Part 4

The next day we made land about fifty miles to the westward of Cape of Good Hope. Here we passed several Cape fishing boats, fishing for the famous Cape snook. We passed so near that many of the men, thinking we were going to run them down, shouted out to us in their Hottentot language.

At sundown that evening we made Cape Light, distant about eight miles under our starboard lee-bow. With a good south breeze we shaped our course at 8 p.m. for the island of St. Helena, lying directly in the path for all homeward-bound American vessels. A beautiful breeze followed us until we struck the S. E. Trades, in latitude 28° S., and from there we had fine weather until we hauled to close under the land and cast anchor at this island, made famous by the exile of Napoleon. We had been twenty-three days on the voyage from the Capes to the Island, most of the time the sea being like a mill pond it was so smooth. Casting anchor at early daybreak, and so close that our jib-boom touched the rocks, found twenty fathoms of water, and, after breakfast, launched the boats and gave the passengers a day’s liberty to visit the island.

The older part of the town was in ruins, caused, strange to say, by the fact that the St. Helena ants had worked their way into the mortar and undermined the foundations. The township is located in the center of the island, and is surrounded by high hills on both sides. On the top of the hill on the northwest side are the English barracks, where several companies of troops are stationed, ready for call to any part of the Cape or British India. The island is also used as the recruiting ground of the invalid soldiers.

We spent most of the day on the southeast side visiting the home of Napoleon, while he was exiled on the island, and the place on the hillside where he was buried, before his body was removed to France.

We returned to the town, and I made purchases of fresh ship stores, green groceries, fowl, and a few sheep, for fresh meat to be used as needed on the voyage home.

At 6 p.m., pretty tired but delighted with our visit to St. Helena, we boarded the ship, and after supper, with sails all aback, we drifted off a piece and squared away on our homeward journey.

We crossed the equator in sight of Cape St. Rourke, and taking the N. E. Trades we made straight course, with yards eased in a little, to 30 degrees north latitude, when the wind headed us off a little to the westward, and passing Cape Hatteras, about thirty degrees off shore. The wind favored us until South Shoal Lightship was made at 10 a.m. We had been fifty-seven days out from Algoa Bay, South Africa, and thirty-four days from St. Helena. After leaving Nantucket Lightship, we shaped our course to clear the shoal ground, and hauled in under the Cape. Fifteen miles off the Cape, the wind hauled to the eastward and it commenced to snow. The barometer commenced to fall, and there was every indication of a nasty night. First it would blow, then a snow squall, then clear a bit. We finally got sight of Race Point Light, and got good cross bearing and at nine o’clock shaped our course for Boston Light. Noting that our patent log was set, I ordered one of our best helmsmen to take the wheel, and the chief officer to have the anchors off the bow ready to let go at any moment. The wind had commenced to blow N. E. to E. with terrific force, and at times one could not see a ship’s length ahead, but with light sails furled, only running under two topsails and jib, the ship bounded along.

I have often thought how imprudent I was to run for port on such a night, yet I had confidence that my course was right, and all hands were on the lookout both port and starboard.

For one instant I at last caught a glimmer of Boston Light on our starboard, and all hands forward shouted, “Light ho, right ahead!” We hove wheel hard down, let sail run, and dropped both anchors, just forty-eight hours from Nantucket Shoals Lightship. Next morning everything was covered with snow, but we took a tug at nine o’clock, and docked at Lewis Wharf at ten o’clock. Later in the day I reported at the office, and the first words that greeted me were, “Foor goodness’ sake, Captain, where did you come from and how did you get here?”

LAST VOYAGE OF THE BARQUE OTAGO.

(J. N. TAYLOR, _Master_).

On this voyage we were from New York to the Cape Colonies and different ports on the south and east coasts of Africa.

We sailed from New York on March 18th. 1867, and had pleasant winds and clear weather with fine start, for a good voyage. But the fine weather did not last long. The wind hauled around to the north east and thick weather set in. At noon-time the wind kept hauling to the eastward and increasing, so we shortened sail accordingly and at 2 p.m. there was every prospect of a hurricane.

We now “wore” ship, with her head up to the N. E., close reefed topsails, and hove the ship to. At this time there was a high cross sea and the ship labored heavily, making considerable water. Through the night and up to the noon of the 21st. the heavy gales and high seas increased. It turned out that we were caught in a rotary storm, the wind going around the compass every 24 hours and the barometer very low, 28-15. The sky was dark and the spray flew in all directions and she pounded so much she strained badly and commenced to leak so that we were obliged to pump all the time to keep her free from water.

We had very little sail on her, only 2 lower topsails, and fore-stay-sail, but she rolled badly and shipped tremendous seas. At midnight she made several heavy rolls to windward and all of a sudden on the return roll to the leeward, the strain was so great, it caused 2 of the weather chain-plate bolts to draw out from the side, and slacking, swayed inboard.

We hove up the wheel, braced in and got her round on the starboard tack and put on temporary tackles, but they were of little use, our mainmast head weakened with the strain, and crash, down it came. A heavy flaw now struck us and ripped our topsails and staysails as though they were paper.

At daylight the weather had moderated some so we got up the mainmast head and after a great deal of work fixed up the damage done to the chain plates. She still rolled fearfully so that we were obliged to drive in new eye-bolts from the inside and then key them up.

On the morning of the 21st. of March, 1867, there was no change in the weather and it looked as if we might have to abandon the ship and take to the boats. The water was gaining on us all the time and the crew were worn out with the tiresome job of pumping, and as I came on deck the whole crowd came rushing aft and their spokesman demanded that I put back to New York, as they were afraid the ship would sink, she was so unseaworthy. I well knew that myself, so at 8 bells we turned the ship’s head for New York and had proceeded on that course for about 15 hours, when, as the sailors say, “we were struck butt end foremost.” It blew a hurricane from the N. West and we were obliged to run dead before it under bare poles. We now found ourselves back in the same place as we had been before we started back for New York.

Search had been made to find the leak, and aft, in the port run, we found water running in through several seams. These were caulked with oakum and backed up by heavy tarred canvas, until, to our great joy, we had the leak stopped and about 100 strokes to the hour at the pumps seemed to hold it.

At about 8 bells on the morning of the 22nd we saw a wreck under our lee bow, about 8 miles off, with signals of distress hung on the stump of his mizzen-mast, as all his masts had evidently gone by the board. I succeeded in getting a little sail on the Barque, and we bore down on him. About 9 a.m. we made out his signals, which read, “Will you stand by, am in sinking condition?”

Everything was gone from his decks except the stump of his mizzen-mast, to which he had rigged his signals. I came as close as I could to him and made him out to be the British Barque Blond, of Lanely, England, and she was on her beam ends, rolling frightfully. She had left New York with us, bound for Sligo, on the West coast of Ireland with a load of grain, and had been struck by the gale, dismantled, and thrown on her beam ends as the cargo had shifted.

It now began to blow so hard that we were obliged to take off what little sail we had on and let her run under bare poles again. At about 2.30 P.M. we discovered a boat astern of the barque, about a mile under his lee, with six men in her. One big sea now struck the boat and over she went, throwing them all into the water. They managed, however, to reach her and upright her, but had only one oar and a small piece of board left. We now bent on a stout rope to some pieces of boards and payed it out toward them, and by good luck they caught it and we drew them by degrees alongside of us. As we were rolling heavily at the time their boat caught under our rail and again they were all turned into the sea, but we hove ropes to them and they were all pulled aboard, wet and exhausted, and with but little clothing, as they had cast off what they could when they were tipped over the first time.

A long boat had now been launched from the Blonde, and four more men had succeeded in jumping into her, but a big sea had carried them away from the Barque, leaving the captain and mate aboard of her. It took them some time to get back near enough for these two men to jump in and then began the hard task to row to the Otago. The sea was running mountains high, sometimes we could see the boat and then she would disappear as though she were swallowed up. They reached us at last, just as night came, and they all managed to jump aboard, without the loss of a man.

Now we had 12 extra men to feed and help work the ship, but it seemed as if they had almost jumped from the frying pan into the fire. We fed them all and fitted them out with clothes from the “slop chest,” and at midnight I turned in, not to sleep, but to moralize, and wonder how we were going to get out of our troubles.

We carried a cat and a dog and as soon as I was in my bunk they both jumped up close to me, the cat meowing and the dog howling. After a time they both calmed down and I patted them and talked to them and I guess we all felt better.

The crew of the Blonde had been helping at the pumps, but now refused to work any more. I soon settled this by making them sign articles with me at 3 pounds a month. The weather now moderated and I told the crew that as we were nearing the tropics the weather would improve and I should hold the ship on her original course to Cape Town, but if we could not keep the leak down, would put her in the nearest port, which would be far better than going back to New York in a bad season. To this they all agreed but I had already made up my own mind to carry the ship to Cape Town, if she would keep afloat that long.

Things ran along smoothly until we reached 35 degrees south, where we were to “run our eastern down” when some more things happened. At noon-time, aboard ship, we take the sun, and work out the ship’s position. On this particular day I had performed that duty, and Capt. Bently, the commander of the ill-fated Blonde, had also worked out our position. The weather was fine and looked as if it would continue, so I went below to take a nap.

I had not been asleep more than half an hour when I awoke and very naturally looked over my head at the telltale compass, which told me whether or not, the man at the wheel had her on the course. I also looked at the barometer, and to my surprise, it had dropped 3/10th.

I ran out on deck and everything seemed pleasant and the barque was running dead before the wind. I looked all around and about 5 degrees above the horizon, I saw a big white mist, increasing rapidly. I sang out, “All hands on deck, and let go all sails and clew up.” The officer of the deck looked at me as though I had gone mad, and he afterwards said he thought I had become suddenly insane from the hard strain I had been under since we had left New York. But when I pointed aft at the mist, he understood. We had let go all the halyards we could reach and all hands had got about half the sail off her, when it struck us. It carried away the foreyard, the main top-gallant mast, all the light sails, and flooded the decks with water. It seemed as if she would founder the pressure was so great, but it lasted for only a short time, ending with a terrific downpouring of rain which beat the sea down as smooth as a mill-pond.

I ordered the pumps sounded and the mate reported 12 feet of water in the hold, and said that we would all be on the bottom soon. On closer examination, it seemed that our sounding line had become wet, and after we had chalked the line and tried it again, we found but 18 inches of water, instead of 12 feet. But what a mess things were in! Some of our braces had parted and everything hung by the “eyelids.”

After the excitement was over, we commenced to patch up and save what we could, and found she had been heavily strained. The foremast head was sprung and the bob-stay broken. Lucky for us, the sea was so smooth as to enable us to replace some of our spars, and by evening we had her all pumped out and running on her course under light sail. I now felt that, crippled as we were, if the wind continued westerly, we could make Cape Town, even under jury-masts, if we could keep her afloat, but that was a question.

It now appeared that the ship was so badly wrenched that we had to keep the men at the pumps all the time, and we could not gain on the water. Two or three feet of water stayed in her all the time and we could not pump her clear. However, we reached Cape Town the last of May, and entered the harbor with six feet of water in the hold. Now, the harbor master always directs a ship to her anchorage, and he had pointed out to me where to anchor, but I informed him of our sinking condition, and ran her up on the beach before she sank. Thousands of people watched this unusual scene as we ran her up on the beach. She was condemned and sold for the benefit of the underwriters, and the cargo was so damaged that it brought only two hundred and fifty pounds. Thus ended the final trip of the barque Otago.

VOYAGE OF THE BARQUE GEORGE T. KEMP.

The Kemp was named after Isaac Taylor’s agent at Port Elizabeth. The captains of most all sailing vessels were allowed to do a little speculating on the side, and often picked up quite a little pocket money by their various investments. So at Port Elizabeth I had purchased as a bit of speculation one ostrich, one tiger, and a large baboon, a regular man eater and a most vicious animal. I am very fond of all kinds of animals and, strange to say, this baboon took a fancy to me and was quite docile when I was with him. We were homeward bound and were getting into the S. E. trade winds, so we were obliged to chain the baboon down on the main hatch. We put him in a large pen that had been formerly occupied by the pigs and fowl, and strengthened it by placing large iron bars along the sides. A hole was bored in the bottom of the house and the chain mast fast to a ring-bolt and hauled in, which allowed him to just place his arms or forepaws on the edge of the pen. All the sailors were warned to keep away from him, for if they were hurt it was at their own risk. One of the sailors, a big Swede by the name of Swinson, seemed to take delight in getting big Jocko angry, and stirred him up whenever he went past the cage. The baboon would scream, froth at the mouth and bend the bars of the cage in his efforts to get at the sailor. I had cautioned Swinson to keep away and let him alone or he would get hurt, but he only laughed. The after part of the forward house had a main entrance to the starboard and port watches, which was about four feet from the main hatch-house, where big Jocko’s quarters were. One fine day at noon-time eight bells were struck and the starboard watch was relieved. Our big Swede thought he would have some fun with the baboon, so he picked up the deck broom and poked it through the cage, handle first. The baboon immediately hauled it in very quickly, but the sailor held fast to the broom instead of letting go, and was drawn rapidly towards the cage.

At that time I was on the quarter-deck, saw Swinson go towards the cage with the broom, and shouted for him to drop it and go about his business. But now there came a horrible scream from both man and beast. The baboon had fastened both of his big tusks in the sailor’s throat, and they were locked tight. The crew were now all on deck and things were in a general hubbub. I ran forward, got hold of the baboon’s tail, and commenced to twist it up, but as his teeth were locked over and under it did no good. We then put an iron belaying pin in his mouth, cut the skin clear in the man’s throat, and in this manner separated the pair. By this time the deck was covered with blood, Swinson was black in the face, and the baboon was about winded, as the pressure of the bars against his own throat had prevented his breathing somewhat. Swinson was now unconscious and we thought him dead, but as we carried him aft he showed some signs of life. His throat was now one mass of clotted blood and was a horrible sight. My knowledge of anatomy was slight, and this was one of my worst experiences in the surgical line aboard ship. We carried a medicine chest, a text book on medicine and one well illustrated book on surgery. The case was supplied with bandages, needles, silk thread and a variety of splints. The mate opened the book of surgery to a place which showed the anatomy of the neck, and we went to work to fix poor Swinson up the best we could. We washed and cleansed the wound and by using plenty of pressure succeeded in checking the constant oozing of blood. I put in some thirty stitches, which made the wound a little more presentable, but it still looked very nasty. We detailed one of the men to stand by the sailor and keep constant pressure over the bleeding places and to give him all the care he could. The man’s neck swelled something horrible and we thought sure he would die, but in three weeks’ time he was all right again and on duty. You may be sure he always gave Jocko a wide berth after that, and the baboon never forgot him, either, for he always made the most horrible noises and sounds whenever he saw the sailor. The only thanks we got for looking after Swinson’s wounds was a threat to sue both the ship’s owners and myself. Proper entries signed by witnesses of the affair had been made in the log-book, so I did not worry, and we never heard anything of the affair after we got ashore.

When we arrived below Boston Light a Captain Cates, who was master of the tug that took us up the harbor, had with him a magnificent bulldog that he thought would be more than a match for anything in the animal line, even a baboon, such was his fierceness and ability to fight. I told him he had better keep the dog away from the baboon, but he laughed and thought his dog could take care of himself. The baboon was chained forward under the top-gallant forecastle, and when Mr. Bulldog saw him he made a rush for him. It was the last rush the poor dog ever made; he was so badly used up before we got him away that he died soon after from the effects of his fight with the baboon.

An agent for a circus, a Mr. Thompson, bought the baboon from me for $300, so I was well paid for all the trouble he gave me on the trip. We had no trouble with the other animals, and sold them for good prices to representatives zoological gardens. This incident is related to show some of the varied experiences in a sailor’s life and how strongly they are fixed in one’s mind even many years after.

THE SHIP LITTLETON.

To take charge of the ship Littleton, I was obliged to go overland from Boston to San Francisco. She had recently come from Australia, was partially dismasted, was leaking badly, and her commander, a Captain Beck, was very sick. Instructions were given me by the owners to examine the ship and report as to her condition. This was done and it was estimated that $20,000 would be the cost of re-fitting her. She was re-caulked, a new copper bottom put on her, and the balance of repairs done by Coombs and Taylor, who were under bonded contract to put everything in shape as per specifications.

I was accompanied on the trip by my cousin, Mrs. Percival, and her two daughters, aged five and seven. Her husband, Captain Freeman Percival, in command of the old New York ship Blue Jacket, trading between Frisco and Puget Sound, had been away from home some years without seeing his family, and had decided to have them go to California to settle.

I think this trip was made during the first week that trains had made through connections from Chicago to San Francisco, and we were on the road seven days.

While the riggers and carpenters were working on the ship, several charters were offered me: grain and flour in sacks to go to Montevideo and Argentine Republic, and another to go to Queenstown, Ireland, for orders. One morning the king charterer of all the grain ships, a Mr. Friedlander, a German, weighing over three hundred pounds and over six feet in height, sent for me. This man was well versed in his business, sharp, tricky, and as crafty as an Arabian trader. His character was well known, however, and I had been told about him in Cape Town by old Commodore Allen, the port captain.

At this time the Littleton was the only ship in Frisco ready to sail, and there was an urgent demand for flour in Montevideo. Old Friedlander fully intended that a cargo should be sent there at once, but hoped to profit by chartering a ship to Ireland or other European ports. All this was known to me, and as my owners had given me “carte blanche” I was ready to talk business with him and prepared to beat him at his own game. I met Friedlander at his office, and we talked and argued for half a day, but without agreeing on any terms. At last he said, “Well, there are plenty of ships due here, but if you will agree to close charter party today the captain will receive fifty pounds sterling as a gift.” We did not close any bargain, however, and I went aboard the ship. An hour after he came down aboard saying he had a telegram to close the charter at once if possible. I told him that my terms were four pounds a ton to any South American ports east of Cape Horn or ports down to the equator, preferring, however, to take European ports at five shillings extra rather than South American ports. The old champion was wild, had never heard of such prices; said he would split the difference and call it three pounds fifteen shillings a ton. I said, “Mr. Friedlander, yesterday you were sure you wanted to sign charter for Europe, and I am willing to sign to that effect, but to any South American ports it is four pounds or nothing. Also, I shall demand thirty running lay-days for discharging cargo, the lay-days to commence twenty-four hours after reporting to consignee, and will give you until tomorrow to accept, as I have several offers to consider.” At last he accepted the terms, and I agreed to have the ship ready in a week. The next day all the waterfront had the news that Friedlander had been beaten at his own game by the boy captain of the ship Littleton.