At half-past one we decided to signal her, and ran up our number, to which she instantly replied that she was the “La Pallice”; then we informed her that we were from New York bound to San Francisco, fifty-one days out, while she proved to be from Hamburg for the same destination, and was fifty-nine days at sea; after which we dipped our ensign, which she answered with the tricolor of France.

We are reading Nansen’s “First Crossing of Greenland” together with the greatest interest, being one of the most charmingly written of all stories of Arctic work. What a delightful time we will have with his “Farthest North”! We have it on board, but I am waiting till we pass 50° south, so that we can read it in a part of the world almost as rough and desolate as he passed over in his great journey. Latitude, 42° 24′ south; longitude, 52° 36′ west.

July 2

We had a good breeze from the south all last night and this morning, which put us off to about west by south; but, as our aim for the past four or five days has been to make westing rather than southing, this breeze was most acceptable. The strong wind of yesterday eased up in the second dog-watch last night, and we carried the top-gallant-sails without trouble afterward.

A great change has taken place in the temperature, for at eight this morning the thermometer stood at 38° in the air and 47° in the water,—a fall in thirty-six hours of 15° in the atmosphere and 16° in the sea. People who have never been exposed for consecutive hours to a temperature at sea of between 30° and 40° can have no just idea of how penetratingly cold the wind is when the mercury drops below 40°, or of how many clothes it is necessary to wear if one wants to stay on deck a long while without constant motion. For example, I have on now two suits of heavy underwear, pilot-cloth trousers, a heavy jersey, a whip-cord waistcoat, a padded leather jacket, and a mackintosh; the costume is completed with mention of knitted woollen gloves and socks and leather boots and ditto hat. Now, there are numerous brawny, burly individuals who will ridicule this mass of apparel, and insist that one ought to keep moving, which would make it unnecessary. But to begin with, our promenade is here limited to seventy-five feet instead of several hundred, as in the case of a transatlantic steamer; and, besides, I have not that maniac passion for pedestrianism which lays so fierce a hold on some people the instant that they set foot upon a vessel’s deck. When I want exercise, half an hour at the pumps, even in cold weather, is sufficient; and I’ll warrant that it would be enough for the brawny, burly individuals before noticed. Neither of us came to sea to stay below, so we pile on sufficient clothes to repel even the strongest blasts, and can sit comfortably and unruffled for hours on deck without a break.

Points in connection with such a voyage as this can be learned only by experience; our first one gave us all that was necessary, so that we knew exactly what to bring with us this time. A leather jacket very thickly lined is almost inconceivably useful, as are a pair of heavy leather knee-boots, at least one size too large, to allow for woollen socks. Such boots well greased will be sufficiently water-tight for all ordinary purposes, and if they should become water-logged, they can always be dried at the galley-fire; rubber boots, though, should never be omitted from the sea wardrobe. The best head-gear is a woollen cap with ear-flaps, and a sou’wester, of course, for bad weather. As to oilskins, there is now manufactured a water-proof stuff, which has proved in this case to be everything that is claimed for it. It is brown in color, and in texture much like a mackintosh, but harder to the touch, and is in two pieces,—short jacket and trousers. These suits have been used in the life-saving service on the Atlantic coast, and the only objection which the men made to the suits was that the sand cut the stuff in a high wind, so that in a short time it became quite porous. At sea, however, I have never found the equal of one of these suits; and, as a test, I stood for two hours yesterday in drenching rain and spray in one position, so as to allow the elements full continuous sweep at one point, and when we went below the inside of the jacket was not even damp. A long oil-skin coat is extremely unwieldy at sea, for if it is blowing at all hard the skirts cling to the legs most aggravatingly, and I have had some hard falls by being thus tripped. All mates wear long yellow coats, however, and I wondered why until yesterday, when I asked Mr. Goggins if a short jacket and pants wouldn’t be more comfortable; but he replied, indignantly, “Wot do yer think I am, a foremast ’and?” It seemed to me that a mate who has to wear a long coat to distinguish him from an ordinary sailor must be like the man who tells another that he himself is a gentleman,—he must be somewhat in doubt about it.

It is to be hoped that this treatise on deep-sea garments has not proved a bore; but after our previous voyage so many persons asked us what we wore in bad weather in the Southern Ocean, that the above explanations may not be out of place. My wife dresses much as she would for golf,—a short skirt and leather gaiters for clear, cold weather, with yellow oil-skins when it rains and the spray flies.

We observed some further fine cloud effects to-day a little after sunrise, the horizon being smothered at frequent intervals with dense squalls; and at nine o’clock a ponderous mass of cumulus cloud appeared in the south, rearing its immense domes nearly to the zenith, like heaps of yellow wool, for the sun’s reflection changed the color of the great bank to that of rich cream, while far below, at the base, the cloud shaded off into a dim, sable mass. “There’s snow in that fellow,” quoth the skipper, which was certainly true, for ten minutes later we were swallowed up in a thick snow-squall, which lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes. Snow seemed to be a singular phenomenon on the second of July, not to mention the biting cold. Latitude 43° 8′ south; longitude, 56° 45′ west.

July 3

This morning broke with a clear sky and little or no wind, and when the sun came up fine and rosy, he looked over the rim of the horizon across an azure sea just crinkled by a faint westerly breeze. Light as it was, though, there was a biting sting in it which, before breakfast, set the teeth chattering and raised one’s knuckles into big gristly knobs. The broad sweep of the South Atlantic was well-nigh motionless, for it was only at considerable intervals that a slight swell came sighing up from the Antarctic, and the sea was as calm as off Newport in August. Clothes suspended against the walls hung without motion, and we might well have fancied ourselves in Long Island Sound; as for the day, it was cloudless save for an occasional snow flurry, which lasted only a few minutes. This clear, cold, merry weather at sea is indescribably charming, though, no doubt, the men would tell a different tale, for Olsen and Jacquin, who were mending an old fine-weather royal on the cabin-house this morning, had to knock off work now and then to beat some feeling into their stiffened fingers before they could drive the needles through the canvas.

As we draw nearer and nearer to Cape Horn the men are daily growing very anxious to know the ship’s position, and as I am, of course, the only individual on board who will gratify their curiosity, they often ask me several times a day. Frequently, on the main-deck, a man will ask what the position is in a very low tone, after a careful scrutiny round about to see that none of the after-guard is hard by. Sometimes, as I pass by the wheel-house, I am assailed in a raven’s whisper with, “Say, mister, what’s the latitood?” and their pleasure at being told is quite child-like. A passenger on a sailing ship, by the way, is seldom, if ever, called by his name; he is simply “mister.” Of course, in a general way, sailors often get an idea of the approach of land from the discoloration of the water, the increase in the number of vessels sighted, and the presence of land-birds; but the average sailor probably couldn’t tell within much less than a thousand miles of where he is on a voyage like this. Even a second mate is generally very much in the dark on this subject, for he is never a navigator on American ships, as he ought to be, and keeps no reckoning. We have often seen Mr. Rarx go up to the mate and hint in various ways that he would like to know the ship’s position at noon. The mate sometimes tells him; but Mr. Rarx is too good a seaman to stand well with such a man as the mate, who does not know very much more of that art than some of the sailors. Besides, it might get to the men through one of the bosuns, which would be truly horrible and unspeakable; therefore, unless there is a passenger aboard, sailors live in almost blank ignorance of their whereabouts throughout a four or five months’ voyage.

The bosun of the port-watch, big MacFoy, has been limping badly for several days, his left foot being so severely mashed and swollen that he cannot bear even a loose rubber boot on it. This is the result of a sea which fell upon him one night at the weather forebraces. It slung him across the deck and jammed his foot against a fife-rail stanchion, but luckily broke no bones. I have promised to give him a glass of grog to-morrow, the Fourth of July, but exceeding caution will have to be exercised lest I be apprehended by the powers.

Yesterday the main-spencer was rigged, and as this is a heavy-weather sail, a description of it may prove of interest. It is otherwise known as a storm-try-sail, and, being a fore-and aft-sail, is set on the main lower mast. A number of stout screw-eyes were driven into the mast, extending from a point about eight feet above the deck to an iron band three feet below the top; through these eyes an iron rod was inserted, and to this rod the sail was laced. A standing-gaff was then rigged, furnished with hoops, to which the head of the sail was bent, the method of setting being by hauling it out on the gaff, like the fore- and aft-sails on steamers. It is forty-four feet long on the luff and twenty-two on the gaff, and is, of course, of No. 0 duck, with a bolt-rope nearly as big as the fore-tack. The spencer is what is known as a steadying sail in bad weather, and is usually set after the courses have all been hauled up and the ship is head-reaching under the lower topsails, or when the ship is regularly hove to.

There was a very turbulent scene enacted while the sail was being bent. The mate was aloft, swinging over the rim of the top in a bowline, trying to fit the end of the gaff into a gooseneck, both man and spar flying wildly about as the ship rolled. Two vangs led down from the gaff-end to the deck, one on either side, while a man on each, trying to hold it steady, was jerked about like the tail of a kite. The mate was already in a passion, for no sooner would he have the end nearly in the socket than away it would fly, while he himself brought to with a thump against the futtock-shrouds. At this juncture Captain Scruggs appeared with his sextant. It was the signal for chaos. Everything almost immediately was plunged into inextricable confusion. Something had manifestly gone wrong with the old man below, for he was bristling when he laid down his instrument on the deck-house and walked with foreboding leisure to the break of the poop. You could see that he was seething within himself; but for some time he appeared totally unconscious of the mate, the spencer, and everything else; but when the gaff drew off and smote the taut weather-shrouds with the force of a steam-hammer, he thought it was time to take a hand. Did the mate give an order he would instantly countermand it, sandwiching in sarcastic remarks, such as, “Ah, that’s beautiful! You’d make a master-rigger, you would. Think you’ll git that in by dark? I could put the whole main-mast in while you’re scratchin’ away up there.” At these pleasantries old Goggins fairly snarled and bared his teeth in devilish grins, but kept silent. At last, seeing a chance, he bawled to the man below who was surging up on the rope, “Lower away smart, now.” “Hoist away, there,” immediately cried the skipper. Behold the fatal straw on the dromedary. “’Ow in the name o’ G—— am Hi to do this, Cap’n Scruggs, if you don’t let me alone?” And then they went at it like Kilkenny cats, so that the air quivered with blasphemous discharges. It was quite astonishing to hear the mate answer back with such intrepid vehemence, and they kept it up so long that the captain lost his sight; for when he removed his sextant the sun was falling, which didn’t add very much to the geniality of his temper. Scenes of this sort are heralded with the most intense joy by the men, who turn their heads away to hide faces which actually glisten with delight. Latitude, 43° 13′ south; longitude, 58° 24′ west.

July 4

We celebrated Independence Day not with pyrotechnical demonstrations, but with a remarkable barometric performance: it fell seven-tenths of an inch in ten hours, from 30.40 to 29.70, and this with an ugly look to windward. The breeze began to freshen late yesterday afternoon, and at five o’clock in came the fore- and mizzen-royals. At table, the various utensils suddenly began to jump about, which was very astonishing, inasmuch as the sea was almost perfectly quiet half an hour earlier. The breeze kept on making, and when we came up from supper, at six o’clock, the captain ordered the main-royal- and mizzen-top-gallant-sail clewed up. At this time the ship was diving heavily, and it was time to take the fore- and maintop-gallants off her, too; the skipper had just concluded to furl them, when, with a great weltering plunge, the ship pushed her lofty flaring bows completely under a coaming sea, and then instantly rearing back, the enormous mass of water was projected with terrific force against the forward end of the forecastle-house. It smashed the lee door like cardboard, though it was three inches thick, and then washed aft like a Hooghly bore, absolutely filling the lee decks to the rail with solid water,—that is, it was six feet deep in the scuppers, and it seemed incredible that any bulwarks could withstand the strain; yet the water ran off in a few minutes, leaving no further trace of its power than a snarled mass of running gear which had been lifted off the pins. Good luck that the lookout had just been ordered to the top of the house instead of the forecastle-head, or there wouldn’t have been much of him left after that sea had struck him.

The forecastle, though, was a spectacle indeed. Its doors open forward, which no sailor likes; and when the big sea came from dead ahead and stove the lee door, the water poured into the house in thousands of gallons. It stood a foot deep on the floor, and shot up violently to the carlines at every roll, washing the men’s bedding out of even the topmost bunks (they are always built in three tiers, one above the other), while their chests went banging about in the deep water, the majority of them burst open, and others broken all to pieces. The sills of the doors on all ships opening on the main-deck are usually about eighteen inches high, to prevent the entrance of water, if possible; but if, as in this case, a great quantity find its way into the forecastle, these very sills prevent its egress. To be sure, there are leaders which are supposed to draw the water off, but they are so small that more than an hour passed before all the brine had disappeared. How sorrowful and helpless the poor fellows looked as they surveyed their drenched clothes and broken chests! and, worse than all, the dank, soaked forecastle. It means more suffering and privation than landsmen have any idea of, for the men will have to sleep in soggy, clammy, mildewed bunks for at least a month. No forecastle ever dries off Cape Horn, on account of the intense humidity of that region; and even if the forecastle has a stove in it, it doesn’t dry things out, but calls forth instead a rank steam from the reeking walls, which pervades the room like a foul mist.

All this time the glass had been falling, and we looked for bad weather; the captain had the main-sail hauled up, and in every way stood by for a heavy blow. But we worked out a false reckoning, for the wind shortly afterward let go more than half, while the aneroid rose to 29.85, where it is now. Since six o’clock this morning we have been about six points off our course, with the wind at south-southwest; therefore the captain once more wrapped himself in his mantle of wrath, and throughout dinner kept mumbling continuously to himself concerning the probability of there being a Jonah on board. This was not the first time that he has hinted at such things, and, though we knew well that he meant us, I didn’t say anything, but let him growl on. It is almost impossible to conceive how unpleasant it is to be considered a Jonah aboard ship; it is easy to say, “What’s the use of paying any attention to it?” But you can’t help heeding it, though it is only superstition, and the eyes of every one on board aft seem to say, “Look at the Jonah.” Foremast hands do not care how long they are at sea if they get decent food and even passably good treatment; indeed, the saying among them is, “More days, more dollars.” Still, in spite of everything we are reminded of that dismal verse in the “Ancient Mariner,”—

There is another cause, however, for the skipper’s bad temper; yesterday we slaughtered our first pig, and at all three meals to-day we had fresh pork. Captain Scruggs caused prodigious quantities of it to disappear and has been in anguish ever since. Indeed, it is hard to imagine anything edible which will so upset one’s digestion as fresh pork at sea; it is bad enough ashore, where plenty of exercise is to be had, but aboard ship one hearty meal of pork freshly killed will cause an incredible amount of distress. The skipper instanced an illustration of how difficult it is to digest at sea: on the last outward voyage he killed a pig just before he reached San Francisco, and, the weather being too warm to keep the meat sweet, most of it was given to the sailors. Now, these men can digest sour, soggy bread and salt beef like ironwood, yet this fresh pork vanquished them, and five men were actually laid up in their bunks at the end of the second day.

Had many severe hail-squalls during the last twenty-four hours, but fine weather otherwise, sharp and clear. Latitude, 44° 41′ south; longitude, 59° 58′ west.

July 5

Very light southerly airs and a calm sea have added vastly to our surprise at such weather off Patagonia. How remarkable it is to find these gentle, variable winds here, when the popular notion of this region is a continuous westerly gale! Findlay’s “South Atlantic Directory,” however, indicates generally fine weather from 40° to 50° south near the land, and this has been our skipper’s almost invariable experience, except that the wind ought to be to the northward instead of to the southward of west; at the present moment, though, the breeze shows signs of hauling to the northward with the sun, instead of against, so perhaps it will stop there for a while. The wind has been so light and contrary for the twenty-four hours, that in that period we made only eight miles of latitude and seven of longitude!

My wife and I have finished reading Nansen’s “First Crossing of Greenland,” and during its perusal we learned some remarkable facts. For instance, it is strange how the body craves fat or grease of any sort when deprived of it for a long while; and it is also very odd to read that a lump of butter eaten alone slakes the thirst of men in the Arctic regions! I wonder why Nansen doesn’t undertake the ascent of Mount Everest? It seems to me that he, with all his strength and vitality, would be peculiarly well fitted for such an expedition, not to mention his being a man of science. How much interest the writings of Sir Joseph Hooker would lack if that great mountaineer had not been a scientist! The amount of risk to Nansen, too, in comparison with an Arctic voyage, would be very small; while the glory of being the first to stand upon the topmost pinnacle of the earth’s surface could be dwarfed only by the attainment of the Pole itself. I have loaned the second mate the Greenland book, as Mr. Rarx is deeply interested in such work, and is desirous of joining an expedition to the North Pole. He fears not being able to pass the physical tests necessary before becoming a member of the crew, but as he has considerable knowledge of the Peary Greenland expedition, it is my notion that he tried to join it, but was rejected; and as he laid stress on the fact that no one would be taken who had any old scars on his person, it is not unlikely that he was barred for this reason. Considering his lean, powerful frame, he ought to be well able to endure hardships.

Looking at the spencer, which is, of course, brailed up in such light weather, Mr. Rarx said, “Oh, those are great sails! Wait till it’s blowin’ and she under that and the topsails! They’ll stand a power o’ wind, but I’ve seen ’em blown away. I was second mate of a Nova Scotia ship, the ‘Mary L. Burrill,’ a few years ago, and we were bound across this time from Greenock to St. John in February, which it isn’t necessary for me to say anything more about the weather. We’d be’n lyin’ to for twenty hours under a goose-winged maintop-sail and spencer when the wind all at once rose to a perfect hurricane and hove us down to the hatches. And then the maintop-sail and that there spencer, sir, nearly as hard and thick as a plank, flew away like a muslin handkercheef; and though we had double gaskets on all the sails, four of ’em was blown loose and ripped off the yards like paper. Now, it’s blowin’ pretty hard when a lower maintop-sail goes, but nothin’ short of a hurricane can budge a new spencer. But no canvas ever made will stand a North Atlantic midwinter gale, and you hear me. We sighted a big White Star freighter this day, and she afterward reported the wind eighty miles an hour between the squalls; not in ’em, mind. And if you want to see somethin’ to put joy in your heart, you ought to see these big White Star steamers in a heavy gale! I saw the ‘Cufic’ once comin’ across in another cyclone in the ‘J. B. Walker,’ and the way she kept clear of the seas was a caution. I’m a good enough American, but you can’t beat Harland and Wolff very much.”

Mr. Rarx is an infinitely more agreeable man to talk to than the mate, who is the longest-winded and most tiresome old porpoise who ever spun a yarn. His only recommendations are his hideousness, which is positively attractive, and his strange, absurd facial contortions when he doesn’t intend to be funny. Sometimes during the first watch, when it is very dark, with the exception of the binnacle lamp which casts its rays upon him as he crosses its path, he is actually weird-looking. His voice, too, is as husky as a rusty hinge now, owing to a severe cold, and last night he vented some curious statements. Neither of us had said a word for maybe five minutes, I watching the compass card, he grinning and mouthing to himself in the moonlight. Presently he wormed himself over to where I stood, looked earnestly at me a few seconds and croaked,—

“You’ll see plenty of people in California with no teeth.”

“How is that?” said I.

“Dunno,” he replied; “they do say it’s the climate; anyhow, you’ll see lots with nothin’ but gums.”

Then he crawled back to the other side, performed some further silent, facial acrobatics, returned, and wheezed out mysteriously, “You’ll be bothered with fleas there; they’re that plenty I always has a regular quadrille with ’em.”

A remarkable habit the captain has at table of asking the mate if he won’t have some of everything in sight; no matter how many dishes there may be on the board, the skipper always gazes fiercely at him for a moment, and then says rapidly and severely, “Have some of the salt meat, Mr. Goggins? Have some beans? Have some potatoes? Have some bread? Have some sparrow-grass?” All this in one breath, to which the mate answers, “A leetle, if you please, sir;” or if it’s a second asking, which is merely form, he replies with his droning, “No-o-o, sir, I thank you, sir; I’ve ’ad sufficient, sir, I thank you, sir,” as though to show how he is depriving himself, for he insists that it is vulgar to enjoy eating!

Sometimes the old creature corners my wife and me and entertains us with anecdotes of his acquaintances in San Francisco and how excessively numerous his influential friends are there. He will tell us that ’Arry Dolan is now getting seventy-five dollars a month at the Union Iron Works; and when we venture the opinion that he must be a rising young man, he answers, “Oh, ’Arry’s all right. Why, I knew him w’en he was gettin’ only three dollars a week at the Works.” Here generally follows a genealogical history of the Dolans for several generations, while their individual characteristics become the subject of minute discussion.

Well, we’re beating slowly, slowly, down the inhospitable shores of Patagonia, and our luck doesn’t seem to be much better than it was in the southeast Trades. Latitude, 44° 49′ south; longitude, 60° 5′ west.

July 6

If our nautical instruments had not assured us that we were at noon in about 45° south, distant one hundred and twenty-five miles from Cape Dos Bahios, we might easily have imagined the ship to be lying off Staten Island in New York Harbor. We never but once before saw the sea so free from swell, and that was in the Indian Ocean, thirty-four miles south of the equator; which position we not only held for twenty-four hours, but during that entire period no one perceived the least motion in the ship. It is true that to-day we made nearly one hundred miles; but from eight till eleven this forenoon we were motionless on the water, while a stage was slung over the stern a foot from the surface, on which the mate and the carpenter worked for two hours on the rudder-head; it is only once or twice during an entire voyage that a vessel for hours at a time will not rise and fall twelve inches. To us it is really a remarkable experience to thus float silently along within three hundred and fifty miles of the Falklands, though the skipper says, “Well, I told you we’d have light weather north of 50°.”

At noon to-day, however, the western sky indicated a breeze, and presently a little breath stole ever so gently over the quiet ocean, scarcely curling the smooth, level plane of the sea; and, gradually freshening, the ship gathered steerage way in five minutes or so and began to lazily move ahead through a large flock of Cape pigeons which had settled to feed in great numbers during the calm, though we could perceive nothing edible in the water. The birds seemed to delight in the breeze as much as we did, for in light weather they seldom rise higher than a few feet above the surface, lacking the force of wind which enables them to rise easily; as in a strong breeze they make no further effort than to guide themselves, rising and falling without movement of wing. A huge, hoary albatross, a perfect old patriarch, has been with us all day, skimming over the water so closely as to touch it occasionally with his breast, and seldom more than a foot from it. It is wonderful that they can maintain so close and uniform a flight to the surface, without movement and in a calm.

The day before yesterday, being more exasperated than ever before at the skipper’s continuous grumbling at the weather, I told him that I thought that he asked altogether too much in demanding a fair wind all the time, and that when a man began a voyage he ought to expect more or less head-winds throughout the passage, for they were to be expected anywhere and at any minute at sea during a whole voyage, even in the Trades. Since then he hasn’t said a word against the weather, and is, for him, extremely agreeable. Heavens, how hairy he is! So thickly covered is his whole face that the only visible bare spots are his nose and eyes; for his beard grows right up over his cheek-bones, and his eyebrows seem to be spreading all over his forehead. So dense are his whiskers that when he comes on deck after a session with his Dutch pipe the smoke can still be seen eddying and seething in his beard.

Last evening as we were reading some of Kipling’s delightful sea-poems the skipper called down and asked whether we wouldn’t like to see a lunar rainbow. We went on deck at once, and there, sure enough, was a perfect specimen of this strange phenomenon, and so clearly defined that the brighter colors were distinctly visible. We had seen but one lunar rainbow before, and that was a very faint one in the Bay of Bengal, about one hundred miles from the Sandheads.

It is a curious fact that, like captains, there are comparatively few foremast hands who remain perfectly strong and well throughout a long passage. At least eight of ours are looking quite seedy, some with bad colds, others with various disorders of liver and stomach, so that they have to be doctored and fixed up with an assortment of medicines. The way that five-grain blue-mass pills fly around on a deep-water ship is a caution; one would think they were peppermint drops. Latitude 45° 20′ south; longitude 62° 10′ west.

July 7

What a change can be wrought at sea in a few hours! At eleven yesterday morning we were motionless upon a glassy sea; eight hours later we were rushing southward under the topsails before a moderate gale!

Throughout yesterday afternoon the breeze steadily freshened, and by four o’clock the sky-sails had been stowed, followed at five by the royals, while after supper the gaskets were put on the three top-gallant-sails and the cross-jack was hauled up; the ship logging exactly twelve knots between six and seven o’clock, the best which we have done yet, the wind being true and steady from west-northwest, a little abaft the beam. I have seldom seen a finer sight than that presented by the ship as she went bounding away south by west before this grand breeze blowing straight off the pampas of Patagonia; the moon, now at first quarter, casting a broad wake of silver radiance over the short, steep, foaming seas which had arisen as though by magic, and were already snarling and showing their teeth up above the weather-quarter. By ten o’clock the spray had begun to bury the waist of the ship once more, while at intervals during the night a deep, heavy boom told us that something beside mere spray was tumbling over the weather-side.

When we went on deck this morning there was no diminution in the wind, though it had shifted into the west; but as the captain had kept off to south, it was still on the beam. The maintop-mast-stay-sail had been set, and we found the watch in the act of hauling out the spencer on the gaff, and we presently had an opportunity of seeing this piece of canvas in actual use for the first time. Its cut was excellent, and, together with the stay-sail, steadied the ship wonderfully. The main-sail was reefed, so that the arch of this great sail, which curved over the ship like the crescent of the moon, was fully thirty feet above the deck. Although still carrying the six topsails and the foresail, we were not taking anything but huge volumes of spray aboard, in spite of the fact that the surface of the ocean to windward showed long, parallel streaks of foam, like the cross-section of a rasher of bacon,—an appearance observed only when it is really blowing hard.

When one has been accustomed to the heavy, rigid main-sails of yachts, a ship’s canvas in comparison (bar the spencer) appears to be, and really is, singularly thin and limp. Even a brand-new foresail or main-sail of a square-rigger cannot at all approach in thickness or rigidity a yacht’s canvas; and it could not for a moment withstand the strain to which the latter’s main-sail is subjected while being stretched on the boom and gaff, not to mention the “sweating” up of the sails with the jigs. As for a ship’s upper canvas, it has always seemed to me too light, and I shall never forget my first acquaintance with square-sails at close quarters. It was at Nassau. Walking one day through a sponge-yard, I saw stretched on the ground great squares of smoky, hempen canvas; and on feeling the various pieces, which were the topsails of a vessel that had struck and gone to pieces on Memory Rock, one hundred and fifty miles northwest of New Providence, I remember thinking that it wasn’t at all surprising that the sails of ships blew away if this was what they were made of. At any rate, I put this vessel down as an old worn-out lumberman, fit for nothing but carrying railway ties from Brunswick or Pensacola to New York. As a matter of truth, these sails belonged to a fine British ship, the “Blair Drummond”; and experience has since shown that her canvas was neither better nor worse than the average, though hempen sails never feel as thick or stout as those made of cotton-duck, which our ships use. The advantages claimed for hemp are that it lasts longer, and that sails made thereof are easier to handle than if made of cotton-duck, but they do not present nearly so fine an appearance even when new. If a ship’s canvas were made entirely of No. 0, or even of No. 1, duck, it would be next to impossible to furl them in a hard blow. As it is, with the soft, pliable duck and hemp, the blood often starts from the men’s finger-ends from trying to gather in the bunt of the sail, which bellies out like sheet-iron when the halliards have been let go. It was only this morning that the mate told me that once, about thirty years ago, when a foremast hand in the North Atlantic trade, he was one of thirty men on the maintop-sail-yard (single) of the ship “Southampton,” trying to put the third reef in the sail during a January gale. “And, sir,” said he, “we could not have tied the reef in that sail if the ship had been sinkin’ under us, and that with a man for every reef-point.” It is also surprising how neatly and compactly this thin canvas can be furled on a yard. From the deck hardly anything at all can be seen on the royal- and sky-sail-yards; while even the upper topsails when in the gaskets are not anything like as bulky or hummocky as the most fastidiously furled yacht’s main-sail.

I forgot to say that I gave David, the Scot, a drink on July Fourth. He had been throwing out clumsy hints for one on that day, so I filled a four-ounce bottle with Glenlivet and took it to him while he was eating his dinner in his tiny, water-logged cavern forward of the galley. The radiance reflected from his countenance upon the walls as he sighted the grog fairly lit up the gloomy den, and when he had downed the fiery liquid perfectly raw, he put down the bottle and delivered the following oration, his superb figure raised to its supreme height: “Wherever ye may go in this world, sir, may good luck go with ye, hand in hand; may it not be many years till ye get command of a ship and the finest one under the flag; I thank ye for the best drink that ever passed me lips.” I was quite taken aback by his earnestness and the depth of feeling with which he uttered these words in the broadest of brogue so pleasant to the ear; and when he hoped that I would soon command a ship, he was wishing me to hold the most exalted position which the mind of a seaman can conceive.

By the look of the aneroid we are close to some dirt, as sailors say, for now at 3 P. M. the glass stands at 29.08, a fall of an inch in twenty hours; the sky, too, has a hard look, the sun at noon being unable to pierce the gloom, but shining hazy and dim, like a gas-jet behind frosted glass. The altitude at noon now is only 20°, and the sun’s rays are devoid of heat and almost of cheer. Last evening, though, we witnessed another one of those rare and radiant Patagonian sunsets. Every one who has looked at the illustrations in Nansen’s “Farthest North” will call to mind some strange, impossible-looking purple and crimson stratus clouds of the most violent hues. Well, we have actually seen one of these singular and extremely gorgeous skies, unnatural almost in its transcendent beauty. Nansen has caught perfectly the more delicate tints as well as the most flaming colors.

We did fine work to-day, and in the twenty-four hours logged two hundred and forty miles. Latitude, 48° 45′ south; longitude, 65° 5′ west.

July 8

At some time during the morning watch we crossed the fiftieth parallel of south latitude, and have, therefore, now commenced the passage of Cape Horn, the stormiest headland in the world, at the worst possible season,—in the heart of the Antarctic winter. When a vessel is between 50° south in the Atlantic and 50° south in the Pacific she is said to be making the passage of the Horn, and is off the Cape when she is anywhere between those parallels; it matters not how far south she may be blown, she is “off” Cape Horn from 50° to 50°. I think that I have somewhere before said that an average passage would be about twenty days, though the bad luck of some men is astonishing. On her last westward voyage, for instance, the American ship “M. P. Grace” was more than six weeks off the Cape,—forty-five days, to be precise.

Late yesterday afternoon the westerly winds which we have carried for two days began to weaken, and at seven last evening had eased down to a gentle breeze. Still, a wind which will drive a vessel three hundred miles in thirty hours in this part of the world and allow her to lay her course at the same time is not to be lightly spoken of, and we are all in a happy frame of mind.

When the wind had almost let go, however, it began to edge stealthily to the southward, and at 8.30 was at southwest, the dreaded point, blowing in unsteady jerks. We had nothing above the topsails on the ship, though she could easily have carried the royals, but there was no use in piling on the canvas with the look that there was in the southern sky. When the glass stands at 29.00 bad weather must be expected; and when the captain left the deck at 8.45, the moon was peering dimly through a gray, thin squall, bleared and sickly; the sea was coming up from various points in short, convulsive, oily heaves and a frowning rampart of dark cloud was rising in the south. “I’m going below now for a wink,” said the skipper to Mr. Rarx, on watch; “keep your eye open, for when it comes it’ll be sharp work.”

He had been down half an hour when, as the second mate and I stood watching the cloud approach nearer, an angry, white glare now below it, suddenly, without a second’s warning, like a blast from a cannon, the wind fell upon us, laying the ship far over, although the spars were almost naked. In a few moments Captain Scruggs rose out of the companion-way and stood for an instant, considering the best move; I have never yet seen him act without thinking, and it doesn’t take him long to decide. “Shall we double-reef ’em, sir?” said Mr. Rarx, meaning the upper topsails. “No, sir,” replied the captain; “let the yards run down and then tie up the sails; call the port watch, sir; all hands shorten sail.” “Ay, ay, sir,” heartily; and the next moment the second mate swung himself down the weather-poop-ladder, stopped for a second to rap on the mate’s door, and then disappeared forward in the wet and gloom, while we could hear his clear, strong voice crying out above the howling wind, “All h-a-n-d-s, shorten s-a-i-l.”

And now what an inspiring scene is enacted as the big ship plunges forward, now on an upright keel, now heeled far down to leeward by the fierce puffs which shriek through the rigging with a din which is absolutely infernal. Standing by the weather-quarter-bitts looms up the burly form of Captain Scruggs, whose keen, vigilant eye takes in every detail of the ship and the weather; while the gaunt, motionless face of the helmsman can be seen through the wheel-house windows, illumined by the glow from the binnacle light. In another moment a dull, rumbling sound is heard forward: it is the upper foretop-sail-yard running down, and then the dim figures of fifteen or sixteen yellow-clad sailors can be perceived as they jump into the rigging and claw out along the yard to windward and to leeward, utterly unmindful of the pelting rain which stings their faces, or the quick, tremendous rolls which one would think must whip them off into the sea. Oh, bold and valiant seamen, toiling so well and so silently up there in the gale and darkness, truly, ye are the bravest and the least rewarded of men!

In another hour the ship was under the shortest canvas thus far,—lower topsail, foresail, reefed main-sail, and spencer,—bending over to the blast, the wind now rushing through the shrouds with that grand, deep hum like the whirr of powerful machinery.

Throughout the night we kept ploughing ahead through an ever-increasing sea, with showers of buckshot hail rattling overhead like storms of bullets, varied now and then with heavy dashes of spray against the cabin-house.

At eight this morning, though, the wind had so moderated that we set the upper topsails, the ship wallowing continuously in a big head-sea which had made during the night. At noon, though, it began to breeze up once more, and at one o’clock the cry rang through the ship, “All hands, reef the maintop-sail.” Again the men trotted up the weather-rigging and turned in a double reef in less than twenty minutes; not bad for a merchantman. It is curious to see the delight with which an order to shorten sail is invariably received by a ship’s company on the approach of heavy weather. No matter what their humor at the moment may be, they always seem actually pleased when the expected order comes from the after-guard; and, with eager glances over their shoulders at the approaching squall, they leap into the shrouds and race aloft to see who shall be the first over the rim of the top.

For the first time we, to-day, had stocking-leg duff for dinner. It consists usually of a quantity of stewed dried apples wrapped up in a roll of dough and boiled in a piece of cheese-cloth. It is by no means a bad substitute for apple-dumpling, and with good sauce is always hailed at sea with extravagant joy. The name originated in the forecastle, where the duff is always boiled in the leg of a stocking. Latitude, 50° 48′ south; longitude, 64° 34′ west.

July 9

At twelve o’clock last night it began to blow hard from west-northwest, and we went on deck this morning to find a fresh gale from that quarter, with a surprisingly heavy sea, considering the proximity of the land, for the weather-shore was not more than sixty or seventy miles away. The ship was under the lower topsails, foresail, reefed main-sail, and spencer, going well and easily, a couple of points free, heading into the land for smoother water. Gracious, how the wind yelled around us this forenoon, drenching the ship fore and aft with the tops of the foaming seas, which the gale whipped like the blowing of froth from a vat of beer! In the severest puffs the wind certainly rose to force 10; and on one occasion, when sliding down the weather-side of a sea, being simultaneously struck by a heavy blast, we dipped the lee poop-rail into the sea. At breakfast the skipper said, “There was sharp lightning in the sou’west this morning, early, and when you see this off Cape Horn, look out for bad weather and snug her down.” I should think so, with the barometer at 28.98.

A new bird has made its appearance. It is of a light slate color, looks and flies like a Mother Carey’s chicken, and is familiarly called by sailors the Ice Bird, being supposed to exist chiefly in the vicinity of ice. They are very cheerful little creatures, though, and being small and light, were whisked about by the gale like scraps of paper.

We are just abreast now of the damp, dreary Falkland Islands, which, if I mistake not, form the southernmost of all of Great Britain’s colonies; she may possess islands which are farther south than these, but they are not strictly colonies. The group comprises some two hundred islands, though there are only two of any importance,—East and West Falkland. The area of the former is three thousand square miles, being considerably larger than Rhode Island, and contains the most important settlement, Stanley, a town of one thousand inhabitants. The climate of the Falklands is extremely healthy and equable, the average temperature for the two midwinter months being 37°, that of the two midsummer ones 47°; and although in the corresponding latitude and the precise longitude of the southern part of Labrador, ice seldom forms of sufficient thickness to allow skating. The weather, however, is excessively damp. But, though there are generally two hundred and fifty wet days in the year, the total annual precipitation is but twenty inches, or one-half that of New York; the greater portion of the moisture descending in the form of fogs and dense drizzles. More than fifty vessels a year call at Stanley Harbor, and being so close to Cape Horn, in the vicinity of which more ships are damaged by the elements than in any other region in the world, it is natural that a ship-yard and chandlery for the repair of sailing ships should pay extremely well. But, say the deep-water skippers, woe to the vessel which falls into the clutches of Stanley Harbor; it is almost impossible to escape in less than six months, and the most exorbitant prices are asked for absolutely necessary things. The last vessel of any size which put into Stanley for extensive repairs was the British ship “Pass of Balmaha,” which was detained there for nearly a year. It is stated that the ship-yard, etc., pays forty per cent. on the investment.

At one o’clock this morning we passed Cape Virgins at the Atlantic entrance to the Straits of Magellan, distant about seventy-five miles, and at eleven this morning Mr. Rarx saw the land on the weather-bow, and presently the lonely, barren shores of Tierra del Fuego rose faintly out of the sea and appeared also on the port bow, as though we were sailing into the heart of a deep bight, as indeed we were. Before long great ice-covered peaks began to appear, and I asked the skipper if he was going to keep away for the Straits of Le Maire. “No,” he replied, “I’m not going through now for several reasons; in the first place, I think the wind will head us in the straits, and in the second place, as long as this wind keeps on I’m going to heave to under the land when we get farther down. What’s the good of going through? As soon as we showed ourselves outside Staten Land there’d be this westerly gale, with who knows how much sea; then there’s a two-knot current settin’ to the eastward, and this, with three points of leeway, would send us to leeward like a cask. Better lie snug inside than go smashin’ into those seas. In a day or two perhaps we can go through the Straits of Le Mar.” It is odd that every ship-master whom I have ever heard mention these straits should call it Le Mar instead of Le Maire. Captain Scruggs added that we would have fine views of Tierra del Fuego later on, as he was going to run down to within ten miles of the land; we are therefore anticipating a very great treat.

It is utterly impossible to fitly describe these sunsets or to do justice to the wild grandeur of the scene as the orb slowly and majestically settles into the sea among the far-away, golden-cushioned clouds. In the tropics the sun seems to drop suddenly behind the horizon; but in these high latitudes, he sinks so hesitatingly that it appears as though he were loath to bid us good-night. The air at this time of day is most wonderfully transparent here, with a sparkle of frost in the atmosphere; while the clouds, being almost exclusively of the stratus variety, stretch across the horizon in layers of fiery embers, with sometimes a gorgeous fringe of cloud-fleece crowning the scene with a coronet of dazzling splendor; while if a heavy bar of dark cloud extends almost to the sky-line, the sun will be observed glittering beneath it upon the crests of the far-distant seas, with the appearance as of a phalanx of golden breakers.

The heavens on this side of the Cape seem to be always clear with a westerly wind, even when blowing a gale; and as the twilights are exceedingly long, the days so far are anything but disagreeable. The dismal, rainy weather will come when we get over beyond the longitude of the Horn. Gradually the sun is getting lower at noon, the altitude to-day being but 14°, while the orb rises at a point about northeast by north and sets in the west-northwest. It is a significant fact that at twelve o’clock to-day we were exactly abreast of the southernmost extremity of the mainland of the world. Cape Horn is generally regarded as this point, but the Horn itself is naught but an island, the farthest south of the great archipelago of Tierra del Fuego; the culminating promontory of South America being Cape Froward in the middle of the Straits of Magellan, one hundred and twenty-two miles north of the Horn. Latitude, 53° 54′ south; longitude, 66° 6′ west.

July 10

All night we have been lying off and on under shelter of the coast, waiting for a favorable slant. Under easy sail, the lower topsails and foresail, we approach to within six or eight miles of the land; and then wearing round, stand to the northward for twenty miles or so, repeating the manœuvre slowly, never making more than two miles an hour. The wind still holds to the westward, blowing a moderate gale, but with perfectly smooth water here where we are. On the other hand, outside it is doubtless blowing a hard gale with a heavy sea; as the skipper put it, “Outside it’s a regular Cape Horn snorter. I lay in here six days with a westerly gale three years ago. All ships, you know, lie in here when the wind is like this till they get a slant. You see, if we went outside now, while we could get to the s’uth’ard all right, to-morrow at noon we’d likely be a hundred miles to the east’ard of where we are now. As for goin’ through Le Mar, I wouldn’t try it with the wind to the north’ard of nor’west.”

So here we are in water as free from swell as a Central Park lake, taking things very comfortably indeed. But if the sea is free from swell, it is continuously whipped into foam by the succession of tearing snow-squalls which strike us with seemingly cyclonic fury. At eleven o’clock, for instance, it will calm down to a royal breeze; at 11.10 it will be blowing a full gale, accompanied with a driving snow-storm, which whirls the flakes along in a horizontal tempest; and as the temperature was at 33° all day, the drifts lay in the scuppers until shovelled overboard. How cosy and cheerful it is to come down to the great, glowing stove from one of these black squalls and the roaring wind and the sleet and hail, which feel as though they were drawing blood as they sting the face with a fury which is simply resistless! For below everything is delightfully comfortable at a temperature of 65°, and we draw near to the red coals and shiver composedly as we listen to the watch hauling around the yards to the cry of “wear ship.”

We will never forget the spectacle which met our eyes this morning half an hour after daybreak. Right before us lay the bleak shores of Tierra del Fuego, stretching from east to west as far as the eye could see, the wildest, grandest coast which the mind can conceive. Sheer down into the sea fell its almost vertical walls of rock and steep, rugged hills, with their black gorges and frowning chasms filled with the snow which had fallen heavily during the night. Farther inland extended a broad expanse of rolling plateau covered with small knolls; and then in all their desolate sublimity rose the magnificent range of snowy mountains, thousands of feet above the sea, clad in their eternal mantle of dazzling white. I have never before seen such a picture as that presented by this deserted, volcanic land. The gray, mournful hills and snow-clad Alpine peaks, now buried in a raging snow-squall, now rearing their ice-crowned summits far above the mists which shrouded their less exalted companions, filled the mind with the idea that their Maker, displeased at His own handiwork, had abandoned forever these lonely shores to the gloomy pall of cloud which usually enfolds the land in its cold, clammy embrace, and to the fierce, wild gales which sweep everlastingly through its gaunt and spectral mountains. What eerie fancies the dark and powerful genius of Edgar Allan Poe could wreathe about this fantastic, uncouth land! Oh, for a day’s wandering through those valleys and ravines, as cold and cheerless as the moon itself! And how I envied the “Beagle’s” men their months of sojourn amidst the grandeur of these fascinating hills!

Some curious forms are to be seen in connection with many of these peaks. The most conspicuous landmark consists of three hills called the Three Brothers, from twelve to sixteen hundred feet in height; ship-masters always look for them, as they can then tell exactly where they are. One of the loftiest of the ice-peaks, a mountain fully five thousand feet high, bears a strong resemblance to the Matterhorn when the shadows of evening fall across its great snow-cliffs; another looks singularly like the rounded cone of Cotopaxi. And so it goes, one peak apparently more beautiful than its neighbor, till the eye is bewildered gazing upon such wonderful Antarctic scenery. How intensely interesting it must be to pass through the famous Straits of Magellan and look upon the wonderful panorama which is revealed at every turn of the rudder! Steamers are the only vessels that go through now in either direction, as the channel is very tortuous and the currents are powerful and treacherous. The experiment was at one time considered by the Chileans of maintaining a fleet of large tow-boats at Cape Virgins to tow vessels through the straits; but it was concluded that the ships would have to be taken so far out into the Pacific beyond Cape Pillar to get an offing, which would frequently be impossible on account of westerly gales, that the project was abandoned. The expense of towing, too, would be very great, as four hundred miles separate Capes Virgins and Pillar, and no ship-master, of course, would tow to the eastward, as there is nearly always a fair wind coming around this way, so that the tug-boats would have to return empty-handed.

The climate of this country is as equable as that of the Falklands, though even more humid. The temperature seldom falls below 30° even in July; but, on the other hand, it seldom rises above 50° in midsummer, and the wind at all times is extraordinarily cold and penetrating. In spite of this, however, the natives pass their lives in absolute nakedness, their sole protection against the rigors of the inhospitable climate being a smearing of oil upon their bodies, and in this state they go out to meet vessels passing through the straits. It seems almost inconceivable that human beings can live thus in such severe weather, for their exposure is infinitely greater than that of the Esquimo even in his temperature of minus 70°, for the latter is warmly clad and housed. The Yahgans, as the inhabitants of the lower portion of the archipelago are called, are of particularly low intelligence, and, according to Dr. Fenton, they not infrequently kill and eat the old and useless women of the tribe. Their language comprises about thirty thousand words, but, strangely enough, only five numerals.

Since 1881 the eastern portion of Tierra del Fuego, together with Staten Island (usually called by sailors Staten Land), has belonged to the Argentine, and the western end to Chile, the boundary-line being supposed to run from Cape Espiritu Santo due south to Beagle Channel, the only settlement within hundreds of miles being Punta Arenas (Sandy Point) on the Patagonia side of the straits, where the Chileans have a convict and coaling station. The Straits of Magellan were discovered by the celebrated Portuguese of that name, though he spelled it Magalhães, who sailed through them in 1520. If any one wishes to look at a remarkable sight, let him possess himself of one of Imray’s charts of Tierra del Fuego and examine the prodigious number of channels, fjords, and inlets in this remote and vast archipelago which forms the abode of eight thousand people as low in the gauge of civilization as can be found upon the earth.

I wonder how many persons are aware of the fact that the famous old “Dreadnaught” laid her bones upon the bleak rocks of Tierra del Fuego as her final resting place! She drifted ashore near the Straits of Magellan, while on a voyage to San Francisco, during a heavy swell in a dead calm, with her main-sky-sail set. What a sorrowful end for that grand old ship, the “Wild Boat of the Atlantic,” the queen of the clippers, the fastest of all the great fleet which sailed the ocean from Sandy Hook to Queenstown! Peace to her remains in her grave by these iron-bound shores! Latitude, 54° 19′ south; longitude, 65° 45′ west.

July 11

Late yesterday afternoon the sun astonished us by bursting out in glorious splendor, and for the two remaining hours of daylight we sailed along parallel with the land distant only eight miles, in plain view of the Three Brothers, past Cape St. Vincent and Thetis Bay. Truly, the days are none too long now, for the sun rises at 8.30 and sets at 3.30, so that on dark days—and there are plenty of them here now—we have not more than six hours of what can be called daylight. Last night was very fine, too, with an almost full moon soaring through a cloudless sky. Throughout the earlier part of the evening we continued to hold an easterly course, for the captain wanted to have a look at the Straits of Le Maire to consider the chances of going through at daybreak. Some little time after we had finished supper, about seven o’clock, I think, we caught sight of the huge, snow-bound cliffs of Cape San Diego, the southeasternmost extremity of Tierra del Fuego, lying calm and cold in the white moonlight, and a little later we opened out the clear water of the Le Maire Straits. Then we saw outside a thick bank of woolly cloud low down in the southwest, and the skipper concluded that he wouldn’t risk going through the next day, as that bank was the infallible indicator of a heavy blow. Added to this, too, was the long, heaving swell of the Southern Ocean piling in through the fourteen miles of open water in the straits, so we wore round and stood to the northward again. It was very pleasant last night on deck, for though it was blowing hard the lee side of the wheel-house made a delightfully snug retreat, and, enveloped in mountains of rugs and shawls, we sat there in the deck-chairs till nearly eleven, discussing the voyage and enjoying the clear, soft moonlight.

We awoke this morning to the howling of the wind and Captain Scruggs’s voice raised in furious anger, the helmsman sustaining the full shock of the vocal hurricane. It was the unhappy Brün, who throughout the voyage has suffered more than any one else from the temper and violence of both captain and mates. “Hey you, what the blank’s the matter with yer? Put yer wheel hard down there and let her come up to the wind. The other way, the other way. Don’t yer know the difference yet between up and down, eh? What the blank did yer come to sea for anyway? You’re a haymaker, that’s what you are. Look at the ship now; d’ye want to get her aback? Hard up yer wheel; hard up, you blank-blanked farmer’s hound! How yer headin’ now?”

“Nor’west by south, sir,” answered the poor devil, nearly out of his head. “Now, by the jumpin’——” Here the wind cut off the rest, but there was a tumultuous scuffle of feet, and I could very well imagine the scene which was being enacted overhead; so as quickly as possible we dressed and went on deck to find a fresh gale blowing from the westward, with a very steep, quick sea. It was just daybreak and both sky and sea had a very ferocious aspect, the atmosphere being charged now and then with long spears of sleet. After looking at the weather for a few minutes I happened to glance to leeward, and was almost stunned to behold the ponderous headland of Cape St. Anthony, at the western end of Staten Land, towering into the sky, not more than three miles away! No wonder the old man was almost in convulsions. “We must be in the Straits of Le Maire,” said I to my wife. And so we were. It appears that Captain Scruggs had determined to try it, and had gone half-way through, when, at the eleventh hour, he decided that he couldn’t fetch by the land; and as the wind came on to blow a gale which the woolly bank had foretold, he wore ship to stand to the northward once more. He probably miscalculated the strength of the current, which runs through the straits with astonishing velocity, often reaching five knots an hour, for all at once the mate, whose sight in semi-darkness is better than the skipper’s, called out, “Land on the lee, sir.” Our position was really one of great peril, for we were on a dead lee shore and unable to carry sail enough to double the point with any degree of certainty. If we didn’t weather it, it was good-by for all hands, for even now we could see the great surges seething against that terrible coast, where the land is so bold that a ship may lay her jib-boom end head on against the cliffs and still have fathoms of water beneath her keel. With the canvas which was on her at the moment, lower topsails and foresail, it was an impossibility for the ship to hold her own, and as quickly as possible a double-reefed maintop-sail was set, the difference in going to windward being felt at once. But could she carry it? She must, for the lives of twenty-seven persons depended upon the ship’s weathering Cape St. Anthony. No one thought of breakfast, and at half-past eight it was blowing harder than ever, and in the heavy, windward rolls it seemed as though the masts themselves would succumb to the terrific puffs. From the shore we must have presented a magnificent spectacle indeed, had any one been there to witness the struggle going on between man’s skill and Nature’s power. Slowly we forged ahead; but slowly and far more certainly we drove down toward the foaming rocks; and all hands by this time, even the most callous of the sailors, realized that we were fighting in earnest now, fighting to save the ship. Not a word was spoken by any one; the men were collected at the weather-rail in the waist watching the land draw nearer and nearer, while the captain stood on the cabin-house motionless, except when he slightly revolved his arm as a signal to the helmsman to hold her up all he could between the puffs. Oh, how deserted and bleak the immense gray-brown cliffs and snow-streaked hills of Staten Land appeared, broken now and then by gigantic fissures which extended far inland between vertical walls, against which the sea broke furiously, throwing cascades of spray high into the air! Astern, too, the view was equally rugged and grand, for across the Straits of Le Maire we could see the ragged coast of Tierra del Fuego and the massive white cone of the Bell Mountain rising up beyond the Bay of Good Success.

All at once it became apparent to us that we were holding a better wind, the land no longer seemed to advance upon us, and at the end of another half-hour, during which no one seemed to scarcely breathe, to our unspeakable joy it was plain that the worst was over and that, bar accident, we would fetch by without further anxiety; and presently the skipper turned to Louis, the Frenchman (for this splendid seaman had steered the ship beautifully since eight o’clock), and said, “Now give her a good rap-full”; in thirty minutes more all danger was over and we stowed that upper maintop-sail which had done such noble work.

One P.M. The wind has risen to a full gale with puffs of almost hurricane force; and though we are still protected by the land, the sea is running high, probably thirty feet from crest to trough, and breaking in an ugly manner. At noon the order was passed, “All hands haul up the foresail.” This was the first occasion on which it was blowing too hard to carry that sail; and when it has to be stowed it is blowing what sailors call a heavy gale. The wind, indeed, almost blew the breath back into one’s throat; but the brave old ship behaved finely, and after the foresail was hauled up, no matter how high or fast the advancing wave was or how suddenly it broke, the back-wash would rush out from the vessel’s side, and, meeting the on-rushing sea, they would shoot far up into the air, to be blown in drift all over the ship, while she rode calmly and safely over the crest. We have not set the spencer lately, as we have been wearing every few hours, which would necessitate brailing it up every time; I was surprised that the captain didn’t set it this morning, but he seemed to depend more upon the maintop-sail.

There are two vessels to windward knocking about under easy sail as we are,—one a small bark, the other a large four-masted ship, square-rigged all over,—waiting for a slant. My wife has recovered her equanimity now (about three in the afternoon), for she was not unnaturally upset by the events of this morning. She behaved astonishingly well, though, during that crucial hour, and her courage and fortitude cannot be too highly commended. Latitude, 54° 20′ south; longitude, 64° 30′ west.

July 12

It came on to blow so hard yesterday afternoon that tackles were put on the tiller, and a little before four o’clock the ship was hove to, so that when we went on deck at eight bells, after writing up yesterday’s journal, the ship was riding the seas smoothly and dryly. Perhaps it wasn’t absolutely necessary to heave the ship to, though she was far more comfortable that way, the difference being quite remarkable. The first object which attracted us as we went on deck was a three-masted ship head-reaching past us on the starboard tack under lower topsails and foretop-mast stay-sail, distant about half a mile. When yachts pass each other on opposite tacks they lie so close to the wind that they cross at right angles to each other, thus: But when two square-riggers pass each other, close-hauled, they are so far off the wind, especially in a high sea, that they run past each other parallel. This shows how the stranger and ourselves passed by: It did not require much of an eye to discern that this was the Frenchman, the “La Pallice,” which we spoke about ten days ago bound round the Horn from Hamburg; and I must say that she commanded admiration as she slowly ran by us in the gathering dusk, a beautiful specimen of the iron ship-builder’s art. As previously mentioned, the relieving tackles were put on the tiller at about four o’clock, after the wheel had thrown the helmsman completely over itself and through the lee wheel-house door, for he clung heroically to the spokes.