Although everything in nature is so somnolent, not so the sailors; all day long both watches have wrought like bees unbending the heavy, new sails and sending aloft the old fine-weather ones. The mending was finished yesterday, and the old, brownish-gray canvas looks very dull after the glare of the new duck and changes the whole appearance of the ship. This is another point of usefulness in the donkey-engine, for steam was got up this morning, and the different sails were sent whizzing aloft like sacks of corn into a mill in a tenth of the time that would have been necessary in manual labor. Nor be it supposed that the sails of a two-thousand-ton ship are feather weights, for our main-sail alone would tip the balance at eight hundred pounds.

Last evening was the first occasion for at least two months on which we have been able to eat our 5.15 o’clock supper without lamplight; and it was a very grateful change to see the mellow rays of the setting sun streaming in at the open door, instead of the weak flicker of a very bad lantern. The cheerful air of the saloon was the cause of further very great volubility on the part of the mate, and he told the only humorous joke (is this tautology?) that he has uttered on the passage. He said that his wife once asked him why it was that a captain couldn’t keep tally of the size of his anchor so that he wouldn’t have to weigh it every time he left a harbor. This, for Goggins, wasn’t bad.

Some days ago we finished “Farthest North,” and so lucid and straightforward are his writings that we seem to know Fridjof Nansen personally. Three great characteristics stand forth pre-eminently in this book,—manliness, lack of affectation, and the total absence of the “I am.” Latitude, 20° 23′ south; longitude, 91° 20′ west.

August 12

Somewhat more cloudy to-day, and, since the morning watch, the Trades have been a good deal stronger, though last night the wind dropped to force 3, the average for the week having been force 4. A noticeable fact is that even though the weather is so cool for this latitude, 70° at noon, the Cape pigeons are still with us; I thought that they would have left us long since, for on the other voyage we saw our last pigeon in 30° south. One of the birds has been following us for weeks; we can always pick him out by the fact that two of his right-wing quills are broken, which renders him conspicuous at quite a distance.

The ship was pumped out with the donkey last night, after the sails were all bent, and having had no exercise for some days, the men having pumped only at four in the morning on account of sail-making, etc., I was constrained to take hold of the handle-bar and follow the wheel around, which afforded even more exercise than the ordinary way. If the men maintain constantly thirty strokes to the minute it is good work; whereas, with the donkey whirling the pumps around at more than sixty, the very exertion necessary to keep up with this speed is more than considerable. It is attended, too, with some danger of bodily harm; for if your foot should slip on the wet deck and you did not instantly let go the handle-bar, you would either be jerked over the wheel and slammed down on the other side, or at the next revolution the bar would catch you under the chin and knock your lower jaw into bone-dust. The captain conjectured later on that he, too, needed some exercise, for he went down and worked away with ferocious abandon for perhaps five minutes, standing forth in the bright moonlight a most ridiculous object. For his short, plump, little body was taxed to the very utmost to keep up with the machine, and when his coat-tails whisked wildly about and he staggered now and then to keep his balance, and his arms were jerked back and forth like shuttles, his coat up between his ears, he looked like John Gilpin in a cyclone. But funniest of all was his face. Whenever he exerts himself he always glares over at us to ascertain whether we are laughing at him or not; and last night, as he gazed up at us over the whizzing bar, with bursting cheeks and popping eyes, we thought we had never seen so ludicrous a sight; even more droll than the other day while he was “chinning” himself on the weather mizzen-sheerpole, when he peered over his shoulder at us with so distorted and writhing a countenance that we thought he was strangling. The skipper has a clipping-machine, with which he has almost denuded his head and face of their shaggy masses, and he insists that my own thick growth of hair and beard will be uncomfortable in hot weather, which is no doubt true; but when he offered to “run the machine over your whiskers,” as he expressed it, I thought it best to risk them as they are. Fancy reaping one’s beard with clippers!

Mention has not been made of a certain dish that was placed upon the supper-table a few nights after the last pig had been killed. In one of the compartments of the rack was a plate of cold salt beef; while in the other was something that we thought was mighty good, judging from the fragrance that rose from beneath the cover. When the latter was removed, though, there lay revealed some queer-looking, black fragments that might have been anything rather than meat. It turned out to be pig’s flesh right enough, but no one could guess what portions of his anatomy they were. Some of the objects were cylindrical; these were sections of the creature’s tongue. Others were very irregular and unusual-looking; these were the ears; while a villanous mass that stood aloof from the rest was recommended by the skipper as the heart. “I think you’ll like that,” he observed, “though some do say there’s too much muscle in it.”

The only really unsuccessful article manufactured by the merry little Cantonite is the pie-crust. It is very attractive and tempting to contemplate, which makes the reality harder to bear, for it is the only wholly indigestible article of food I ever came across; you can even feel your teeth gliding smoothly over flakes of sticky lard scattered freely through it. Nothing but hydrochloric acid could have the least solvent effect upon it. Oh, yes, there is something else,—the captain’s digestive organs. It will be recalled that when we first came on board he mentioned that he was a dyspeptic; but goodness, gracious me! it is a revelation to watch him denude meat or fruit pies of the armor-plate which invests them. He has another favorite dish, too, that he usually eats for breakfast; it looked familiar at first, and we tried some, but instantly desisted. It was like large grains of sand; the captain called it boiled hominy. Latitude, 18° 25′ south; longitude, 93° 55′ west.

August 13

Fresh Trades, moderate sea, and dazzling skies were ours during this day, and we made more than two degrees of latitude and only five miles less than three of longitude. It is glorious, and everything has assumed a tropical aspect: the sea, which undulates in swinging, dark-blue heaves, topped with sparkling froth; and the air, which sleepily fans one with its soft, drowsy breath. Even the men have begun to show the influence of warmer climes, and duck and dungaree garments, long buried in the noisome and impenetrable mysteries of a sailor’s chest, have suddenly bloomed forth like lilies in the spring. We have kept away a little to the westward of northwest so as to cross the line in about 116°.

The pumping took place last night at 7.30 as usual, and I took a hand in it, alongside of that villain, Tim Powers (he of the wounded arm), while opposite to us rose and fell the cadaverous countenance of Paddy. Neither of the mates was within hearing distance, but no one spoke till Jimmie Rumps, the little bosun, called out “Let her rest a minute,” and then Tim grew loquacious.

“I’m afeard this is too long a v’yage for the lady, sor; it’s a sight o’ sea.”

“Yes,” I answered, “but it’s not that that bothers us. We went out to Calcutta a couple of years ago and were at sea a hundred and twenty-seven days, so we knew it might be a hundred and fifty when we started.”

“Is thot so, sor,” said Tim, with immense energy and interest,—“to Calcutta? A grand place. If yez don’t mind, what was the name o’ the ship?”

“The ‘Mandalore.’”

“Oh,” with great satisfaction and relief, “an English ship. I’ll bet yez had a different——”

“Shake her up again, boys,” came from the main-hatch in Jimmie’s thin little voice, and we turned to in silence till the mate’s growl, “That’ll do the pumps,” put an end to the job. Then I asked Paddy how he was enjoying himself.

“To speak the truth,” he answered, wearily, “I’d rather be in me grave than where I am, and this is the first time I ever said such a thing aboard ship.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked him. “You’re always skylarking with the cook and steward.”

“Well, what’s the good in tryin’ to make a row?” he philosophically demanded.

“Don’t you get enough to eat?”

“Ye-e-e-s, but it’s not what I’ve heard the mate tell you it’s like. It’s the drivin’ we mind. But even that’s not the worst of it; you can’t do a thing to please the mate or the old man. I dunno about Mr. Rarx; you know I ain’t in his watch, but I guess he’s no better than most second mates, and I guess you know what that means. Work, work, work till you split yer finger-ends and then kicked around and thumped for a farmer. But I’m not makin’ a row,” he added, “only you asked me.”

Paddy, it must be said, is one of a rare species, a fair-minded sailor, which I discovered some time ago by his taking the mate’s part when telling me of some trifling incident that happened on board.

A couple of hours later, it being the second mate’s watch, I asked him to tell me honestly why he liked American ships better than others, knowing that he has sailed in English vessels.

“Well, the principal thing is the pay,” he replied. “It’s a good deal better in our ships than in foreigners; and the cabin table’s generally better, too. Now, there’s the British ship ‘Fulwood’ (a fine steel ship she is), I know they don’t have soft bread on the table but once a week.” It seemed to me that this would be quite a recommendation for the “Fulwood,” for we have yet to see soft bread aboard ship much better than a worn-out sponge. But as for the wages, he is certainly right. Take the wages out of Hamburg as an example. The chief officers of the largest and fastest express steamers receive an amount equivalent to only sixty dollars of our money! What sort of remuneration is that for a man of ability, in many cases a university graduate, a man second in authority aboard a ten-thousand-ton mail steamer rippling through the most crowded ocean in the world at twenty-one knots, with fifteen hundred souls below-decks? And it makes one positively angry to think of a human being like Goggins, a densely ignorant and practically worthless creature, a person who can’t work a traverse and get the same answer twice, receiving the same amount as mate of a wind-jammer! Why, our steward, a Malay and a man of low intellect, has a good deal more than half as much wages as the first officer of the “Normannia” or “Augusta Victoria”! It is positively incredible. Latitude, 16° 14′ south; longitude, 96° 30′ west.

August 14

Another day, beautiful beyond expression. We never remember one in all our sea experience that was as fine. The sun poured down from a sky without a shred of cloud, and the Trades, still as fresh as ever, came singing so sweetly and cheerfully over the starboard quarter, that you were moved to lean back in your chair and think, “Who is so happy as I?”

Even if the weather were not so delightful, our fine progress would cover a multitude of grievances, for we have done five hundred and eighty-six miles in three days, a continuous average of eight knots. If credible, the nights are even finer than the days, and we sat late on deck last evening plunking away on the banjo, with everything steeped in the white light of the moon just past the full. So wonderfully brilliant were her beams that the shadows of the weather mizzen-rigging cast upon the immense concave expanse of the main-sail stood forth as from an arc-light. The serenity of such a night is almost unearthly.

The first step in the rehabilitation of the ship for port has been progressing for two days,—the tarring down of the standing rigging. It is always the dirtiest job aboard ship, and the men are plastered from crown to toe with the sticky fluid. Next after this comes the painting, then the holy-stoning, and lastly the varnishing of what little bright work there is on the poop.

When at the pumps last evening I learned that the men had been deeply impressed with my having assisted the donkey the other night. Murphy especially seemed to extract much amusement from the fact, and when I told him that some exercise was necessary to health, he said that he never allowed that subject to bother him, adding, “There’s one thing I’m just grand at,—lyin’ in me bunk.” His appearance substantiates this statement, for he is as round and rugged as he was three months ago; I truly believe that he is the only man forward who doesn’t bear the marks of either Cape Horn or a belaying-pin. On the other hand, Louis the Gaul is the saddest and most dejected-looking man I ever saw. He has at all times that melancholy, dispirited look that one sees in the eyes of a captive ourang-outang. We talked together last night, and he informed me that this was his first American ship, and, please God, it would be his last. In very broken English, and in the deferential tones of a foreigner, he asked, “Sair, do your laws allow men to be treated as ze men are treated aboard zees sheep?”

“No,” I answered; “but so far there does not seem to have been any attempt made by the United States authorities to enforce the laws they have made.” Jacquin didn’t know enough English to go more deeply into the subject, and the talk drifted to the French navy, in which he has served sixteen years altogether; and when I told him that I knew the “Jean Bart” very well, his delight was child-like. Then he imparted a bit of rather astonishing news by saying that a man who has served for twenty years in the French navy (and it need not be all in one stretch) is pensioned by the government at three francs and a half per day. Besides possessing the second most powerful navy, France has some rattling fine square-riggers, such as the “La France,” the largest sailing vessel in the world bar the “Potosi,” the “Dunquerque,” and the “Quevilly,” the greatest tank sailing ship afloat, carrying one million gallons of oil in bulk between Philadelphia and Rouen.

Our pigeons have left us, and well they might, considering the latitude. What a distance they followed us! From 30° south in one ocean to 16° south in the other, and from the forty-fifth to the one hundredth meridian. Quite a stretch of salt-water that. Mother Carey’s chickens have come as a sort of compensation, hovering over our wake and darting down between the waves like swallows whizzing through the air after insects. Latitude, 14° 5′ south; longitude, 99° west.

August 15

Shall it be written that this day is the finest of all? It is even so, and I pray the reader to bear with me, and to remember that if he were in my place he would no doubt give expression to the same thought. If the entire voyage, except that part lying in the Pacific between the southern tropic and the equator, were composed of gales and snow-storms, it seems as though these winds would atone for any amount of previous distress and inconvenience. It seems wonderful that the atmosphere can possess simultaneously such exhilaration and such a smooth, luscious balminess. Oh, superb, glorious southeast Trades, thy equal is not in the world!

THE TRADE-WIND’S SONG.

Thus has Thomas Fleming Day delightfully written of the flowing Trades.

The men are busily engaged shearing away the great mops of hair that protected their heads in cold weather. Coleman (a man with a baneful eye and one who ought to be watched) seems to be the most accomplished tonsorial artist in the ship; he has already operated on half a dozen men, and all hands but one have assumed that appearance of cleanliness usual among sailors in the tropics. The exception is Tim, who, bar Mr. Goggins, is the dirtiest man on board. And now for a secret, profound and extraordinary! Let the peruser of these pages prepare himself for the concussion; let him brace himself for the impending blow! Mr. Goggins was seen to go forward to the galley an hour ago and return with a basin of water! Can it be possible that he is about to submit his face and hands to the purification of a quart, a whole quart of fresh water? But no; this could not be. Let us banish the thought. He would perish of shock. Yet it must be for this that he fetched the water, for it is the only conceivable use to which he could put it, so we live in hopes of a change at supper. We have never anywhere come in contact with a person so irreclaimably obnoxious, and we can only wonder why the captain allows him to come to the table in such a condition. If a man wants to be dirty, it’s his own personal affair; but when he becomes objectionable to others, steps ought to be taken to remedy the evil.

By far the most agreeable persons on board are the steward and cook, not to mention David MacFoy, who is so much more pleasant and entertaining than the rest that he forms a class all by himself. The cook, though, is a jolly little man, and welcomed us with much homely attention when we invaded his precinct the other day to learn how to make curry properly. To start with, it is hard to get good curry-powder even in India, and that which we brought back with us from Calcutta in glass jars is not as good as that which can be bought in San Francisco in square tins, that city being the only place in the United States where this particular sort can be obtained. But besides the necessity for good powder, there are certain proportions of chopped onion, flour, butter, etc., to be added in its preparation, so that in order to learn how to make curry properly it is necessary to witness the process as performed by an Indian or a Chinaman.

A rather interesting little fact to us to-day is that this is the first occasion on which three figures have ever been necessary to express our longitude. Latitude, 12° 5’ south; longitude, 101° 40′ west.

August 16

Fear not. I do not intend to say how much more beautiful to-day is than yesterday, though I should like to, and it is hard to refrain from doing so in such weather; but more than enough has been said on this subject. As a matter of fact, it is not quite so fine to-day, for the wind is dead aft, so that the after-sails are the only ones that do much good, and our run has not been quite up to the usual standard.

This has been a grand cleaning day forward. Every movable object was taken out of the forward house and spread on the forecastle-head in the baking sun, and a curious sight did the men’s old clothes and bedding present after lying mildewed and sodden for so many weeks. They lay in a wretched heap, the outside of which was composed of ancient, grimy bedticks, frowsy, ill-looking quilts, and disreputable, mouldy mufflers. The forecastle itself was then swept cleanly out and thoroughly washed with soap and water.

We have scores of snow-white birds with us now, about the size of common gulls, called bosuns. They are pretty creatures, with the most remarkable tails; for, instead of the usual fan-shaped arrangement of feathers, their bodies seem to be elongated into pointed spines, so thin and sharp that it is almost impossible to see the extreme end. These birds are very noisy and keep up a harsh croaking, whence their name, as a bosun is supposed to live in a continual state of exhortation. On coming up from supper last night just before six, we saw a plump, little feathered creature bearing down upon us, which had a very familiar appearance; and great was our surprise a moment later when we found that it was a Cape pigeon! Imagine one within six hundred miles of the equator! He must have been the last survivor of some vessel ahead of us, and, having abandoned her, concluded to stop and see if he couldn’t find some scraps here. He looked very calm sailing about on motionless wing among the flocks of bosuns and Mother Carey’s chickens that appear, in comparison, to make so great an effort at flying. This morning, though, we found that this, the last token of Cape Horn, had vanished. Mr. Rarx, however, didn’t seem much surprised at the appearance of the pigeon, and told us that he had seen them often in the harbor of Callao in 12° south.

In a maritime paper that the second mate showed us to-day there was rather an interesting article concerning the naming of ships. According to it, French merchant-vessels are usually called after provinces, towns, wines, and victories, but never after men, except the greatest men of French history. British ships are generally named after mythological characters, lakes, bays, glens, and cities; German vessels after rivers, ports, poets, states, and characters in German literature. The Italians name theirs after characters in Italian literature, and names of hope, courage, enterprise, and religion. Spanish ships are almost always called after cities or the great commanders in Spanish history. Norwegians and Swedes take the names of localities dear to them; while American ships are given the names of their owners, relatives, friends, or “any old thing.”

The same paper contained a short dissertation on scurvy. I wonder how many people there are who know that, according to the latest researches, scurvy is not a disease produced by eating salt meat? For many years Professor Torup, of the University of Christiania, has been studying this dreaded malady, scurvy, in all its forms, and about five years ago he proved to his own satisfaction that it is produced by ptomaine poisoning incident to putrefaction in meats which had not been properly cured or preserved. Fridjof Nansen believed in this theory, and when he was fitting out the “Fram” for her Arctic voyage he took the most extraordinary precautions to have every can or barrel of preserved meat that went on board in the best possible condition, particularly the salt meats. The sequel to this care was that upon his return every man on board was in perfect health, and had been during the three years’ voyage; this has been considered sufficient proof that it is poison in the meat, and not the salted meat itself, which produces that most ghastly of all diseases. Latitude, 10° 8′ south; longitude, 103° 56′ west.

August 17

Still the same weather conditions, with a little more wind and, strange to tell, a heavy ground-swell from the southwest. Imagine how hard the gale must have been to drive the swell through thirty degrees of latitude, as it is not probable that a wind strong enough to raise such a sea would prevail north of 40° south. Soon, indeed, now we will enter upon the last quarter of our voyage, and that portion of the Pacific between the line and 40° north is at this season often responsible for more long passages than any other part of the Cape Horn voyage. Many a flyer has rolled booming across the equator on a record-breaking trip, struck the Doldrums north of the line like running into a stone wall, and added fifty days more to the passage before sighting the Farallones. Just a year ago the “Shenandoah,” one of our fastest vessels, was forty-six days sailing up to ’Frisco from the equator.

Last night in the first watch I had a long talk with the second mate. It seems that he and Mr. Goggins have had words several times lately, and as Mr. Rarx knows what we think of the mate, he unburdened his mind in a very unusual manner. He says that Goggins would make a tip-top mate of a garbage-dumper, but that he isn’t fit for a geordie brig, much less a clipper ship, or what passes for a clipper in these days. “But the worst of it is, he’s no seaman; and when my watch on deck comes ain’t there a h—— of a fine mess, and I’ve got to do it all over again. And look at his men, the state he’s got ’em into; there’s not a man-jack o’ the whole lot that’ll turn a finger for him, with his shoutin’ and hollerin’ and swearin’. I wonder the captain shipped such a —— —— old cripple, for he knew him before. I’m gettin’ bloody sick o’ the voyage. What’s the matter with the mate is that he came in through the cabin-windows instead o’ the hawse-pipes.”

All this and much more did Mr. Rarx pour forth, working himself into quite a rage as he went along, and embellishing his discourse with regular handspike oaths.

In the American merchant service a mate always rises to that position through the various grades from ordinary seaman up; but on British ships boys (frequently gentlemen’s sons) sign for three years as apprentices, live aft, and are taught navigation and seamanship perfectly and practically by captains who are often privileged to write R. N. R. after their names, paying, I think, about one hundred guineas for this instruction. When this course is over they are fit for second mate, and in another two years pass for mate and then master. How different in America, where the law requires no examination for a man before he goes in command of a sailing vessel! How Mr. Goggins could rise to be mate from a cabin-boy without passing through the forecastle is quite marvellous, as he has always sailed in Yankee ships. He is a very obscure individual, though, and no doubt landed in the cabin in some inscrutable manner.

Mr. Rarx, on the other hand, would make a good mate of a large yacht were it not for his temper, which is very violent, and he has a way of harboring up revenge for petty trifles. We have seen more bad treatment of the men at the hands of Goggins; but my belief is that the second mate does considerable hammering on his own account the other side of the forecastle-house. It is a curious fact that so many bright men stick at second mate all their lives, never rising any higher, simply because they have never learned the use of a sextant, or how to copy figures from an epitome, for that’s all that navigation amounts to as carried on at sea. This is the great dividing line between first and second mate, which a man like Rarx could overcome in a few weeks of application. When a second mate has passed his thirty-fifth year his pristine ardor and zeal begin to wane, for by that time his aspirations for improvement are not so keen as they were; and if he is not a mate shortly afterward, he never will be. Similarly, when a mate has passed that age and never has had a command, he settles down in the capacity of chief officer, and by the time he is forty he performs his duties thereafter with no more ambition than the ox that hauls the plough. Many ship-masters refuse to take either a mate or a second mate who is more than thirty-five years old. Reference is made to sailing craft only, as men in the transatlantic mail service not infrequently reach fifty years before succeeding to one of the greyhounds. In the early days of Yankee clippers scores of men went out as master at twenty-one, and capable ones at that, as the records show.

Whenever there is a pause in the conversation at meals now, Captain Scruggs always fills in with some remarks about Nansen (or Naysen, as he always calls him) and Arctic expeditions. It is remarkable with what regularity he does this, and the mate as regularly asks in a grieved tone, addressing no one in particular, “And will yer tell me wot good hit’s a-goin’ to do when they do find the pole?” Then the skipper indignantly asks him if he supposes that an expedition is idle all the time in the ice; to which the mate replies, “Well, I know there’s nothin’ to be found out about the land up there, cause there hain’t none.” And then they go at it like a pair of quarrelsome cats, till suddenly the old man fetches the table a whack and cries out, “Very well, sir; you’re not here to argue; that’ll do, sir,” in his fiercest tones. At such times he looks like the ogre of childhood. These set-tos are extremely amusing, though, for neither knows anything about the subject, and the air throbs with “magnetic poles,” “Arctic circles,” and “phemomemoms.” By the way, it is interesting to know that England held the record for the highest latitude for two hundred and seventy-five years, or since Hudson’s voyage in 1607 to 1882, when the record passed to the United States, to be wrested from her thirteen or fourteen years later by the Norwegians. Let us hope that Peary, whom Sir Clements Markham calls “the greatest living ice-traveller,” will regain what we have lost, and this time succeed in attaining that geographical point, the quest of which has resulted in the loss of such splendid men as Franklin and de Long.

Almost all of the painting aloft has been finished except the lower masts. The topmast and lower mast-heads all glitter in the glory of a coat of dark reddish-brown, and the rigging fairly scintillates in the sun in its dress of glossy tar. Mr. Goggins says that he well remembers the first wire-rigged sailing vessel seen in the United States. She was a full-rigged London brig, and when she arrived in New York she looked so neat and trim aloft that even the old shell-backs, who doubted the efficacy of wire, were obliged to admit that in appearance, anyhow, she was away ahead of the old style. “But you wait till she strikes a gale o’ wind,” said these Solons, “and then you’ll see.” And they didn’t have long to wait, for on her return voyage to England she was totally dismasted three hundred miles west of Cape Clear. Latitude, 8° 19′ south; longitude, 105° 40′ west.

August 18

A still fresher breeze to-day, but it is dead aft. But we are moving so steadily in the same direction, northwest, that we slip through the water without appreciating how fast we are going; and as each noon puts us two degrees farther north, we ought to cross the line next Saturday. Gradually, too, we have been gliding into warmer weather, and last night we experienced, for the first time in the Pacific, the tremendous heat of the equatorial regions. There is something inexpressibly depressing to many people after a few days’ sojourn in the tropics; something that seems to drain the vitality. Personally I have never experienced this feeling, and exercise should never be omitted in hot weather by robust persons, although it should not be severe, and ought never be taken when the sun is more than ten degrees above the horizon.

This morning as we were hanging over the side in the shade, watching the copper slipping smoothly through the water, while a perfect cataract of cool wind poured over us out of the lee side of the cross-jack, we saw a disk of vivid green resting upon the surface of the clear, blue depths. We thought it was a cluster of sea-grass till the captain said, “Hello, there’s our first turtle.” So it proved to be, and as the ship passed within a few feet of him we had an excellent view of his broad, corrugated back, fully three feet across; he was reposing in peaceful slumber as we slid past, with head retracted, but feet and tail extended like a starfish, and he looked immeasurably comfortable, resting so placidly on the water, indolently rising and falling in the quiet sea; and we envied him, lying there in his clear, cool element. Latitude, 6° 38′ south; longitude, 107° 44′ west.

August 19

One hundred days at sea, and we celebrated the circumstance in real old-fashioned, long-approved Yankee style. Last evening, immediately after supper, we went up on the cabin-house and sat down to enjoy the sunset. All at once we heard angry voices forward, and then Louis, the Frenchman, shot head first out of the lee door of the carpenter-shop, followed by the massive body of Chips himself, who held in his hand a bludgeon. They were both in a passion. Louis dropped his hat as he flew through the doorway, and as he stooped to pick it up, smack! came the truncheon upon his flank. Then Louis straightened up, shot out his fist, and smote Chips painfully on the chin; the latter returned the blow, and in a second they were at it tooth and nail. Now, Louis is a very active, powerful man, and in a long spell he would, no doubt, wear the other out, but in close quarters he was no match for the carpenter’s weight; for a few seconds Louis prevailed, but Chips recovered, and, being a foot taller than the Gaul, he seized him by the throat and backed him over towards the rail, against which he caused Louis’s head to come into such frequent and violent contact that we could hear the tattoo where we sat. Then Louis began his national, low habit of kicking, but was unsuccessful in his contemptible trick, and they were still in the throes of battle when the mate appeared and cautiously hauled them apart. The shirts of both were in shreds and the Frenchman was in a fearful rage. By and by Chips came aft to supper; he bore no facial marks of the encounter save that he was very pale.

At seven o’clock I went up to one of the men, Charlie, and asked him what the row was about. He said that, as far as he knew, Louis went into the carpenter-shop to get some kerosene to cleanse the paint from his hands, and, having no business in there without permission, Chips had thrown him out. The carpenter, by the way, hasn’t been fair to the men lately with their water. One day off Cape Horn, when he went into the forecastle with the men’s allowance, one of them said to him, thereby exhibiting an unusually good spirit, “Say, Chips, there’s no good o’ givin’ us all that water in cold weather, we can’t drink it.” Then when the hot weather came and the men grew thirsty, Chips refused to give them more than they asked for off the Horn, though each man is entitled here to four quarts per day.

Well, then, we continued to sit where we were till after dark, discussing the event; presently eight bells went, MacFoy came aft with, “The watch is aft, sir,” to which the mate replied with the usual growl, “All right; relieve the wheel and lookout,” and the starboard watch came on deck. At about 8.15, in the midst of that deep, wonderful silence that pervades a sailing ship at night, we were startled by loud voices up near the main-mast, just where we couldn’t tell, as it was pitch dark; immediately afterward, however, we recognized the voices of Mr. Rarx and Louis, which quickly rose to shouting. The first sentence that we caught was from the second mate, the words coming in jerks, as though he had a man by the neck and was shaking him: “So you were in there tryin’ to steal oil eh? You —— —— French —— —— ——.” To which Louis answered in a loud voice, “I deed not, sair.” Then came another broadside from Rarx, and again, “Etees not so, sair.”

At this point several voices broke in, and the old man then ran down the weather poop-ladder to see what was the matter. Suddenly a death-like silence reigned for a few moments; then came a sound of scuffling, and all at once Rarx cried out, “God! He’s stuck me, cap’n!”

“What’s that?” yelled the skipper.

“The damned French hound’s put a knife into me, sir!”

Paralysis instantly fell upon all hands. The tension was fearful, but was relieved somewhat by the steward’s opening the port cabin door, allowing a broad path of light to stream forth into the darkness, which had hitherto rendered the affair mysterious and horrible. It fell upon a group of startled men by the main-mast, with the skipper in the centre supporting the second mate, while the latter, pressing his hands above his left hip, shuffled painfully aft. He was led into the cabin, where he sat down upon the coal-box, and I pulled up his shirt and exposed the wound. It was a wide gash in his side, a little to the front of and just above the pelvis. The blow had evidently been aimed at the groin, but in the darkness Louis had slightly missed. Rarx’s clothes were somewhat blood-soaked, but the flow had ceased, showing that probably none of the large arteries had been punctured. Still, there was more than a probability that he had been dangerously, nay, fatally, hurt, and even at that moment might be bleeding to death internally, and we could not tell whether or no any of the vital organs had been touched. The skipper ran at once for listerine, and together we contrived to bind up the wound and put the man to bed. Then the old man stepped out on the main-deck and shouted,—

“Send that Frenchman aft, Mr. Goggins, and put the irons on him.”

The mate went gingerly up to Louis, who, in the midst of a knot of men, was raving like a maniac, and, seizing him gently by the arm, led him aft. Oh, how that man raged and blasphemed! He was like an angry bull, and his loud voice rang out far over the peaceful ocean and echoed and reverberated high up overhead in the hollows of the upper sails.

“Did you hear what ’ee call me, sair?” in shrill tones. “I, who have bose fazair and mozair. I weel not stand zat, sair. I die fairst; you can keel me, sair. And I, I stuck ’eem; I would cut ’eem again, sair, or any one else, that call me zat name. I am a man, sair.” This last in a perfect shriek.

Never a word said the old man. Then Louis turned on him, and, insolently sneering, his head thrown back scornfully and one foot advanced, he cried,—

“And you, Capitaine Scruggs! What are you? I have been to sea twenty year and nevair saw a capitaine like you before. You starve us! you starve us! Why do you starve us? When we fairst left New York we ’ad plentee to eat, zee food was waste, and now for seex wicks we have had nossing at all. Bah! Peef! You, a man like you, a capitaine!”

At this juncture the skipper said abruptly, but without the least show of anger, for which great credit is due him,—

“Where’s the knife you cut the second mate with?”

“Where zee knife, eh? Here zee knife. Now you see it, now you don’t. Ha, ha!” And he jerked it over the side into the sea.

All this time the mate was fussing with the irons, trying to find a pair that would encircle his great wrists; but at length a pair was found, locked on his arms, and he was led aft to the wheel-house, several other pairs of irons in the mate’s hand clanking mournfully as he walked. Into the after-division where the tiller works Louis was hustled, and his hands were then fastened with a rope to a ring-bolt in a carlin overhead, so that he had to stand upright all night.

And what was my wife doing all this time? When Rarx had cried that he had been stabbed she had fled to her room, locking herself in, and sat shivering until curiosity compelled her to open the door on a crack and peep out; and when Louis and the mate stumbled along the alley-way by our windows, it sounded to her like the tramp of a ball-and-chain gang.

As soon as Louis was secured we turned our attention to the second mate again, and after reaching the conclusion that there was no internal hemorrhage, or, at least, none that our slight skill could detect, we drew the edges of the wound together, into which you might easily have thrust a plum, securing them with adhesive plaster, and then bound up the cut with listerine-soaked cloths. Poor fellow! he had a bad night. Two heavy doses of laudanum and a five-grain opium pill had no more effect on him than so much nitre; and it was not until shortly before eight this morning that he dozed away, only to be aroused by the clang of the huge breakfast-bell just without his door. He is suffering dreadfully, has a high fever, and has conceived the notion that he is in slivers inside.

At 8.15 this morning the after wheel-house door was opened, and the captain asked Louis if there was anything that he wanted, to which the Frenchman answered by turning his back with a shrug. Then the skipper said to him, “I just came to tell you that you’re no longer a seaman aboard this ship. You’re a prisoner, and will remain so till I hand you over to the authorities in San Francisco.” Then breakfast, consisting of burgoo, hard bread, salt beef, and coffee, was taken to him, and he was left alone till one o’clock, when a pannikin of soup was carried to him, which he refused, although he ate another piece of salt beef and a huge piece of soft bread. The manacles are knocked off when he eats, after which they are locked on again, and he is then left utterly alone. He is not allowed to enter the forecastle upon any pretext, and when it is necessary for him to go forward, the mate follows immediately behind.

At a little before nine this morning, as I was reading by the wheel-house, Paddy, who was steering, leaned out and whispered, “Look, the old man’s goin’ to read the riot act.” I glanced forward, and saw that the ship’s company had been mustered aft on the main-deck, with the captain glaring at them, but not in the least excited. I reached the break of the poop just in time to hear what it was about. Said the skipper: “I hear you men are finding fault with the food and say I’m starving you; is that so?”

Tim, with a villanous twist, came forward, and said, “It is, sor; and we don’t get enough wather to wash our hands wid,” holding out two dirty paws.

“Not enough to wash your hands with, eh?” said the old man. “It looks to me as if there was plenty of water over the side, and I believe you’ve got enough salt-water soap. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“It is, sor,” said Tim.

“Is there any one else in the same fix?” asked the skipper.

Coleman then stepped out and said the same thing about the food and water. Every one else seemed to find something mighty interesting in the deck-seams.

“All right. Mr. Goggins, you will see that the men are put on government allowance from now till I see fit to stop it. You can go forrad,” he added to the men.

It must be explained that on Yankee ships it is not customary to put men on the allowance prescribed by law as it is on foreign ships. On some of our ships the men are fed very well and on others miserably. We began here by giving all sorts of extra things to the men, apple-sauce, cheap jam, butter, etc., and when these “delicacies” ran out the men thought it strange, and then by and by, according to some of the most trustworthy of the sailors, the bread and meat themselves began to grow less and less. It would be much better if long-voyage American ships would adhere to the government allowance, and not give the men sweets one month and then suddenly stop them entirely; such a course always breeds discontent; and I have noticed that the mates have not been able to get any more work out of the men here even when they were luxuriating in their jam and butter, etc., than they did on the English “Mandalore,” where everything was weighed out to the ounce, and no “fixins.”

The serenity that ought to accompany a sea-voyage has been savagely dissipated, for go on deck and approach the wheel-house, and you instinctively recoil when you think that it perhaps contains a murderer. Go below to meals, and the smile vanishes from your face as your thoughts revert to the wounded man groaning in his dingy cavern. Over the ship hovers a silence such as falls upon a community when Death stalks through its midst. The men look grave, the mate gives his orders in low tones, and instead of the ringing chanties, the halliards are tautened up to a muffled “oh ho”; and the pumps would revolve in utter silence but for their own grinding clank.

As for the day, it was magnificent, and we continue to surge along over a sparkling ocean. Latitude, 4° 30′ south; longitude, 109° 58′ west.

August 20

After the excitement and turmoil incident to such an affair as happened yesterday, or rather the night before last, it is hard to get at the real facts of the case until the agitation calms down. Therefore it was not until a little while ago that we learned the truth about the row between Louis and Chips. It appears that before stowing away the heavy suit of sails when they had been unbent, some slight repairs were necessary on the lower foretop-sail. They were completed day before yesterday, and the sail was carefully rolled and tied up. The men were ordered to rinse the paint off their hands with kerosene, furnished them by the carpenter, so that they should leave no finger-marks on the white duck. Afterward, for some unknown reason, Louis wanted more oil, and personally went into the carpenter-shop to get it. Now, it is one of the strictest rules aboard all ships that no sailor shall ever enter the carpenter-shop in the absence of Chips; and when the latter, no doubt in an ugly mood, found Louis in there, he threw him out. After the fight the Frenchman was in a blind passion, and there were probably two reasons for his taking summary vengeance upon the second mate. In the first place, I have often seen him flush up with anger at the way in which some of the men have been treated, this being his first American ship; and he probably determined that if either mate laid hand on him unlawfully, he would show them that there was at least one man forward with the courage to defend himself. The second mate took him by the throat (Rarx admits that) while he, Louis, was quietly standing by the chicken-coop cutting off a plug of tobacco, being at the time perfectly well behaved, and the Frenchman, remembering his comrades, used his knife, ready in his hand. In the second place, the name which the second mate called him was the last straw. English, German, Scandinavian, and American sailors do not seem to care what they are called by the mates; but any one of the violent Latin races always resents this epithet with all the fury of which they are possessed. It is inconceivable, anyhow, why Rarx should have stirred up the row again. Chips ejected Louis from his shop. All right; he is there to guard that part of the ship, and did right in heaving him out of it; yet the second mate must needs rake it all up again two hours afterward, when he didn’t even see the original disturbance. Gradually I am beginning to lean toward the belief that Rarx and Louis have had a grudge against each other for a long time, and mayhap that little incident in the South Atlantic while the sails were being shifted, during which Rarx nearly threw the Frenchman off one of the mizzen-top-sail-yards, was not so much of an accident as it seemed.

By far the gravest question now is, was the knife that did the deed rusty? It was a sheath-knife such as all sailors carry in a little leathern scabbard by the hip. It must have been fairly bright, though, as there has been a great deal of use lately for sheath-knives in cutting away old chafing gear, and therein lies Rarx’s salvation. His sufferings are very great now; at long intervals he is somewhat easier, but he groans almost continuously in what seems to be excruciating agony, his breath comes in gasps, and perspiration oozes from his face in large beads, as he wallows and squirms in his narrow, hot bunk, almost crying aloud sometimes when the ship rolls.

And what of Louis? He has been removed to the lazarette and fastened, still handcuffed, to a thick stanchion. There he sits brooding in the gloom, for no light penetrates the apartment save by the booby-hatch that leads into it, secured with a chain heavy enough for a maintop-sail-sheet. He has, however, plenty of air and good food, including soft bread, which is no longer given to the men; but there is not space enough for him to stand upright in, a kneeling posture being the most elevated that he can assume. Still, there’s nothing else to do with him, for he certainly couldn’t be allowed at large. Three times a day the mate carries him his food, liberates him when he has finished and marches him forward, walking about five feet behind him, his hand gripping a pistol in his hip-pocket, ready for the least false move on the part of the Frenchman or any one else. The latter’s face is a study as he walks rapidly forward, his heavy, dark brows hanging sulkily over flashing eyes which he never raises from the deck. Through the midst of his shipmates he strides silently with bare feet, his immovable face shrouded in deep scowls, looking neither to the right nor left. They make way for him with averted heads as he passes through, followed by his jailer, and the men close up again as after the passage of a blood-hound in leash. Then in a moment back again he hurries along the deck, mounts the poop-ladder, descends into the dusky recess, holds out his hands, the irons are snapped on, with the chains between, and he is left for another five or six hours to muse in solitude upon his bloody deed. His face shows as yet no indication of relenting; but as day after day drags on in all its awful loneliness even his nature, however dauntless, must at last succumb to that most terrible of all punishments, solitary confinement.

As for the rest of the men, they have recovered somewhat and go about their work much as usual, bar the chanties, and I had lately another chance for a word with honest Paddy. “What do you think of this affair?” I asked him. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” he answered. “How is that?” wishing to sound him. “Mr. Rarx has always seemed a pretty decent fellow.” “Decent fellow!” he replied. “Say, look here, I didn’t say much about him to you the other day, but I’ll tell you what now, there’s not a single man in the fo’c’s’l what’ll say a good word for him, ’ceptin’ that he’s a fine sailor-man. His temper’s hell,” he went on, and I expected to hear of some more fine examples of discipline, for we were on the fore-castle-head and not likely to be seen, when “Come, come, Paddy, this ain’t the dog-watch,” broke sharply in, and we perceived the stalwart shoulders of the bosun rise above the ladder, which, of course, ended the conversation.

My wife is rapidly recovering from her nervousness, having in this respect exhibited almost miraculous recuperative powers. What a trying, not to say a terrible, position for a woman to be placed in! What a miserable termination to a voyage undertaken solely for pleasure! Indeed, though, while we have enjoyed the sea as much, perhaps more, than we ever did before, there have been so many adverse conditions on board with which we have had to contend, that, after all, this is a more or less appropriate termination to the passage. When Louis was first put into the lazarette my wife didn’t like it at all, as our room adjoins it, though separated by a stout partition or bulkhead; we have allayed her fears, though, and we never hear so much as the clink of the chain from the Frenchman, even at night. It is fortunate that our relatives have no suspicion of our position.

We are now permanently three hands short, for old Neilsen is still so seedy that his most arduous tasks are making sennit and mats and pointing and putting Turk’s-heads on ropes. At noon we found that a strong southwesterly current had retarded us, and we are not as far north by half a degree as we supposed. Precisely the same weather conditions prevail, this great ocean being still in a state of absolute rest. The wind is now east; an advantage, as it allows every sail to draw. Latitude, 2° 49′ south; longitude, 112° 30′ west.

August 21

Mr. Rarx is somewhat improved, we think, and this afternoon he is not in so much pain. When I went in to see him yesterday I was shocked at his appearance. His face was swollen and puffed and glistening with perspiration; he twitched suddenly in jerks and was so exhausted that a dozen consecutive words wore him completely out. The worst of all, however, was his rambling speech, due to five-grain doses of opium; these seem to me to be prodigious amounts to administer, and perhaps account for the excessive cardiac palpitation from which he suffers. During breakfast this morning he had a dreadful spasm of pain, and we could hear him crying, “Oh, oh, oh, oh!” and it was miserable to see this powerful man stricken down at one blow.

Louis still conducts himself with the grim indifference of a Sioux Indian; his chains have been double-riveted and shackled, and an idea of the massiveness of the gear may be obtained when it is said that the stanchion to which he is secured is five inches square and only four feet high, that being the amount of head-room in the lazarette. The skipper has to stand the second mate’s watches now, which is hard on him, as he is suffering acutely from rheumatism. Lately, or since we took the southeast Trades, he has been most astonishingly affable. We don’t know what to think of him; his argumentativeness has disappeared and he insists on conversing pleasantly at meals; in short, he has assumed a gracious benignity as surprising as it is welcome, and it proves that he knows quite well how to talk and act, and that his surly manner is simply the result of a morose temper. I expect that he wants to leave a good impression on our minds at the end of the voyage.

Our southwesterly current gave rise to a most astounding lie from the mate, to illustrate what he believes to be the erratic movements of the currents in the North Pacific. The incident happened on a bark in the San Francisco-Honolulu trade, of which he was mate at the time. This vessel carried no freight, but did a large passenger trade, and always carried cows along for fresh milk. “Well, sir, wot I’m a-tellin’ yer of ’appened onct on the houtward passage; one of our cows took sick and died, and of course we ’ad to ’eave ’er over the side, which we did in the northeast Trades. We reached ’Onolulu all right, and started back ag’in for San Francisco, when one mornin’ in the Trades the cap’n he says to me, ‘Mr. Goggins,’ says he, ‘wot’s that?’ ‘Wot’s wot?’ says I. ‘That there,’ says ’e, a-pointin’ over the weather-quarter. I looked, sir, and strike me blind if there warn’t the body o’ that cow, and we two ’undred mile to the north’ard o’ where we chucked ’er hoverboard. She’d drifted there nearly dead ag’in the Trades in twenty-seven days.” When I told this singular experience to the old man, he said, “The principal thing that’s the matter with Goggins is that he’s a d—— old fool.” This being the first occasion on which I ever knew a captain to omit the handle to a mate’s name.

However, Captain Scruggs himself told us a strange story later; but as he is painfully accurate and never enlarges on facts or figures, it is most likely true. He was bound from Seattle to Manila, master of the “Judas Dowes,” and while rolling down through the southeast Trades he fell in with a German ship which asked for the longitude. They had a little talk together with the flags, and it turned out that she was from Vancouver for Callao and that she was then one hundred and nine days out. Nor was this the most remarkable part of the affair, for she was thirteen hundred miles out of her course! Her chronometers were out and she had been drifting about in the strong currents for weeks, working by dead-reckoning. But if this is extraordinary, what shall be said of the voyage of the ship “Ravenscrag,” which arrived at Callao not many months ago, one hundred and eighty-four days from New Whatcom! This place with the musical name is on Puget Sound, so that the distance which the “Ravenscrag” had to traverse was not more than six thousand miles in a straight line, yet so extremely difficult is it to make the coast of South America on account of the Trades that she was half a year at sea. Sailing ships have to practically cross the Pacific before they can fetch a port on the Peruvian coast. Another instance of the delay of this voyage is afforded by one of our rear-admirals, retired, who told me that he was once almost one hundred days from San Francisco to Callao in a training-ship, which shows that the long passage of the “Ravenscrag” was not due to indolence and bad navigation. The latter vessel’s voyage was infinitely more extraordinary in comparison than the “T. F. Oakes’s” passage of two hundred and fifty-nine days from Hong-Kong to New York.

It is a pity that vessels have to stand so far to the westward here when bound north in order to get the northeast Trades, but unless they do they will fall into a great calm region that extends from the Central American coast to the one hundred and twentieth meridian, and which reaches as far north as the thirtieth parallel. This is also a cyclonic zone, which, at certain seasons (particularly in September), renders the voyage from Panama to San Francisco a very dangerous one even for large steamers.

The longest voyage that it is possible to make both in time and distance is that from Great Britain or New York to the Japanese and Chinese ports during the northeast monsoon, when vessels sail completely around Australia and the whole length of the Asian coast to 35° north rather than beat up through the Sunda Straits, the total length of the voyage being twenty-one thousand miles. The following recent passages taken from London “Fair-play” serve to show the duration of the voyage in days:

The “Whitney,” “Curtis,” “Kelley,” and “Eureka” are American ships, their average being one hundred and ninety days; the rest are English, with an average of one hundred and ninety-four, the miserable passage of the “Ancona” having spoiled the record of the Britishers. It will be seen, however, that not one of the ships went out in less than six months; compare this with the run of the American bark “St. James,” from New York to Shanghai, of ninety-eight days in the southwest monsoon, which was not a very wonderful passage.

The weather is as usual, save that there is a great increase in the humidity. Latitude, 1° south; longitude, 114° 40′ west.

August 22

North latitude! At nine o’clock this morning we crossed the equator in 115° 35′ west, and once more entered the Northern Hemisphere. Our passage of one hundred and three days from New York to this position is an average one, and we have yet twenty-seven days in which to reach San Francisco without breaking what the skipper says is his record of never having been at sea one hundred and thirty days.

A remarkable circumstance in connection with this part of the world is the low temperature of both sea and air; the former at noon was 77° and the latter only 70°, or about the same as the sea in August at New York. In the Indian and Atlantic Oceans the sea temperature at the equator is 84° and the air 86°.

We certainly made a fine run up from Cape Horn. Four weeks ago to-morrow we were in 60° south, and have, therefore, sailed thirty-six hundred miles of latitude and forty degrees of longitude in twenty-seven days. But the wind has been very, very light for twenty-four hours. We did only one hundred and one miles and just did contrive to wriggle across the line. Perhaps this is only a light spell in the Trades, as this wind at this season ought to carry us seven or eight degrees farther north.

Sufficient unto the day, etc. The memory of that miserable night last Wednesday is already beginning to grow dim. Mr. Rarx is improving; the terrific palpitation of his heart has ceased, and he has had much natural sleep lately. He did a strange thing last night in the middle watch: he got up out of his bed and sat for an hour in a chair; his heart was much relieved, he said, and he certainly does look better.

This being Sunday I had a long talk in the afternoon watch with MacFoy, who confirmed what Paddy said of Rarx’s temper. Then happening to mention Coleman, the bosun remarked, “He’s been pretty quiet since Mr. Rarx laid him out.” “Laid him out when?” I asked. “Why, didn’t you know he near killed him when we were towin’ to sea? No? Oh, dear! We were haulin’ aft the foresheet and Coleman turned his head to say a word to the man behind him, when the second mate come around the house and kicked him pretty hard in the legs. ‘What are yer kickin’ me for, sir? I didn’t do nothin’.’ ‘You lie,’ said Mr. Rarx. ‘What are you sayin’ to that man? Givin’ me back talk, too.’ Well, sir, with that he jumped on him when he was stoopin’ over, and I thought his ribs ’ud go afore he got through with him. Now, look; a bosun’s supposed to be on the mate’s side. But I say there’s no bit o’ use in a-smashin’ a man all up that didn’t deserve it, as I’ve seen dozens o’ times in American ships. I must say there’s some tough cases sails in Yankee ships, but whose fault is that? It’s the fault o’ the cap’ins and mates themselves. What man with a little bit o’ self-respec’s goin’ to allow himself to be knocked around the decks when he can sail in other ships, even if he is only a foremast hand? A dog won’t stand that, but he can run away from the man what beats him; but the sailor can’t. But the worst of the whole thing is that American mates don’t make any difference atween a blackguard and a man what’s doin’ his best. Some men’s got to be thumped, it’s the only way to handle ’em; but what’s the good o’ hittin’ a man with a block like the second mate did to Karl and then hazin’ him for the rest o’ the passage. It’s mighty little you know what’s been goin’ on here up forrad; they’ve kep’ it quiet, for I guess the old man told the mates not to let out afore you and the lady. But there was a hot time under the forecastle-head some days off the Horn. I was goin’ out in the ‘S. G. Alley’ a couple o’ year ago to Japan. ‘Black Taylor’ was mate of her, the toughest man in the toughest ship under the flag. We were makin’ sail off the Hook and there was a man surgin’ up on a rope at a capstan; the rope was wet and wouldn’t render easy, but paid out in short jerks, which, of course, the sailor couldn’t help. Taylor spotted him, and sung out that if he did it again he’d come over and fix him. In a minute or so the rope slipped an inch again, and with that Taylor runs over to him and kicks him into the water-ways, and was goin’ to lep on his stummick when the man all at once jumped up, whipped out a knife and drew it up the mate’s vest. His insides fell out on the deck and he died in a little while. Of course the ship couldn’t go to sea without a mate, so we turned back to New York. The sailor was jugged, and what d’ye think he got? Six months! He pleaded self-defence and Taylor’s black record decided the jury. I’ll bet this Frenchman of ours’ll get nothin’ at all if only one man’ll stand by him and tell what he’s seen Mr. Rarx do. I’ve sailed in a good many American ships, and in every one of them some one was cut up afore we got in. I’m thinkin’ o’ the Snug Harbor or you’d never see me in another one.” Latitude, 0° 7′ north; longitude, 115° 47′ west.

August 23

We went along pretty slowly last night, for only the faintest of breezes came whispering over the Pacific; and it was so still that we could plainly hear the sighing of porpoises as they rolled languidly through the water alongside, a brilliant flash of phosphoric light showing where each disappeared. At daylight this morning, though, a delightful breeze came singing out of the east-southeast, and by nine o’clock we were making seven knots, doing twenty-nine miles in the forenoon watch,—no mean speed for the equatorial ocean. It seems that the light spell was only a lull in the Trades, for there are plenty of indications of wind round about.

At 4.30 yesterday, after pumping, I had yet another conversation with the doughty Scot. “Have ye taken notice of the way the mate’s slacked up on the men?” he asked; “that’s a bad sign, now. Here’s this man cut; before ye’ll remember how he used to shout and charge around the decks. What do ye hear from him now? Nothin’ at all. I haven’t heard him raise his voice to one o’ the men since Wednesday night. Why? ’Cause he’s scared. He’s in a funk; and I have the task o’ keepin’ the ship in order forrad. One o’ them, Tim, was goin’ to get ugly this forenoon; but I turned on him sharp and says, ‘See here, now, drop that; you’ve laid one man out, haven’t you? You have; but I’m d—— if you’re goin’ to lay me out,’ says I, and that settled it for the time. Who’ve I got to depend on if they do break out? The mate’s no good, and t’other bosun’s only a child. When Mr. Rarx gets up again you’ll see some fireworks. Did ye ever hear anythin’ about Cap’n Slocum in the ‘D. G. Tillie’? He’s another hard nut. I was comin’ around in her once from Baltimore, bound to ’Frisco with a load o’ coal. One o’ the men forgot to say ‘sir’ to the second mate one day in a hard squall; so Slocum clapped the irons on him, and then near beat the life out of him with a fid. This little bit o’ fun, though, I heard cost him near two thousand dollars. I’ll tell ye the ships you’d ought to sail in if ye make another voyage,—one of the Loch Line; they’re grand ships, and run like men-o’-war; I’ve been in them, and they’re the best that sails the seas.”

They are, doubtless, the best run sailing ships in the world, and were built not alone to carry agricultural implements and wool in the London-Melbourne trade, but to take out passengers as well. There are fifteen of them, and all named after Scottish lochs, and they vary in size from twelve hundred to two thousand tons. If all ships were as fast as the “Loch Torridon,” tramp steamers would be at a discount. This vessel goes wherever she can find a charter, and has made a number of wonderful records. She holds the best record for a deep-loaded ship from Newcastle, Australia, to San Francisco,—forty-six days. In 1891 she made the passage from Sydney to London, wool-laden, in eighty days, beating a fleet of seventy-eight vessels, similarly loaded and bound to the United Kingdom. It was on this voyage that Captain Pattman, who has commanded the ship for sixteen years, made a record that is simply marvellous, by sailing from the Diego Ramirez to the Lizard in forty-one days! In 1892 the “Loch Torridon,” in ballast, went out to Melbourne from London in sixty-nine days, and the consecutive runs for nine days were, in knots, 302, 290, 288, 272, 285, 282, 270, 327, and 341; and from Saturday noon to Saturday noon the ship made 2119 knots, an average of 303 knots per day, or about thirteen miles per hour. Another fast passage of this gallant ship was from Newcastle, Australia, to Valparaiso in thirty days. It is easy to imagine the intense pride that a ship-master must feel in such a vessel. Her picture appears on the opposite page. It is a pity that her royals are clewed up.