FOR some time I had projected, for the spring of 1867, a voyage to San Francisco, via Cape Horn. My friends advised me, if I wanted to go to California, to take a steamer and go by way of the Isthmus; but, for the novelty of the thing, I determined to take passage on a sailing-ship and double Cape Horn, South America, where the Patagonians live, who eat up all the unfortunate sailors driven on their shores. [It’s a pity Cape Horn should ever be doubled, for there is too much of it now.]

When March came, and it began to get windy and stormy, I went to New York, with the intention of taking passage on the first sailing-vessel that should clear for San Francisco.

My friends again gave me a little wholesome advice, and endeavored to dissuade me from attempting the voyage till after the stormy season, but I replied that I didn’t mind seeing a storm at sea, that, in fact, I rather desired it: so, I went.

Some of the merchants, shipowners and underwriters of New York, have occasion to remember the clipper-ship Brewster, which sailed from New York for San Francisco, on the fourteenth of March, 1867, with a fresh north-west wind and under good auspices, generally. I, John Smith, was that ship’s only passenger. She was not a passenger ship; but I was allowed to take passage on her, because I wanted to go round Cape Horn. Captain Collins, the master of the vessel, asked me whether I thought I could stand up on my crutch, when the ship should come to be tossed about on a rough sea: I replied that I didn’t know about that, but that I was quite skillful at falling down.

As before hinted, we sailed on the fourteenth of March; and as a powerful little tug towed us out of the harbor, past Forts Richmond, Lafayette and Hamilton, and I looked back and saw Trinity Church steeple fading from view, I pondered on the long voyage of four or five months before me, and wondered when, if ever, I should see New York and the Atlantic coast again.

That day, and the day following, the weather was so extremely cold, that the salt water of old Ocean, as it splashed over the bulwarks, froze into a nasty uncomfortable slush, upon the deck. On the third morning—that of Saturday, the sixteenth of March—the air was much milder, and I began to entertain the liveliest hopes that we were to be favored with pleasant weather, that I might sit by the low bulwarks of the forecastle deck, and watch the blue waves foaming and splashing as the ship plowed its way through them.

Captain Collins was an excellent fellow, a lively and agreeable companion, and a perfect gentleman. The two mates, Messrs. Trufant and Gorham, were unexceptionable; I was soon on the best terms with them, and anticipated a pleasant voyage.

But, somehow or other, these three gentlemen were a little morose on this pleasant Saturday morning. It was quite unaccountable to me.

“What can be the reason?” I asked myself. “Can it be that they don’t like pleasant weather, and would prefer it cold and stormy?” I had heard such things, of sea-faring men. [Reader, when you hear it said that sailors enjoy stormy weather, don’t believe it.]

About ten o’clock the first mate, Mr. Trufant, after several earnest consultations with the Captain, came out of the cabin,—while I was standing on deck enjoying the pleasant breeze and the fine view I had of the waste of waters—and called out:

“Steward!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the steward, from the galley.

“Get up a few barrels of potatoes, and what other things you may need from the after-hatch: we’re going to have a gale o’ wind.”

[That was what the matter was. The barometer was getting low.]

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the steward.

The wind was still N. W., and glancing in that direction, I perceived that some solid-looking, lead colored clouds were rising above the horizon.

“Going to blow, is it?” I said, to the mate, as he walked by me.

“Yes, a little,” he replied, as he proceeded to give some order to the sailors.

A couple of hours passed by, and I saw no indications of a storm. It had grown a trifle cloudy; and the wind had increased but little.

“We won’t have that gale, after all, will we?” I remarked, as we sat at dinner.

The captain laughed. “Give it time,” said he. “The barometer usually warns in advance. If you don’t see a fresh breeze before morning, there will be a big change in the weather somewhere.”

I said no more.

After dinner I was on deck, and, observing that the sailors were working the pumps, I said to Mr. Gorham, the second mate:

“The ship leaks a little, does it?”

“O, yes,” he replied, indifferently: “all ships leak more or less.”

“I hope ours will leak less, then, if we get in a gale,” I said.

“So do I,” he returned; “but I fear it will leak more.”

The ship was rocking somewhat, but I had not yet grown sea-sick. In fact, persons who have once been sea-sick are not quite so easily or so severely affected the second time.

I walked to the bulwark, scanned the north-western horizon, and perceived that it was beginning to wear a threatening aspect. The wind was stronger, the waves rolling higher, and the sailors grave and thoughtful.

It was no easy matter for me to stand, without holding to something: and hatch-houses, masts, bulwarks, ropes and belaying-pins came quite handy to brace myself against, or cling to with one hand.

In another hour, the wind was blowing hard, the waves were running high, and one of them jumped over the bulwarks, and wet everybody on deck—myself included. That is what sailors term, “Shipping a sea.”

“You had better stand within the cabin,” observed the second mate.

I thought so, too, made my way to the door, and stepped in. The cabin was built on deck; but a high sill at the bottom of the door-way kept the water from running in.

I then stood at the cabin-door for a couple of hours, grasping each side of the door-way to brace myself, and watched the rising gale.