The Shining Sea

by George C. Daughan

  Disappointed as he was, Porter pressed on to make more westing, worrying all the time about the crew’s spirits. They seemed to be holding up, however. They still had fresh water, but food grew so scarce they were forced to eat their pet parrots and monkeys. They had not been long in these terrible seas, but the crew’s desire for fresh food was so strong that a rat was esteemed a delicacy.

  Fortunately, the Essex continued to perform better than expected. On February 24 Porter, to his immense delight, found that they had reached longitude 80° west, and as the wind shifted to the southwest, he thought their sufferings were now truly over. He began to develop schemes for annoying the enemy, and at the same time, returning home with immense wealth.

  For four days, the weather remained benign—sunny skies and a relatively calm sea. The wind continued to blow hard from the southwest, and on the last day of February the Essex had reached latitude 50° south.

  Their fortunes soon changed, however. During the morning of February 28, the wind increased to such velocity that a full gale was blowing, and by noon Porter reduced the ship to a storm staysail and close-reefed main topsail. The wind blew from the west during the afternoon “and blew with a fury far exceeding anything we had yet experienced,” he recorded, “bringing with it such a tremendous sea as to threaten us at every moment with destruction and appalled the stoutest heart on board.”

  The terrifying gale persisted. “The ship [was making] a great deal of water,” he wrote, “and the sea [increasing] to such a height as to threaten to swallow us each instance; the whole ocean was a continuous foam of breakers. The heaviest squall I have ever before experienced, has not equaled in violence the most moderate intervals of this hurricane,” he declared.

  Birds, kelp, and whales appeared in sufficient quantities to make Porter fearful that they were near the coast of Patagonia. He was forced to keep as heavy a press of sail as he could in order to stay off the rock-encrusted shore, which he felt in his bones was near.

  The explosive storm continued through March 1 and 2—horrifying days. The ship’s violent jerking caused many to fall and bruise themselves. Porter had three severe falls that hurt him badly. “The oldest seaman in the ship,” he recalled, “had never experienced anything equal to the gale.”

  By March 3, the crew was exhausted. Many were ready to give up and submit to fate. Yet the worst was not over. At three o’clock that morning, with only the watch on deck, an enormous sea broke over the ship, greater than any they had experienced before, deluging her. Huge quantities of water smashed in the gun deck ports, flooding the area where the men were sleeping, washing them out of their hammocks. A boat was driven into the wheel, but did not smash it. Another boat was swept off its davits. Spare spars were washed from the chains and the headrails. The crew was in shock; it seemed certain that the ship would founder. One of the prisoners, the boatswain from the Nocton, shouted that the ship was sinking. And it seemed for all the world that it was. David Farragut remembered that “this was the only instance in which I ever saw a real good seaman paralyzed by fear at the dangers of the sea. Several of the sailors were seen on their knees at prayer.”

  Miraculously, the men at the wheel stood firm, and others held their stations as well. The crew, it seemed, was not ready to give up. “Most were found ready to do their duty,” Farragut observed. They were called on deck, and they came promptly, led by William Kingsbury, the boatswain’s mate who had earlier played King Neptune. Farragut wrote that he would long remember “the cheering sound of [Kingsbury’s] stentorian voice, which resembled the roaring of a lion rather than that of a human being, when he told them: ‘Damn [your] eyes, . . . put [your] best foot forward, as there [is a] side of the ship left yet.’”

  Porter, though severely bruised, led the fight back. Downes, Kingsbury, and other courageous spirits assisted him, and they managed to get the Essex before the wind and save her. As they did, the storm began to weaken, and in the morning Porter was able to set a reefed foresail. He was enormously grateful to the stout-hearted who had done their duty and behaved so bravely in the most extreme circumstances. He rewarded them by advancing each one grade, filling up the vacancies opened by those sent in prizes and the two men who had been left behind at St. Catharine’s. At the same time, Porter rebuked others for their timidity.

  Porter was more than a little gratified that the Essex had held up so well. After three days of incessant pounding and some truly frightening moments—water pouring in and floating nearly everything—she remained sound, and still a potent man-of-war. Even though she had shipped several heavy seas that would have proved destructive to almost any other ship, she was still in working order. And Porter had been able to avoid throwing any big guns overboard, which was the last extremity he would have resorted to.

  Repairs went ahead rapidly. There were remarkably few. The Essex had gone through all this torment, and she had lost only the spritsail and the bees of the bowsprit. These were fixed quickly, and in a short time the frigate was shipshape and ready to fight again.

  The men were another matter. Totally drained, they had reached their limit. Another onslaught would have sent them to Davy Jones. Mercifully, none came. The weather was actually pleasant on March 5—better, in fact, than any they had experienced since passing the Falkland Islands. At meridian the Essex was in latitude 39° 20’ south. The day was clear, and the men had an excellent view of the spectacular, snow-covered Andes in the distance. Albatrosses were about the ship, and what a wonderful sight they were. As they moved north, parallel to the Chilean coast, squalls and cold rain tormented them from time to time, but for the most part, they experienced temperate weather and fine breezes, allowing the Essex to travel at an excellent rate of speed.

  Porter was in an exuberant mood, reflecting on what the Essex had accomplished—doubling the infamous Horn in record time. Only thirteen days had elapsed since she passed Le Maire Strait on February 13, and reached the Pacific in the latitude of the Strait of Magellan. Perhaps as remarkable as anything else, through all of these trials, the crew’s health remained excellent. Scurvy had not made an appearance—not a single case.

  CHAPTER

  9

  NAVIGATING CHILE’S POLITICAL WATERS

  AS THE WEATHER GREW MORE BENIGN, THE SHOCKS OF CAPE Horn faded in the minds of the Essex men, and they began looking forward to what lay ahead in the harbor and waterfront haunts of Valparaiso. Porter ran north with the Humbolt current, steering first for Mocha Island, 120 miles south of Concepción and twenty miles off the Chilean coast. The island was famous among Nantucket whalers as the habitat of Mocha Dick, an aggressive white sperm whale of gigantic size—the inspiration for Herman Melville’s Moby Dick.

  On a clear day, Mocha Island was visible from a great distance, and on March 6 it came into view twenty miles away. A lush, oval-shaped paradise six miles long and three and a half wide, it was a joyous sight after what the Essex had been through. A small mountain range covered with a dense virgin rainforest ran from north to south, its highest peak rising to nearly a thousand feet. On the north side hills tapered off gradually to the water’s edge, almost touching the dangerous rocks that extended a quarter mile into the sea. On the west side a treacherous reef nine miles long made landing hazardous.

  The waters surrounding Mocha teemed with whales, seals, penguins, and aquatic birds. British and American whalers and sealers, as well as privateers and smugglers were naturally attracted to the area. It was not uncommon for a whaler to catch as many as eight sperm whales in these waters, yielding hundreds of barrels of oil.

  Mocha was uninhabited, but it had not always been. The Spanish built a settlement here in 1544, but harassed by ferocious indigenous people known as Mapuches, the dons abandoned it. Sir Francis Drake landed in 1578, and the Mapuches attacked him as well, slashing his face, leaving an ugly scar as a permanent reminder of his visit. Since 1673, however, the island had been unoccupied. Threats of a Spanish attack forced the Indians to withdraw.

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p; The Mapuches dominated the huge area of Chile south of the Bío Bío River—the country’s second largest. The Bío Bío flowed from the Andes to the Gulf of Arauco near Concepción. The Spanish fought the Mapuches from time to time, but never conquered them. In fact, the fiercely independent Mapuches did not become part of Chile until the 1880s.

  Porter thought he could scoop up enough prizes around Mocha to secure the provisions he required, allowing him to steer clear of both Concepción and Valparaiso. Leery of the kind of reception the Essex would receive, he hoped to avoid both ports. As far as he knew, Chile was still a Spanish colony, and after Napoleon invaded Spain in the spring of 1808, Britain had become her close ally. The Essex’s sudden appearance in either port would alert the British to her presence in the Pacific.

  As the Essex approached Mocha, an abundance of wild life came into view, but no enemy vessels, which was a great disappointment. The island itself, however, was anything but disappointing. It looked as if it could provide all the water, wood, meat, vegetables, and fruit the Essex needed. Magnificent black and white sandy beaches offered suitable landing places. Porter soon found good anchorage on the eastern side, two miles offshore, where the Essex had shelter from westerly and southerly winds, but not those coming from the north or the east. Fortunately, the prevailing winds were from the south and west, so he felt comfortable dropping his hook there.

  No sooner was the anchor secure than Porter and some of his officers were rowed ashore by a few lucky sailors. The officers had their spyglasses out, and as they surveyed the island and beaches, they were surprised to see wild hogs and horses. Their mouths salivated. Getting ashore proved more troublesome than they anticipated, however. A heavy sea was running, beating hard against the beach and the rocks that skirted the shore, creating a turbulent surf. As they looked for a safe place to land, seals and colorful birds surrounded their boats. After a brief, but intense search, Porter ran up on a pristine sandy beach.

  With muskets in hand, the officers and seamen stepped from the boats and set out after the animals. By dusk, they had killed and dragged down to the boats ten hogs and some young pigs, but no horses. They were about to shove off when a splendid drove of wild horses came running along the beach in plain view. Porter quickly changed plans and hid with the men behind the boats, waiting in ambush, weapons ready.

  One of their members was missing, however. A seaman named James Spafford had wandered into the woods. No one had noticed; all eyes were on the game rushing by. When the horses were within range, Porter and the others fired. One of the animals fell, wounded, while the others ran off. The seamen rushed to the bleeding animal with clubs and were in the process of killing it when a musket shot rang out, and Spafford, the gunner’s mate, who was standing apart from the others at the edge of the woods, fell, blood percolating from his chest. Nearsighted Lieutenant Stephen Decatur McKnight, who was aiming at the fleeing horses, had shot Spafford instead. McKnight was aghast when he heard Spafford cry, “Sir, you have shot me! I am a dying man; please carry me on board, that I may die under my country’s flag.” McKnight was heartbroken, as were the others. Spafford was one of the most popular and trusted men on the Essex. They took him back to the ship, hoping for the best, but when Surgeon Robert Miller examined him, he concluded Spafford had no chance of surviving.

  The incident cast a pall over the ship. Although all hands had fresh meat for dinner, it was hard to enjoy while poor Spafford was below fighting for his life. Porter decided not to linger at Mocha. After letting the men have a run on shore, he took in what provisions were easily obtained and prepared to get underway. The island had an abundance of fresh water, wood, and food. The forested hills that ran down to the water’s edge made obtaining wood easy, and the picturesque streams that rushed down the west side to the beaches provided sweet water, although at times heavy surf and the dangerous reef made getting casks off tricky. Meat and fruit were easily obtained as well.

  Porter was impatient to leave, however, and he cut short operations. Hands were downcast because of Spafford, and since no British vessels were about, and the weather looked as if a gale was getting up, he decided to weigh anchor on the morning of March 7 and move on to nearby Santa Maria Island in Arauco Bay not far from Concepción. British whalers and smugglers were reported to frequent the waters around this island as well.

  As Porter steered for Santa Maria, navigating proved difficult. Thick fog often enveloped the ship, and the gale, which was now battering them, made the going slow. He had only a single, largely inaccurate, chart to guide him, along with a few crew members who had been in these waters before. Their memories were vague, however. He hoped to obtain more serviceable charts from his first capture. Until then he’d have to be careful.

  At five o’clock that afternoon, during a brief respite from the storm, a lookout caught a glimpse of Santa Maria. Porter judged that they were only ten miles from the island’s southwestern extremity, but high winds and haze made running in for an anchorage dangerous. He’d first have to send in a boat, but the violence of the wind made that impossible. Reluctantly, he decided to pass Santa Maria, and with the ship pitching deeply, he stood north. The gale was intensifying when he arrived off Concepción. He felt that he could not bring her to safely, so he ran past the city. By the morning of March 8 the wind had calmed down, but by then the Essex was in latitude 35° 40’ south—considerably north of Concepción.

  Porter was not unhappy with his new location. He assumed that enemy vessels would be plying the waters between Concepción and Valparaiso, and that he could capture at least one, which would allow him to keep the sea for a while and not be forced into Valparaiso for supplies.

  The Essex’s new position continued to frustrate Porter, however. The weather was abysmal. Thick fog often cut visibility down to a mile or less, requiring him to keep well offshore—too far to have a realistic shot at intercepting coastal traffic. He did see large schools of whales, and he hoped that British hunters would be pursuing them, but he saw none. From March 8 to 11 heavy fog continued to plague the Essex, hiding whatever vessels may have been in the area. Porter’s irritation mounted. The Essex had traveled all this distance, and he had seen no other ships. He would have been happy to find a boat of any kind—a Spaniard, even—that might give him intelligence of British vessels, but none appeared.

  The unexpectedly dreary landscape—whenever he got a glimpse of it—also disappointed him. In fact, since they had left Mocha Island, the desolate appearance of the countryside was a surprise. He was anticipating something far better—handsome villages, well-cultivated hills, fertile valleys, but what he saw was quite different and depressing. On March 12 a favorable wind moved the fog to leeward, and they could see the ironbound coast with the majestic, snow-capped Andes in the distance. The grandeur of the lofty peaks did little to cheer Porter, however; he felt nothing but gloomy solitude.

  The following afternoon, the Essex was twelve miles southwest of Valparaiso, and at 8 P.M. Porter hove to, hoping to intercept a ship bound there. But none appeared, and at daybreak on March 14 he gave up and decided to look into Valparaiso Bay, which was concaved, more of a recess in the coast than an enclosed port. The Point of Angels marked its southwestern extremity. From there it ran eastward for three miles before turning north. Since the prevailing winds blew from the south during the entire year, the bay provided excellent protection for ships, except when the winds came out of the north, as they did from time to time during the winter months (May to October). These could be gale-force, accompanied by heavy seas that rolled in with tremendous power, tearing ships loose from their moorings and driving them onshore. Old, and some not so old, wrecks were strewn on the rocks as stark reminders of what could happen.

  Until the Essex rounded the Point of Angels, the city and harbor remained hidden, tucked into the southern part of the bay. During the morning of the 14th a stiff breeze was blowing from the southward, allowing the Essex to sail around the Point of Angels with ease, and when she did,
Porter turned east. Soon, the harbor and city came into view, three miles off the starboard bow. Picturesque hills cut by deep ravines dominated the landscape in back of a long, half-moon shaped white sandy beach. Rising twelve to fifteen hundred feet, the hills were dotted with old, Spanish-styled homes. In front of them, the beautiful old city of Valparaiso stretched along the wide beach.

  As Porter glided into the harbor flying British colors (one flag at the gaff and another at the fore), he took note of several large Spanish ships anchored with their sails bent, preparing to leave. Near them, a British whaler was repairing damage she probably had received doubling the Horn. Not far from her was an 18-gun, deeply laden American brig, the privateer Colt (Captain Edward Barnewell). She was a reminder that, although the Essex was the first ship of the United States Navy to double the Horn, she was by no means the first American vessel, nor, of course, the first ship from Europe. Spain had dominated the eastern Pacific since the sixteenth century. The northern two-thirds of present-day Chile, that is, the land north of the Bío Bío River, had been a Spanish colony since 1541.

  The Spanish ships in the harbor concerned Porter. When they sortied, their destination would undoubtedly be Lima, the center of Spanish power in South America for centuries. He did not want them reporting that an American frigate was loose in the eastern Pacific. He began to have second thoughts about dropping anchor. Since the Essex was flying British colors, and the Spaniards would not have identified her, he decided to pull out of the harbor and not drop his hook until they left. It also occurred to him that by waiting offshore a few days, he might intercept the British whaler and obtain supplies and intelligence from her.