, two were Germans, or Dutchmen (an appellation given by sailors to all persons from the north of Europe), one of unknown parentage, who could only speak a few words of English, two Irishmen, one Englishman, another who swore point blank to being a native-born citizen of the States, an old mariner from Bordeaux, and myself. The law that makes it the duty of a captain to take with his crew a certain proportion of native-born Americans, had surely not been complied with here. To one of our crew I cannot do otherwise than devote a few lines.
The “doctor,” or cook, had already introduced himself, and informed us in a short and patriotic speech, delivered at the galley door, that he would confess that his father was a distinguished Irish barrister, and that he himself possessed no little share of notoriety in the old country. He had once been taken by a celebrated duchess, as she rode past in her carriage, for a son of the Marquis of B. His amusing vanity drew many expressions of contempt from the tars, who pronounced him to be “an idle Irish thief,” which only served to make him wax more warm in his assumptions of gentility. He was interrupted in the midst of a high-flown harangue by the loud squealing of the pigs, which squealing reminded him that his duties must not be neglected for the purpose of edifying a crowd of ignorant tars.
Our watch lasted until eight bells, when I went below, but had very little appetite for supper—a meal consisting of salt beef, biscuits, and a fluid which the cook called tea, although, on trial, I was sadly puzzled to know how it could merit such an appellation.
Of the three weeks which followed this first experience of nautical life and its miseries, I can say but little, as I labored during this period under the exhausting effects of seasickness, which reduced me to such a degree of weakness that I once fainted on the flying jib-boom, from which position of peril I was rescued and brought in by my friend Manuel. But this distressing malady wore away, and at last became altogether a memory of the past. Despite hard fare and labor, I not only recovered my lost flesh, but grew rugged and hearty, and, moreover, became tolerably familiar with the duties of a life at sea.
I have alluded to our cook, and to his ineffable conceit, mock sentimentality, and Hibernian fertility of invention.
It was his opinion that the “low-lived fellows” on board ought to feel highly honored by the presence in their midst of at least one gentleman—a title which he continually arrogated to himself. I am sorry to say, that as a cook he was not “a success.” He cared very little about the quality of the food he served to us; and its preparation was usually a subordinate consideration, with him, to the indulgence of his master passion,—the perusal of highly-colored novels,—to which he devoted every possible moment.
In the hope of improving my wretched diet, I applied myself to the study of this man’s character, and, having soon discovered his assailable point, supplied him with some works of fiction more entrancing than any he had hitherto possessed. I bought them just before our leaving home, thinking that perhaps some such an opportunity might offer for making a friendship with some of my messmates. His delight at receiving them was extreme; and I received in exchange for my favors many a dish that added a zest to my food, which it had hitherto altogether lacked.
Whenever I wished to be entertained with some marvellous account of “life in the highest circles of Great Britain,” I had only to request from the sympathetic cook a passage or two from his eventful life. It was his constant lament that he had never kept a dialogue (diary) of his travels, which, according to his account, must have surpassed those of most mortals in adventure and interesting incidents.
Of our crew, his countryman, the “boy Jim,” was his favorite. This Jim was the red-shirted sailor who had promised to instruct me in all the “moves” of an experienced salt, before we had left the wharf at Boston. A very few days of our voyage, however, served to prove, that he not only had no claim to the title of “old salt,” but also that he had never learned to “steer a trick at the wheel.” The first order that he received from one of the mates was, “Boy Jim, lay aloft there, and slush down the foretop-gallant and royal masts!” Seizing a tar bucket, and pointing aloft, he exclaimed, “Shure, sir, and which of them sticks is it that ye mane?” thus laying bare his ignorance of all nautical matters, and bringing on himself the ridicule of the whole ship’s crew.
As with head winds we slowly drew near the variables, or horse latitudes, rainy weather, accompanied by squalls of wind, commenced, and for twenty-one days and nights we were wet to the skin: clothes, bedding, all were saturated from the effects of a leaky deck; and it was a common occurrence to find, on awakening from slumber, a respectable stream of water descending into the close and crowded forecastle. When on deck our oil clothes did not protect us, for from our having worked in them constantly, the oil coating had worn off: so, at the end of a watch, we wrung out our under garments, and turned into our narrow bunks, where we quickly fell asleep, and forgot our miseries and troubles, until we were aroused to them by the gruff voice of some sailor of the other watch, shouting down the companion-way, “Ay—you—Lar-bowlines—ahoy—there; eight—bells! Lay up here, bullies, and get your duff.” Or, perhaps, “Do those fellows down there ever intend to relieve the watch!” exclaimed in no pleasant tones by the captain of the other watch.
The rainy season was succeeded by as delightful weather as we could have desired. A fair wind sprang up a few days before crossing the line, and with straining canvas we sped on towards Buenos Ayres. The days passed pleasantly, and our duties became light and agreeable. Enjoyable as were these tranquil days, the nights were still lovelier in those latitudes. The moon seemed to shine with an unwontedly pure and spiritual light, and with a brightness known only to the clear atmosphere of the tropics.
As we glided along, night after night, under a firmament studded with countless lights, and over a broad expanse ruffled with short, dark waves curling crisply into foam, I could hardly conceive a scene of more quiet beauty. Standing upon the forecastle deck, a glorious vision frequently met our gaze: a phosphorescent light gleamed beneath the bows, and streamed along the sides and in the vessel’s wake, looking like a train of liquid gems to the imaginative observer. If we looked aloft to the white canvas of our wide-spread sails, we seemed borne along by some gigantic bird, of which the sails were the powerful wings, to the distant horizon, in which were the Southern Cross and other larger constellations, burning, like beacon lamps, leading us on to our destined port.
During these days and nights our attention was not unfrequently attracted to the dwellers in the deep, which were constantly sporting around us. Schools of black-fish and porpoises continually crossed our track; and large numbers of flying-fish often shot across our bows, sometimes leaving at our mercy a few stragglers upon the decks.
Upon such nights as I have described, when acting as lookout by the windlass bits, old Manuel frequently came to my side, and conversed upon the various topics connected with his past life, which had been an eventful one. He was born in Bordeaux. His mother died when he was an infant, leaving him to the care of his father, who owned and commanded a small vessel engaged in the coasting trade.
While very young, Manuel preferred playing about the streets of his native city, and hiding, with other boys, among the vines which covered his father’s dwelling, to following any plan of education proposed by his father. Under the direction of an uncle, however, he attended school when nine years old, and learned to read and write during the two succeeding years. So rapid was his progress, that the uncle, who was wealthy, offered to defray his expenses if he would fit himself for the university; but Manuel preferred following the fortunes of his father for a season, and accordingly sailed with him along the coasts of France and Spain. But the voyage was not destined to be a pleasant one. The boy was continually offending his father, who was a cold and unlovable man; and one afternoon, while performing certain antics upon the main-topsail-yard-arm, the old gentleman called him down, and rewarded his exertions with a lusty application of the end of the main sheet, which rope’s-ending was not to Manuel’s taste. He availed himself of the first opportunity, deserted the vessel, and joined a fine ship sailing to Havana. Before reaching Cuba he had become acquainted with the ropes, and not wishing to return to his parent until time had soothed his outraged feelings, he left the ship, and became a destitute wanderer in a foreign land. He was at that time twelve years of age. Being led into bad company, he joined a slaver, bound for the west coast of Africa. The galota in which he sailed reached the Rio Congo, and received on board nine hundred negroes, nearly all of whom were landed safely in Cuba. His wages, as boy, amounted to fifty dollars per month; but, though engaged in so profitable an undertaking, his sense of right caused him to leave his unprincipled associates, and to seek employment elsewhere. Since that time he had served beneath the flag of nearly every maritime nation, and had also fought in the China wars. For thirteen years he had sailed from Boston and New York, choosing the American republic as his adopted country, for which he was willing, as he declared, to shed his best blood, should necessity require.
While conversing with Manuel, one morning before sunrise, I was surprised by his suddenly jumping to his feet and scanning the horizon. At length he exclaimed, “There is a sight you may never see again. I have crossed the line many times in this longitude, but never beheld that before to-day!” At this moment the mate, who had been keeping a long lookout, disappeared below, returning in a moment with the captain. Looking in the direction pointed out by the old sailor, I discerned far away to the south-south-east, broken water; and, as the daylight advanced, we were soon able to distinguish two detached and rugged rocks, rising out of the sea, together with many smaller peaks rising out of the water around them. One of these bore a striking resemblance to a sugar-loaf. This group was the St. Paul’s Rocks. When first seen they appeared dark and drear; but, as our vessel approached them, we discovered that the excrements of myriads of sea-fowl, with which they were covered, had made them of a glistening white, presenting a strange appearance, not wholly devoid of the picturesque. Here, at no less a distance than five hundred and forty miles from the continent of South America, these peaks, the summits of mountains whose bases are planted in unfathomed depths, arise.
The rocks lie in longitude twenty-nine degrees fifteen minutes west, and are only fifty-eight miles north of the equator. The highest peak rises but fifty feet above the sea, and is not more than three quarters of a mile in circumference.
These isolated rocks have been visited by a few persons only. Darwin, the naturalist, made a thorough investigation into their natural history. Among birds, the booby gannet and noddy tern were found; both species being very tame, depositing their eggs and rearing their young in great numbers. Darwin, in his account of the tenants of these rocky islets, observes, “It was amusing to watch how quickly a large and active crab (Grapsus), which inhabits the crevices of the rocks, stole the fish from the side of the nest, as soon as we had disturbed the parent birds. Sir W. Symonds, one of the few persons who have landed here, informs me that he saw these crabs dragging even the young birds out of the nests, and devouring them. Not a single plant, nor even lichen, grows on this islet; yet it is inhabited by several insects and spiders. The following list completes, I believe, the terrestrial fauna: A fly (Olfersia), living on the booby, and a tick, which must have come here as a parasite on the birds; a small brown moth, belonging to a genus that feeds on feathers; a beetle (Quedius), and a wood-louse from beneath the dung; and, lastly, numerous spiders, which, I suppose, prey on these small attendants and scavengers of the water-fowl.”
I afterwards met, among the many roving characters with whom the traveller becomes acquainted, a person, who, in his younger days, had been engaged not only in privateering, but also in the lucrative, though inhuman, slave traffic. He knew of many instances when slavers and freebooters had been obliged to visit St. Paul’s from necessity, not only for the purpose of securing the rain-water that is caught in the cavities and depressions in the rock, but also to procure a supply of the fish which play about the islets in large schools, or, more properly, perhaps, shoals, or schules.
Although our vessel was built before the age of clippers, and consequently made slow progress through the water, St. Paul’s was far astern by ten o’clock. A fresh breeze sprang up, and, as it continued fair, we were wafted along smoothly day after day towards our destined port.
At length the sudden changes of the atmosphere, and careful consultations of the officers, and admonitions “to keep a bright lookout ahead,” warned the forecastle hands that we were nearing the Rio Plata, the great River of Silver, whose broad mouth we were soon to enter, there to gaze upon the shores of another continent.
The nights seemed cooler, and the beautiful appearance of the heavens, as the sun, with a broader disk, sank beneath the western horizon, particularly attracted our attention. As it slowly disappeared, clouds of many varied hues gathered above it like heavy drapery, as if to conceal its flight; while others, taking the form of long ranges of mountains, with here and there a tall peak towering up into the clearer firmament, presented a panorama of exquisite beauty and grandeur. But all evenings were not of this description. Sometimes the heavens darkened, and for two or three hours not a breath of air moved the murky atmosphere. Long, dark swells came rolling towards us from the south-east, sure indicators of the distant pampero, the hurricane of La Plata. When these swells were visible, the crew at once became active: every light sail was snugly furled, and the topsails double reefed, for our captain was a prudent man, who had sailed long enough in these latitudes to know the fearful devastation that is often occasioned by the pampero. Before our voyage terminated we had an opportunity to appreciate this trait in his seamanship.
One afternoon, when within four or five days’ sail of the mouth of the Plata, the sky became overcast with murky clouds, while the distant thunder and lightning in the south-west warned us of the proximity of the hurricane. “All hands” were called and we hurried to our stations; but before everything could be made snug aloft, a fierce shower of hail descended, pelting us mercilessly; and glad enough we were to get below, at four bells, to supper. The wind increased, and blew very hard for an hour or more, when it became calmer; but still the heavy sea came rolling towards us, making our stout bark toss and pitch about as if old Neptune were irritated at her sluggish ways. We congratulated ourselves at our easy escape from the pampero, but we should have remembered the old saying, “Never shout until you are out of the wood.”
As we were below, discussing various subjects, we were joined by the cook, who descended the ladder, requesting the loan of a novel, declaring that he was dying by inches of the “onwy.” “Get out of this, you and your trash!” shouted an old tar: “this is no place for distinguished characters.”
But the “doctor” did not appear to be disconcerted in the least at this rude salutation and reference to his pretensions.
“Ah, boys!” he exclaimed, with a touch of sentimentality, “how can ye be so boistherous? Here we are, every hour dhrawing nearer and nearer to that mighty river which runs past Buenos Ayres; and does not the thought of it inspire ye with romantic feelings? As for meeself, I can scarce slape at night for the ecstatic thoughts that crowd me brain. Ye may all laugh,” he continued, as some of the sailors interrupted him with a boisterous laugh, “but it does not alter the case in the laste, for it is thrue. To-night, when I was standing in the galley, the thought came to me, that perhaps the boy here,” pointing to myself, “would like a few stanzas of poetry for his dialogue (diary), which he is keeping; so I, in my mind, composed a few lines, which, if he wants, I will recite to him.”
At this, some of the sailors exclaimed, “Get out of this, for a dirty sea-cook as you are, and don’t attempt to spoil sensible people.”
I, however, said that I would be pleased to receive his stanzas, and, preparing my pencil and paper, wrote down the following lines as he recited them, together with the interpolations and remarks of the sailors. Striking a beatific attitude, the poet began:—
“I saw her; yes, I saw her.”
Old Salt (gruffly). “What if you did? If she saw you, she sickened, I dare swear!”
The Doctor (continuing).
“Tripping along so gayly,
With mantilla fluttering in the wind.”
Old Salt 2d. “Shaking in the wind’s eye, in a squall.”
The Doctor.
“Eyes like a dove’s in mildness,
Or an eagle’s in its wildness.”
Old Salt 1st. “More like a hen’s with one chicken.”
Old Salt 3d. “Or a sick rooster with one tail-feather.”
The Doctor.
“Smiles they were sweet,
Lips together did meet.”
Old Salt 1st (dubiously). “Lips together did meet? I wonder, mateys, if she wasn’t smacking them after a glass of grog?”
The Doctor.
“Clamors of war and terrible drums,
Noise of trumpets and the hum of tongues,
Can frighten the timid, but not her;
For brave as a lion, dauntless as fire,
She’s ruled by love, and not by ire.”
Here some of the sailors pretended to faint; others reeled off to their bunks, saying that the doctor’s poetry was “worse than his duff, and that wasn’t fit to give a measly hog;” while one old follow ascended to the deck, declaring that he “couldn’t sleep after hearing such blasted nonsense, until he had taken a salt junk emetic.”
The doctor would have continued his poetry, notwithstanding the ridicule of the “low, ignorant fellows,” as he called them; but he was interrupted by the voice of the mate, calling down to the cook to “doctor the binnacle lamp,” when the poet hurried up the companion-way, leaving me to turn in, and dream of
“Lips that together did meet,
Clamors of wars, and terrible drums,”
until the man at the wheel struck eight bells.