Читать книгу Life and Adventure in the South Pacific - John D. Jones - Страница 14

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On Thursday, 25th of April, we were off the anchorage of Payta. The land here presents a bleak, barren appearance; not a tree or shrub in sight; nothing but sand and rocks as far as the eye can reach. Water is furnished the inhabitants by persons who make it a business, and bring it a long distance in skins on mules. The streets of this town are narrow and dirty; the houses are miserable; women and men dissipated and ugly-looking; fleas abundant, and loafers plenty.

While on shore here the captain shipped three green Peruvians, who answered to the cognomens of Manuel Maria, Tom, and Jack; the last two soon getting additions to their titles, making them “Spanish Tom” and “Nigger Jack.” We now squared our yards, made sail, and bid farewell to this outlandish hole, and also to the South American coast. We here spoke and gammed with the “President,” of Nantucket, and the “Marcus,” of Fairhaven, bound home. This gave us another opportunity of sending a line to the “loved ones at home,” which we were glad to improve. One of our boat-steerers, having been on the sick-list nearly all the voyage, expressed a wish to return home in the “Marcus.” Accordingly, an arrangement was soon made between the two captains, and we took a Mr. Smith in exchange. All bid Gifford an affectionate farewell, hoping he might be spared to reach his native land, and be restored to the bosom of his family. Farewell, Gifford—a long farewell. You are going to your own dear home; you will soon be clasped in the embrace of a dear mother and affectionate sisters. God grant that your life may be spared, that you may enjoy these blessings.

We are bound for the cruising grounds to the westward, with some three or four years yet before us ere we can behold those that are near and dear to us; and how many of our small company may be spared to again tread their native shores, God alone knows. Let us yield a cheerful compliance to the will of the Almighty, knowing that we are safe in His hands, and in faith say, “Thy will, not mine, be done, O Lord.” With heavy hearts we squared our yards and headed for our cruising grounds.

On Monday, May 13th, spoke ship “Rebecca Sims,” of New Bedford, with whose ship’s company we passed a very pleasant day. How cheering to the lone mariner while cruising, with no land in sight, and thousands of miles from our own home, to meet a ship from the same port, and a crew speaking the same language as ourselves! It is like meeting old friends.

On Saturday, the 25th of May, we raised a school of sperm whales. We immediately down boats and after them. After some pretty hard pulling, the chief mate’s boat fastened to a cow whale, and killed it. During the melee the boat was badly stove, and our giant Manuel, the Portugee, knocked overboard. The whale was running with great speed at the time, and, as a matter of course, poor Gee was soon left a long distance astern. However, one of the other boats, seeing what had transpired, came to the rescue, and Manuel was picked up. When they reached him he was striking out manfully for the boat, which was now miles ahead of him, and calling on all the saints in the calendar for help at the top of his voice. He was an excellent swimmer, but greatly frightened; so much so that some of the boat’s crew that picked him up declared that he was ten shades lighter. At sundown we had the jacket of the whale on deck.

The next day was Sunday, but not Sabbath. On all whalers, while at sea, mast-heads are manned, whales chased and captured, cut in and tried out on Sunday as much as any other day in the week. Nothing else, however, except what is absolutely necessary for navigating the ship, is done on this day, which is generally spent by the crew in reading and writing. To-day, while all hands were busily employed in cutting up the blubber, trying out, and clearing up the decks generally, the mate missed our friend Mackey from his post, which was to assist in hoisting the blubber from the blubber-room. He accordingly went forward to the forecastle, and, calling out, asked him what he was doing below.

Mackey replied, “Breaking out my chest to get a chaw o’ tobacco.”

“But would not any of the men on deck give you a chew?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe they would,” replied he, coolly.

“Well, just point yourself out of that, aft, to the main hatchway, and get up on the bitts, and stand by to hoist that blubber on deck. Now, mind, don’t let me have to look after you again, if you do there will be trouble; stay there till I call you down!”

Mackey took the place, and appeared perfectly contented with his new position, as he could sit down. Presently the mate sang out, “Come this way, all of you, and shove this case overboard.” It had just been bailed, and was now ready to launch into its native element, from which it had been taken. After tugging and shoving for a long time to no purpose, the mate looked around to see if any one was missing, and, not seeing him, called out, “Where is that Mackey?”

“Here I am, sir,” shouted Mackey, sitting at his ease on the bitts, looking on with perfect indifference and composure.

“What in the name of goodness are you doing there?”

“You told me to stay here till you called me, sir,” said Mackey, not loving work well enough to offer his services until he was called on.

“Get down out of that, you blackguard, and come here where the work is.”

Mackey left his stand amid the roars of the crew; the mate himself, who could always appreciate a good joke, could not refrain from joining in the general laugh.

On Tuesday, May 28th, we had most delightful weather, and the evening was one of those beautiful, mild, calm nights so common to the Pacific. With gentle breezes, we were slowly plowing our way to the Marquesas Islands. The stars shone forth in all their resplendent beauty, and not a cloud was to be seen in the whole face of the heavens. It was truly a lovely night, and the all-pervading stillness seemed to remind us of our own loneliness, and our thoughts naturally reverted to other scenes—to the far-distant home; to the dear friends and loved ones to whom we bid a hasty but sad farewell. Do these dear friends ever bestow a thought or breathe a prayer for the welfare of the wanderer? Were they thinking of the one far, far away? and when they assemble around the festive board, or form the family circle about the fireside, do they miss the absent one? Oh, what joy would it have been to have known that there were some in the land of our birth that missed us, and prayed for the return of the wanderer! What joy would it have been to know that our friends were enjoying that blessing, health! What a consolation to have been assured that they were spared the ravages of disease and death! But this pleasure was denied us. Thousands of miles of blue water rolled between us and our homes. What recollections crowd upon the mind at the mention of home! The dear old village, where we have sported with all the joys of youth—the old school-house, where we for hours and hours have sat trying the patience of the teacher, conning our lesson, perhaps, or engaged in some mischief—the stream, along whose banks we have so often strolled, listening to the merry carol of the birds, and annoying the finny tribe—the hills, over which we have rambled with boyish glee—the woods, in whose pleasant retreats we have passed so many happy hours—schoolmates, the beautiful fair ones—and lastly, though not least, dear parents, brothers and sisters—all rushed through the brain in a tumultuous whirl, and we found ourselves unconsciously sighing for the pleasures of home. But, alas! we awoke to the sad reality of our situation. Thousands and tens of thousands of miles of blue water, must be beat ere we could again clasp in our arms those we held so dear; and we could only look up to Him who “ruleth the waves,” and trust in His protection. What consolation to our fainting heart these words: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

The men forward had aroused from their lethargy, and some were whiling away the time singing, others telling yarns; Spanish Jack and Portuguese Manuel were seated by themselves, thumping on an old fiddle; Jo Bob was amusing some of the boys by giving them a specimen of his island dancing and singing. The watch below were in about the same condition, “lying around loose,” listening to a long yarn spun by Lawrence about a county fair that took place down in Maine. As usual, his stories would not “match.” He gave a full description of the whole affair. “The table,” he said, “was about three or four hundred feet long, and about six thousand people sat down to dinner at one time!” Some of the boys inquired “what they had to drink.” “Strong beer,” replied Lawrence; whereupon one of the watch said “he had lied to him, as he had often stated that the people down in Maine never indulged in strong drink.” But Lawrence was not to be caught in this manner, and he readily replied, “Well, it was not so very strong; it was made of spruce!” All the watch now joined in a hearty laugh at Lawrence’s expense.

Meanwhile the order of arrangements on deck were somewhat different. It happened that Lawrence’s berth, which was an upper one, was chock forward in the “eyes” of the ship, and one of the dead lights—used for the purpose of letting air and light into the forecastle, which opened exactly abreast his face—was left open. One of the watch on deck, having listened to Lawrence’s yarn, and wishing to have a little sport at his expense, stationed himself over the bows, on the martingale guys, and, as Lawrence rolled over, gave him a bucket of water, dash in the face, almost drowning the poor fellow. As soon as he could speak, for he was terribly frightened, and his bed was fairly afloat, Lawrence commenced jawing about the man at the helm “getting the ship off her course.” It was as smooth as a mill-pond, but he had the idea that the sea had washed in. His sleep was spoiled for that watch below, as the whole watch were shouting and laughing, and he growling and putting on dry clothing.