Chapter 37
DOUBLING THE CAPE.
As our merry little ship approached the far-famed Cape of Good Hope, I often remained on deck after the watch was out, feasting my eyes on the sight of constellations known to me before only by name, and as yet scarcely anchored in my imagination. Each succeeding night, as the various clusters rose, crossed the meridian, and sunk again into the western waves, we came more and more into the way, not only of speaking, but thinking of them, under their conventional titles of hydras, doves, toucans, phoenixes, and flying-fish, not forgetting the enormous southern whale, whose beautiful eye, called Fomalhaut, while it flames in the zenith of the Cape, is hardly known to the astronomers of this country, from its greatest altitude, as seen by them, not being ten degrees.
But of all the Antarctic constellations, the celebrated Southern Cross is by far the most remarkable, and must, in every age, continue to arrest the attention of all voyagers and travellers who are fortunate enough to see it. I think it would strike the imagination even of a person who had never heard of the Christian religion; but of this it is difficult to judge, seeing how inextricably our own ideas are mingled up with associations linking this sacred symbol with almost every thought, word, and deed of our lives. The three great stars which form the Cross, one at the top, one at the left arm, and one, which is the chief star, called Alpha, at the foot, are so placed as to suggest the idea of a crucifix, even without the help of a small star, which completes the horizontal beam. When on the meridian, it stands nearly upright; and as it sets, we observe it lean over to the westward. I am not sure whether, upon the whole, this is not more striking than its gradually becoming more and more erect as it rises from the east. In every position, however, it is beautiful to look at, and well calculated, with a little prompting from the fancy, to stir up our thoughts to solemn purpose. I know not how others are affected by such things; but, for myself, I can say with truth, that, during the many nights I have watched the Southern Cross, I remember no two occasions when the spectacle interested me exactly in the same way, nor any one upon which I did not discover the result to be somewhat different, and always more impressive, than what I had looked for.
This constellation being about thirty degrees from the south pole, is seen in its whole revolution, and, accordingly, when off the Cape, I have observed it in every stage, from its triumphant erect position, between sixty and seventy degrees above the horizon, to that of complete inversion, with the top beneath, and almost touching the water. This position, by the way, always reminded me of the death of St. Peter, who is said to have deemed it too great an honour to be crucified with his head upwards. In short, I defy the stupidest mortal that ever lived to watch these changes in the aspect of this splendid constellation, and not to be in some degree struck by them.
These airy visions are sometimes curiously broken in upon by the most common-place incidents, which force us back upon ordinary life. On the 28th of May we overtook a packet on her way to the Brazils from England, which had sailed more than a month after us, but she had not a single newspaper, army list, navy list, or review on board. The mate was totally ignorant of all the interesting topics of that most interesting moment of the war (1812); and in reply to all our questions, merely observed that everything was just the same as when we left England. The captain was ill in bed, and could not be spoken to, so that this intelligent gentleman, his chief officer, had been lugged on deck to tell the news. He honestly confessed, after being sufficiently baited and badgered by our interrogatories, that even when in England he had no time to look at the newspapers, but that he left public affairs to the management of those whose business it was to look after them, while he found enough to do in looking after the packet.
"I dare say," added the fellow, with rather more dryness of humour than we had imagined was in his doughy composition, "I dare say the whole story you are asking about, of Buonaparte and the Russians, is told very exactly in these bags (pointing to the mail), and if I deliver them safe at Rio, it will be wrong to say I bring no news."
On the 4th of June we had a jollification in honour of good old King George the Third's birthday. In how many different parts of the world, and with what deep and affectionate sincerity, were cups quaffed and cheers rung out in the same loyal cause! If sailors would tell the truth, we should find that when abroad and far away, they generally use their distant friends as the captain, mentioned some time ago, did his ship's company's European clothing--stow them away for a future occasion. I do not say that they forget or neglect their friends; they merely put them by in safety for a time. In fact, as the song says, a sailor's heart and soul have plenty to do "in every port," to keep fully up to the companionships which are present, without moping and moaning over the remembrance of friends at a distance, who, in like manner no doubt, unship us also, more or less, from their thoughts, if not from their memory, for the time being; and it is all right and proper that it should be so.
On the 5th of June we parted from our convoy, the China ships; and, alas! many a good dinner we lost by that separation. Our course lay more to the left, or eastward, as we wished to look in at the Cape of Good Hope, while those great towering castles, the tea ships, could not afford time for play, but struck right down to the southward, in search of the westerly winds which were to sweep them half round the globe, and enable them to fetch the entrance of the China seas in time to save the monsoon to Canton. Each ship sent a boat to us with letters for England, to be forwarded from the Cape. This was probably their last chance for writing home; so that, after the accounts contained in these dispatches reached England, their friends would hear nothing of them till they presented themselves eighteen months afterwards. Neither did they expect to know what was passing at home till they should touch at St. Helena, on the return voyage, in the latter end of the following year.
I remember looking over the lee-gangway next day, at the first blush of the dawn, during the morning watch, and I could barely distinguish the fleet far to leeward, with their royals just showing above the horizon. On taking leave of our convoy, we were reminded that there is always something about the last, the very last look of any object, which brings with it a feeling of melancholy. On this occasion, however, we had nothing more serious to reproach ourselves with than sundry impatient execrations with which we had honoured some of our slow-moving, heavy-sterned friends, when we were compelled to shorten sail in a fair wind, in order to keep them company. A smart frigate making a voyage with a dull-sailing convoy reminds one of the child's story of the provoking journey made by the hare with a drove of oxen.
Our merry attendants, the flying-fish, and others which swarmed about us in the torrid zone, refused to see us across the tropic, and the only aquatics we fell in with afterwards were clumsy whales and grampuses, and occasionally a shoal of white porpoises. Of birds there were plenty, especially albatrosses. The captain, being a good shot with a ball, brought down one of these, which measured seven feet between the tips of the wings. I have several times seen them twelve feet; and I heard a well-authenticated account of one measuring sixteen feet from tip to tip. On the 22nd of June we came in sight of the high land on the northern part of the peninsula of the Cape of Good Hope, the far-famed Table Mountain, which looked its character very well, and really did not disappoint us, though, in general, its height, like that of most high lands, is most outrageously exaggerated in pictures. The wind failed us during the day, and left us rolling about till the evening, when the breeze came too late to be of much use. Next day we rounded the pitch of the Cape, but it blew so strong from the northward, right out of False Bay, accompanied by rain and a high sea, that we found it no easy job to hold our own, much less to gain the anchorage. But on the 24th of June, the day after, the wind moderated and became fair, the weather cleared up, and we sailed almost into Simon's Bay, a snug little nook at the north-western angle of False Bay. It then fell calm, but the boats of the men-of-war at anchor, his Majesty's ships Lion, Nisus, and Galatea, soon towed us into our berth. During the winter of that hemisphere, which corresponds to our northern summer, the only safe quarters for ships is in Simon's Bay, on the south side of the Cape peninsula.
I have a perfect recollection of the feelings with which I leaped out of the boat, and first set foot on the continent of Africa, but am prevented from describing these poetical emotions by the remembrance, equally distinct, of the more engrossing anxiety which both my companion and myself experienced about our linen, then on its way to the laundress in two goodly bundles. For the life of me, I cannot separate the grand ideas suitable to the occasion, from the base interests connected with cotton shirts and duck trousers. And such is the tormenting effect of association, that when I wish to dwell upon the strange feelings, partly professional and partly historical, caused by actually gazing on the identical Cape of Good Hope, a spot completely hammered into the memory of all sailors, straightway I remember the bitter battling with the washer-folks of Simon's Town touching the rate of bleaching shirts: and both the sublime and the beautiful are lost in the useful and ridiculous.
The 3rd of July was named for sailing; but the wind, which first came foul, soon lulled into a calm, then breezed up again; and so on alternately, baffling us in all our attempts to get to sea. Nor was it till the 5th that we succeeded in forcing our way out against a smart south-easter, with a couple of reefs in the topsails, and as much as we could do to carry the mainsail. A westerly current sweeps at all seasons of the year round the Cape of Good Hope, and sometimes proves troublesome enough to outward-bound ships. This stream is evidently caused by the trade-wind in the southern parts of the Indian ocean. For three days we were bamboozled with light south-easterly airs and calms, but on the 8th of July, which is the depth of winter in that hemisphere, there came on a spanking snuffler from the north-west, before which we spun two hundred and forty miles, clean off the reel, in twenty-four hours.
Nothing is more delightful than the commencement of such a fair wind. The sea is then smooth, and the ship seems literally to fly along; the masts and yards bend forwards, as if they would drop over the bows, while the studding-sail booms crack and twist, and, unless great care be taken, sometimes break across; but still, so long as the surface of the sea is plane it is astonishing what a vast expanse of canvas may be spread to the rising gale. By-and-bye, however, it becomes prudent to take in the royals, flying-jib, and top-gallant studding-sails. The boatswain takes a look at the gripes and other fastenings of the boats and booms; the carpenter instinctively examines the port-lashings, and draws up the pump-boxes to look at the leathers; while the gunner sees that all the breechings and tackles of the guns are well secured before the ship begins to roll. The different minor heads of departments, also, to use their own phrase, smell the gale coming on, and each in his respective walk gets things ready to meet it. The captain's and gun-room steward beg the carpenter's mate to drive down a few more cleats and staples, and, having got a cod-line or two from the boatswain's yeoman, or a hank of marline stuff, they commence double lashing all the tables and chairs. The marines' muskets are more securely packed in the arm-chest. The rolling tackles are got ready for the lower yards, and the master, accompanied by the gunner's mate, inspects the lanyards of the lower rigging. All these, and twenty other precautions are taken in a manner so slow and deliberate that they would hardly catch the observation of a passenger. It might also seem as if the different parties were afraid to let out the secret of their own lurking apprehension, but yet were resolved not to be caught unprepared.
Of these forerunners of a gale none is more striking than the repeated looks of anxiety which the captain casts to windward, as if his glance could penetrate the black sky lowering in the north-west, in order to discover what was behind, and how long with safety he might carry sail. Ever and anon he shifts his look from the wind's eye, and rests it on the writhing spars aloft, viewing with much uneasiness the stretching canvas all but torn from the yards. He then steps below, and for the fortieth time reads off the barometer. On returning to the deck he finds that, during the few minutes he has been below, the breeze has freshened considerably, or, it may be, that, coming suddenly upon it again, he views it differently. At all events, he feels the necessity of getting the sails in while he yet can, or before "God Almighty takes them in for him," as the sailors say when matters have been so long deferred, that not only canvas and yards, but even masts, are at times suddenly wrenched out of the ship, and sent in one confused mass far off to leeward, whirling in the gale!
The men, who are generally well aware of the necessity of shortening sail long before the captain has made up his mind to call the hands for that purpose, have probably been collected in groups for some time in different parts of the upper deck, talking low to one another, and looking aloft with a start, every now and then, as the masts or yards give an extra crack.
"Well! this is packing on her," says one, laying an emphasis on the word "is."
"Yes!" replies another; "and if our skipper don't mind, it will be packing off her presently," with an emphasis on the word "off." "Right well do I know these Cape gales," adds an ancient mariner of the South Seas; "they snuffle up in a minute; and, I'll answer for it, the captain will not carry sail so long off Cape Aguilhas, when he has gone round that breezy point as often as old Bill has."
At this moment the tardy voice of the commander, long unwilling to lose any part of the fair wind, is at length heard, giving the reluctant order, "Turn the hands up, shorten sail!" The ready clatter of feet, and the show of many heads at all the hatchways, and perhaps the sound of a suppressed laugh amongst the men who have been gossiping and wagering about the gale, give sufficient indication that this evolution has been expected for some time.
"All hands shorten sail!" calls out the boatswain, after a louder and sharper note than usual from his pipe, winded not half the ordinary length of time, though twice as shrilly; for his object is to mark on the ears of the people the necessity of unusual expedition and exertion. A clever and experienced person filling this important situation will soon teach the men to distinguish between the various notes of his call, though to unpractised ears the sounds might appear unvaried.
"Shorten sail! that's easier said than done," growls forth some hard-up old cock.
"No! not a bit easier said than done," unexpectedly observes the captain, but quite good-humouredly, having accidentally heard the seaman's remark. "Not a bit, old fellow, if you and the young hands only work as smartly and cheerfully as I know you can do when you have a mind. Come, my lads, are you all ready forward?"
It is a trying moment both for the sails and yards, when the order is actually given to commence shortening sail; if the pressure from the wind be considerable, it is necessary to have men stationed to lower away the haulyards and ease off the tacks at the proper moment, while others gather in the sails as they come down, fluttering a little perhaps, if not carefully managed, but still quietly and easily, as well as quickly. When, however, the wind has risen to a pitch beyond its due proportion to the canvas spread, and the captain's anxiety to make the most of a fair wind has tempted him to carry on too long, the case becomes very difficult, the ropes which keep the sails in their places contributing also an important share to the support of those spars to which the sails are bent, or to which they may be hauled out. Consequently, the moment the ropes alluded to, which are technically named the haulyards and tacks, are slackened, the yards and booms, being suddenly deprived of these material supports, are very apt to be sprung, that is, cracked across, or even carried away, which means being snapped right in two as short as a carrot, to use Jack's very appropriate simile.
It is quite true, that lowering away the sail and easing off the tack of a studding-sail does diminish the pressure of the sail on the spar, and, of course, both the yard and the boom have less duty to perform. Still, the moment which succeeds the order to "Lower away!" is especially trying to the nerves of the officer who is carrying on the duty. I have not unfrequently seen comparatively young officers handle the sails and yards of a ship with perfect ease, from their superior mechanical knowledge, at times when the oldest sailors on board were puzzled how to get things right. One officer, for instance, may direct the preparations for shortening sail to be made according to the most orthodox rules laid down in Hamilton Moor's "Examination of a Young Sea Officer," and yet when he comes to give the fatal word, "Lower away! haul down!" everything shall go wrong. The tack being eased off too soon, the spar breaks in the middle, and the poor topmast studding-sail is spitted like a lark on the broken stump of the boom, while the lower studding-sail, driven furiously forward by the squall, is pierced by the spritsail yard-arm, the cat-head, and the bumpkin; or it may be wrapped round the bowsprit, like so much wet drapery in the inimitable Chantrey's studio over the clay figure of an Indian bishop.
"What the blue blazes shall I do next?" moans the poor puzzled officer of the watch, who sees this confusion caused entirely by his own bad management. On such an occasion, a kind and considerate captain will perhaps fairly walk below, and so leave the mortified youth to get himself out of the scrape as he best can, and rather lose a small spar, or a bolt of canvas, than expose his officer to the humiliation of having the task transferred to another; or he will edge himself near the embarrassed officer, and, without the action being detected by any one else, whisper a few magical words of instruction in the young man's ear, by which the proper train of directions are set agoing, and the whole confusion of ropes, sails, and yards, speedily brought into order. If this fails, the hands are called, upon which the captain himself, or more generally the first lieutenant, takes the trumpet; and the men, hearing the well-known, confident voice of skill, fly to the proper points, "monkey paw" the split sails, clear the ropes, which an instant before seemed inextricably foul, and in a very few minutes reduce the whole disaster to the dimensions of a common occurrence. "Now, you may call the watch," says the captain; and the reproved officer again takes charge of the deck. I need hardly say, that any young man of spirit ought rather to wear his hands to the bone in learning his duty, than to expose himself to such mortification as this.
Let us, however, suppose all the extra sails taken in without accident, and rolled up with as much haste as may be consistent with that good order which ought never to be relaxed under any degree of urgency. In fine weather, it is usual to place the studding-sails in the rigging, with all their gear bent, in readiness to be whipped up to the yard-arm at a moment's warning; but when a breeze such as we are now considering is on the rise, it is thought best to unbend the tacks and haulyards, and to stow the sails in some convenient place, either on the booms, between the boats, or in the hammock-nettings. For the same reason, the small sails are sent on deck, together with as much top hamper as can readily be moved. These things are scarcely bundled up and lifted out of the way before the long-expected order to reef topsails is smartly given out, and crowds of men are seen skipping up the tight weather-rigging, with a merry kind of alacrity, which always makes a captain feel grateful to the fellows--I do not well know why; for, as there is then no real danger, there seems nothing particularly praiseworthy in this common-place exertion. Perhaps the consciousness that a storm is coming on, during which every nerve on board may be strained, makes the captain see with pleasure a show of activity which, under other circumstances, may be turned to trials of the utmost hardihood and daring.
Be this as it may, the yards come sliding down the well-greased masts; the men lie out to the right and left, grasp the tumultuous canvas, drag out the earings, and tie the points, with as perfect deliberation as if it were a calm, only taking double pains to see that all is right and tight, and the reef-band straight along the yard. The order has been given to take in the second and third reefs only; but the men linger at their posts, expecting the further work which they know is necessary. The captain of the top, instead of moving in, continues to sit astride the spar, dangling his legs under the weather yard-arm with the end of the close reef-earing in his hand, quite as much at his ease as any well-washed sea-bird that ever screamed defiance to a pitiless south-wester.
Johnny's anticipations prove right, for the anxious commander, after gazing twice or thrice to windward, again consulting his barometer, looking six or eight times at his watch in as many minutes, to learn how many hours of daylight are yet above the horizon, and perhaps also stealing a professional opinion from his first lieutenant, an officer probably of much more technical experience than himself, decides upon close-reefing. If he be a man of sense, and wishes the work to be done quickly and well, he must not now hesitate about starting the topsail sheets, and it will certainly be all the better if one or both the clew-lines be likewise hauled close up.
The mainsail is now to be taken in; and as the method of performing this evolution has long been a subject of hot controversy at sea, I take the opportunity of saying, that Falconer's couplet,--
"For he who strives the tempest to disarm Will never first embrail the lee yard-arm,"
has, in my opinion, done a world of mischief, and split many thousands of sails.
I, at least, plead guilty to having been sadly misled by this authority for many years, since it was only in the last ship I commanded that I learned the true way to take in the mainsail when it blows hard. The best practice certainly is, to man both buntlines and the lee leechline well, and then to haul the LEE clew-garnet close up, before starting the tack or slacking the bowline. By attending to these directions, the spar is not only instantaneously relieved, but the leeward half of the sail walks sweetly and quietly up to the yard, without giving a single flap. After which the weather-clew comes up almost of itself, and without risk or trouble.
Meanwhile the ship is spinning along very nearly at the same rate as at first, though two-thirds of the canvas have been taken off her. These variations in speed are odd enough, and, at times, not easily accounted for. When the breeze first comes on, all sail set, and the water quite smooth, the ship can be steered on a straight course without any difficulty, and she really seems to fly. When the log is hove, it is discovered, we shall suppose, that she is going eleven knots. Well, the wind increases, and in come the studding-sails; but as the water is still smooth, the single-reefed topsails and top-gallant-sails may be carried, though it is evident the ship is rather over-pressed, or, at all events, not another stitch of sail could be set.
"Heave the log again, and see what she goes now!" says the officer. "How much?"
"Eleven knots and a-half, sir," replies the middy of the watch.
Presently the sea rises, the masts bend, the ship begins to stagger along, groaning and creaking in every joint, under the severe pressure. The topsails are close-reefed to meet the increased wind; but still, as before, she is under quite as much canvas as she can possibly bear.
"Heave the log now!" again says the officer. "Ten knots!" reports the middy.
By-and-bye the courses are reefed, and before dark the mainsail is rolled up, the fore and mizen topsails handed, and the top-gallant yards sent on deck. The sea has now risen to a disagreeable height, and the steering, in spite of every care, becomes wilder and much more difficult; and as the ship forges into the breast of the waves, or rises with a surge not much less startling, her way seems deadened for the moment, till she bounds up again on the top of the sea, to woo, as it were, the embraces of the rattling gale. The storm is not slow to meet this rude invitation; while, if the ropes, sails, and masts, be all wet, as they generally are in such a breeze, it is difficult to conceive any tones more gruff and unsentimental than the sounds of this boisterous courtship.
In line-of-battle ships, and even in frigates, the close-reefed main-topsail and foresail may be carried, for a very long time, when going nearly before the wind; and indeed it is the best seamanship to crack on her; for when the gale rises to its highest pitch, and the seas follow in great height, they are apt to curl fairly on board, and play fine pranks along the decks, even if the violence of the blow on the quarter do not broach the ship to, that is, twist her head round towards the wind in such a way that the next sea shall break over her gangway, and in all probability sweep away the masts. In small vessels it becomes a most anxious period of the gale when the sea has got up so much that it is difficult to steer steadily, and when the wind blows so strong that enough sail cannot be carried to keep the ship sufficiently ahead of the waves, except at the risk of tearing the masts away. When the requisite degree of speed cannot be secured, the inevitable consequence, sooner or later, is, that a monstrous pea-green solid sea walks most unceremoniously on board, over the taffrail, and dashes along the decks like those huge debacles, of which some geologists so confidently point out the traces on the earth's surface.
I never happened actually to witness a catastrophe of this kind on the great scale, though I have seen one or two smartish gales in my time. Indeed the most serious evils I recollect to have been present at occurred on board the Volage, on the very passage to India which I am now describing. The following are the words in which these incidents are noticed in my journal:--
"On the 13th of July, off the Cape of Good Hope, in the midst of a heavy winter's gale, our worthy passenger, Sir Evan Nepean, governor of Bombay, was thrown down the ladder, by the violent rolling of the ship; and another gentleman, the Baron Tuyll, the best-natured and deservedly popular passenger I ever saw afloat, was very nearly washed out of his cot by a sea which broke into the stern windows of the captain's cabin."
I have often enough been close to wars and rumours of wars, but was never in a regular sea-fight; and though I have also witnessed a few shipwrecks and disasters, I never was myself in much danger of what might be honestly called a lee shore; neither is it my good fortune to be able to recount, from personal knowledge, any scenes of hardship or suffering from hunger, cold, or any other misery. My whole professional life, in short, has been one of such comparative ease and security, that I cannot now remember ever going far beyond twenty-four hours without a good bellyful. Still I have often been forced to take a high degree of interest in formidable adventures of this kind, from their happening in fleets of which my own ship formed a part, or from these incidents including among the sufferers persons to whom I was attached.
In the year 1815, I accompanied a convoy of homeward-bound Indiamen from Ceylon, and a right merry part of the voyage it was while we ran down a couple of thousand miles of the south-east trade-wind; for these hospitable floating nabobs, the East India captains, seldom let a day pass without feasting one another; and we, their naval protectors, came in for no small share of the good things, for which we could make but a poor return. Along with our fleet, there sailed from Ceylon a large ship, hired as a transport by Government to bring home invalid soldiers. There were about 500 souls in her; of these a hundred were women, and more than a hundred children. I was accidentally led to take a particular interest in this ill-fated vessel, from the circumstance of there being four fine boys on board, sons of a military friend of mine at Point de Galle. I had become so well acquainted with the parents of these poor little fellows during my frequent visits to Ceylon, that one day, before sailing, I playfully offered to take a couple of the boys in my brig, the Victor, an eighteen-gun sloop of war; but as I could not accommodate the whole family, the parents, who were obliged to remain abroad, felt unwilling to separate the children, alas! and my offer was declined.
Off we all sailed, and reached the neighbourhood of the Cape without encountering anything in the way of an adventure; there, however, commenced the disasters of the unfortunate Arniston, as this transport was called. She had no chronometer on board; a most culpable and preposterous omission in the outfit of a ship destined for such a voyage. The master told me that he himself was not in circumstances to purchase so expensive an instrument, the cost of a good chronometer being at least fifty or sixty guineas, and that the owners considered the expense needless. He also stated that on his remonstrating still more, and urging upon these gentlemen that their property would be ten times more secure if he were furnished with the most approved means of taking good care of it, he was given to understand, that, if he did not choose to take the ship to sea without a chronometer, another captain could easily be found who would make no such new-fangled scruples. The poor master shrugged his shoulders, and said he would do his best; but having often rounded the Cape, he knew the difficulties of the navigation, when there was nothing but the dead reckoning to trust to.
During our passage from Ceylon, it was the practice every day, at one o'clock, for the Indiamen, as well as the men-of-war, to make signals showing the longitude of each ship by chronometer. Thus we had all an opportunity of comparing the going of our respective time-keepers, and thus, too, the master of the Arniston was enabled to learn his place so accurately, that if he had only kept company with his friends the Indiamen, each of whom was provided with at least four or five chronometers, the deficiency in his equipment might never have led to the dreadful catastrophe which speedily followed the loss of this assistance.
It was late in the month of May when we reached the tempestuous regions of the Cape; and we were not long there before a furious gale of wind from the westward dispersed the fleet, and set every one adrift upon his own resources. The poor Arniston was seen at sunset, on the day the gale commenced, with most of her sails split, but not otherwise in danger, for she had a good offing, and the wind was not blowing on shore. Three heavy gales followed in such quick succession during the next week, that not only the ordinary course, but the velocity of the current was changed, and instead of running, as it almost always does, to the westward, it set, on the days in question, to the south-eastward. According to the most moderate allowance for the current, all circumstances being taken into consideration, any navigator might fairly have supposed that, in the five days which elapsed from the 24th of May to the 28th inclusive, his ship would have been drifted to the westward by the current at least a hundred miles. Our chronometers, however, distinctly showed us that we had been carried, not, as usual, to the westward, but actually to the eastward, a distance of more than a hundred miles; so that, in less than a week, there occurred upwards of two hundred miles of error in the dead reckoning.
The master of the Arniston, doubtless, after making every allowance, according to the best authorities, and working by the most exact rules of navigation of which he could avail himself, naturally inferred that his ship was more than a hundred miles to the westward of the Cape, and he probably considered himself justified in bearing up before a south-easterly gale, and steering, as he had so much reason to suppose he was doing, straight for St. Helena.
It is very important to remark, in passing, to professional men, that no ship off the Cape, and under any circumstances, ought ever to bear up, without first heaving the deep sea-lead. If soundings are obtained on the Bank, it is a sure symptom that the ship is not sufficiently advanced to the westward to enable her to steer with safety to the north-north-westward for St. Helena. It is clear the ship in question must have omitted this precaution.
All that is known of this fatal shipwreck is simply that the Arniston, with a flowing sheet, and going nine knots, ran among the breakers in Struy's Bay, nearly a hundred miles to the eastward of the Cape. The masts went instantly by the board, and the sea, which broke completely over all, tore the ship to pieces in a few minutes; and out of her whole crew, passengers, women, and children, only half-a-dozen seamen reached the coast alive. All these could tell was, that they bore up and made all sail for St. Helena, judging themselves well round the Cape. This scanty information, however, was quite enough to establish the important fact that this valuable ship, and all the lives on board of her, were actually sacrificed to a piece of short-sighted economy. That they might have been saved, had she been supplied with the worst chronometer that was ever sent to sea, is also quite obvious. I am sure practical men will agree with me, that, in assuming sixty seconds a-day as the limit of the uncertainty of a watch's rate, I have taken a quantity four or five times greater than there was need for. Surely no time-keeper that was ever sold as such by any respectable watchmaker for more than thirty or forty guineas, has been found to go so outrageously ill as not to be depended upon for one week, within less than ten or fifteen seconds a-day. And as I have shown that a chronometer whose rate was uncertain, even to an extent five or six times as great as this, would have saved the Arniston, any further comment on such precious economy is needless.