—John Masefield
Tuesday, August 6, 1872
Lat 44˚40΄03˝S, Long 86˚55΄49˝W
Providence fought the heavy head seas as best she could. The wind had been fierce and blowing steadily from the northwest, imposing a wall of head seas and wind coming from exactly the direction the ship needed to go. The Providence was a good ship—she rewarded fine seamanship—but in this weather she could not give her master what he wanted; no sailing vessel could. To sail the path laid out in Maury, on Griffin’s charts, and in his mind, he must sail to the left and to the right of northwest. He must sail in a series of zigzags, beating close-hauled.
Griffin’s goal was ever present in his mind: one hundred days. His strategy was always to make the best he could of what nature gave him. He beat in long boards and sailed close-hauled to the wind, pinching the wind as much as fine helming could hold. This minimized time lost in wearing; it also minimized the work of the crew, who, like Griffin and his mates, must live and sail in the near hurricane weather.
Each day, each hour, the waves grew in height. The waves’ fetch extended for more than a hundred miles, and the waves themselves were a mile or more in length, with great hollows separating them. At first foam was blown in dense streaks; gradually the waves became high and had overhanging crests and large patches of foam. Strong gale became whole gale; then, when only topsails and higher could be seen because of the troughs, they were in a storm with winds of sixty knots or more.
No one slept. No one was dry. The meals were cold. The decks were swept with running white and green water. She was heavy laden, her hull low in the water. Her bow was held high by her fore and main topsails and a storm jib. A more timid master might have heaved-to and rested on the tops of the waves in the comparative calm of the ship’s lee. Providence did not have a timid master.
Griffin and Carver were in the main saloon; Lennon had the deck as Griffin handed Carver a dry lucifer to relight his pipe. Griffin was upset; the weather again held him back, jeopardizing his goal.
“Captain, this weather will break; six more degrees latitude and we’re in the trades.”
“That’s not the issue. The issue’s when. When will it break? How much time do we lose?” Griffin then indicated to Ezra to refill his and Carver’s coffee cups. They were not using the ship’s good china in weather like this, but then neither Griffin nor Carver would have even noticed.
Carver replied, “The barometer started to fall yesterday at ten in the morning and is still falling, everything is furled from the topgallants upward, and she’s still pitching. The wind’s been coming in half-hour intervals, hard then light. At least she’s going quickly to west; we’re not standing still, ayuh?
“Henry’s rotating Duder and Priest, then Stedwin and Smallbridge at the helm, one-hour tricks. You should put an apprentice on the weather helm every other trick and keep the regular helmsmen halfway rested. Are the Ernst boys up to it?”
As the word “rested” left Carver’s mouth, the ship pitched its bow upward, then slammed it down nearly twenty feet in the trough of a thirty-six foot wave, the child of this precipitous sea. The mates and master heard the crash of tons of water hitting the bow, pouring straight down on the decks, and rushing aft in fast-moving streams of a foot or more depth. Glass shattered in the butterfly hatches, letting water pour into the saloon. Had something been stove in? Griffin waited for a report, anticipated Ezra letting a wet seaman in oilskins inside his reception area to stand before them and tell them the damage. No one came. Providence was a downeaster, a New Englander as much as the men who built and sailed her; she endured hard weather as a mere fact of life. The carpenter and sailmaker nailed canvas over the broken skylight and Ezra mopped up the water. Carver and the carpenter surveyed the ship for damages.
In this weather, Griffin could not sleep because he needed to be seen on deck by each successive watch, once or twice every four hours.
I must stand here and let them see me. They want to see me. They only follow because they want to, for whatever reason. They must see I’m not afraid, although fear grips my stomach as well as theirs. Fold your arms, man; there, look down the side, smile a bit, look that johnny in the eyes. He returns your smile, happy to be noticed.
Griffin stood on the weather side with his arms folded over each other while beaming confidence in plain sight of his crew.
They want me. They’ll not ask, but their eyes tell me they need me. Go, man! Go down to the lee of the forward deckhouse, where you can seek shelter from wind and spray. They need me to joke, to feel my confidence and joke. I need them.
“Enjoying this weather, boys? Well, johnnies, you’re earning your pay now, ain’t ya?”
They still could laugh. And going aft, I heard the helmsman say, “Add one now, pull down, lad. Hold her tight, the old man’s looking.”
“Helmsmen, have you got her? How’s she steer? Any stretch in the cables? How many spokes to take her off the wind?”
***
Carver could not sleep either. When he was not on watch, he or the carpenter checked the hull every hour. He worried; the pounding had started movement in one of the upper planks forward on the weather side. It moved in slight flexes, letting in a little water now, but Carver and Chips both knew each flex was weakening the plank. One bell, two bells, and three bells, until eight bells, watch by watch, they alternated checking the plank. Lennon relieved Carver when not on watch. The pumps were manned as a precaution.
If that was not enough, Carver and Eoghan Gabriel were constantly checking the rigging for strain, to see if the standing rigging stretched, to place pudding where the running rigging chafed on the yards or sails. A block failed and men went aloft to replace it; Priest and Smallbridge did the high work.
Each boy, tired but still working, knew the ship and its crew depended on them to go aloft and balance on the yards attached to the corkscrewing masts. They would lay forward over the yards, pushing their feet and the foot-ropes out for balance. Both hands were needed for the ship. Sometimes it was the quickness of youth that kept them alive.
Eight bells rang; the port watch relieved the starboard. The noon meal was served, hardtack, coffee, raw salt meat, and peaches—canned peaches from the hold.
The afternoon watch continued. The ship’s bell reported the passage of each half hour. The sun, what they could see of it, dipped below the horizon.
Providence and her crew labored on. Craig complained of his ribs and did not go aloft. Jeremy and Richard Ernst took up the slack. Craig argued that the captain was mad. “That idiot ought to heave-to and ride it out. He’s risking our damned lives.”
The ship lent her voice to the matter. She groaned, creaked, and popped, and her rigging moaned, yet she kept on going and providing what shelter she could to the men who worked her. If she could have spoken, her voice would have said, “They are my sons and I will see them ashore.”
The Pacific Ocean roared, spewed foam, and formed long ridges of curling white water at the crests of the towering waves. The tops curled and broke forward, sending foam downward on the flanks of the waves. Spindrift filled the air. The ocean did not know or care. Caress or kill, there was no difference. It roared but did not speak. The men at the pumps sang:
We was made to pump all night an’ day,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
An’ we half-dead had beggar-all to say,
An’ it’s time for us to leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, and we’ll work no more,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Of pump or drown we’ve had full store.
An’ it’s time for us to leave her!
***
Sam Duder was not known for silent brooding, “Drink your coffee, Sweets. Try dunking your biscuit in it, softens it up and warms it too.” Priest smiled. He would never dunk the corner of his toast or a roll in his teacup in front of his parents. It did warm and soften the hard ship’s biscuit, though.
Nicholas Priest
was drenched in his own sweat beneath his oilskins and southwester. His body still burned from exertion from having the weather helm for an hour. “Old Bishop snuck me some dried apple slices. Here, Duder.”
Priest gave Duder three of the largest pieces of dehydrated apple, saving the smaller pieces for himself.
“Thankee, Sweets. I’ll make a regular pie out of it, hardtack ’n’ apple, lean back and think I’m at home in the kitchen with my darling Betsy, all snug and warm.”
Sam chuckled; it would take more than this weather to test his humor. He bit off a chunk of apple, took a swig of coffee, and chewed. “It’s good, Sweets. Keep eating, anything you can get in this weather; you need to keep your strength up. The waves have got to get bigger if this wind holds.
“Are you counting them? They come in sevens; last one’s the biggest. Do you see the trough under the front of the big one? It’s sucking all that water up and piling it on top of the wave. Can’t ever let the ship get sideways. That water dropping from the top of the wave can capsize her, knock her down. Are you anticipating her? Use just enough rudder to keep her straight. Don’t have the wheel hard to any side going down; that’s inviting a broach. Did you notice how the steering cable stretches? Only one up and two or three to feel her come off?”
“That’s the reason she’s fast coming off the wind?”
“Yes, you understand it, boy. The mate’s got to check the cables. Can’t afford to have one part. Spoke to Mr. Carver about the stretch. He’ll look. The man’s no one’s fool and a seaman too. He’s a Yankee like you and me. Ease her when she pitches.”
***
Peleg Carver was a good listener. Men like Sam Duder didn’t tell mates how to do their business unless they were concerned about something out of the ordinary. Anyone who could hand, reef, and steer knew about cable stretch and a weather helm. Duder had to think the stretch was excessive.
“Mr. Gabriel, Chips, come with me. We need to look at the tiller arm and steering gear; grab a lantern.” The boatswain examined the steering cables. They had stretched. He then supervised the installation of relieving tackle so the stretched cable could be repaired by splicing in fresh cable.
Gabriel raised his right hand to behind his neck and seemed to coax words from his mouth, “Mr. Carver, it’s not a bad idea to leave the relieving tackle in place.”
***
Sleep visited no one. Clothes were soaked through and left on when turning in. The straw mattresses were damp. The smell of wet sea salt on wool and cotton mixed with the barnlike smell of men, the smell of sweat and filthy clothing. The work did not stop. The sea provided no respite. This was how the sea baptized and confirmed deep-water square-rig seamen. Their watch was called; they rose from their squalid bunks and risked lives and injury, and worked their ship. If they didn’t, she would founder.
Ship’s Song
My sons curse me but love me above all other women.
I am only born of the minds of men and gifts of the forest, fields and Pits of the earth.
They curse me for what I require of them and boast of me while drinking porter and playing cards.
They forget me for other women.
I must take them to their shore and hear them sing, “It’s time for us to leave her.”
Forty-Two
The Roaring Forties
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.
—William Wordsworth
Thursday, August 8, 1872
Lat 43˚00΄00˝S, Long 87˚30΄00˝W
August 8, 1872
My Dearest Isaac,
I shall report the news to you. How I wish we could be together to parse some meaning to what I have to say.
Father has regularly been seeing John J. O’Corkerane of the Clan na Gael. I have no idea why, except I am certain that my mother is somehow involved. Mr. O’Corkerane has twice been to dinner and tells us he and his friends are quickly bringing the Fenian Brotherhood together again in America. The money is flowing in and, he says, it is little problem to smuggle it into Ireland. He is concerned about spies, though, and the efforts of some Irish to seek relief through the British Parliament. He has no faith in England whatsoever.
Mother seems to have grown cold to Mr. O’Corkerane. They used to sing the old songs in Gaelic together, but she refuses to do so now. I’ve seen Father hold her hand beneath the tablecloth, and his lips seemed to mouth silent words telling Mother to be polite.
On a happier note, Hanna is going to have a baby! She told me that Kicking Billy and William had a huge argument over Jimmy Meehan and his union. Kicking Billy saw that William appeared unable to control his emotions and that his health was on the verge of failing. He forced William Jr. to stop work and to spend time with Hanna. I now know why you call him Kicking Billy.
Hanna told me that after three solid days of rest, the William Jr. she had come to love started to rise again. It was so wonderful for her. I had lunch with them one day and I can tell you that it is a joy to see him smile and laugh again. Hanna and I left the restaurant singing “Barbara Allen.” William seemed beside himself with merriment, I cannot fathom why. The ballad is so sweet. Hanna calls William “Sweet William” from the ballad.
Jimmy seems to have succeeded in forming a sailors’ union. They have been fighting the waterfront crimps but the violence appears to be restrained. Instead of intercepting crimps’ wagons, they have taken to picketing ships known to use the crimps. This has not been entirely successful, but Jimmy seems content with the practice. The union is growing and the police have no cause to interfere.
Kicking Billy supports Jimmy’s efforts. He likes the union hiring hall and the fact that when the union certifies the sailors’ skills, that certification is true. He told me this means so much aboard ship, that men are capable of doing what they are paid for. I heard him tell William he doesn’t give a damn if the union charges a fee; so do shipping masters, only more.
I am sorry to tell you that the strain of running the shipping line without William’s help seems to be aging Billy more quickly than just nature and time. He is using a cane now to climb stairs and complains that his sleep is disturbed and fitful.
Hanna says he is approaching eighty years of age. It is wonderful that he maintains his old attitude despite it all. Has it ever struck you as odd that so many captains and mates seem like terrible tyrants but are really sentimental men? One of Billy’s old friends has a small white Maltese dog. It seems to have charmed its owner and Kicking Billy too. He calls the dog his little girlfriend and lets the dog lick his nose.
Father has approached me about taking Mother and me to San Francisco on the railroad. He will use his private car, cook, maid, and butler to take care of our needs. He also intends to hire the Pinkertons to see to our safety.
My life goes on with nursing. The schools are progressing well, and—can you believe this?—Harvard will require medical students to take exams and have practical experience before giving them a medical doctor degree. The medical college and Massachusetts General Hospital are cooperating. I understand the Europeans do this and that Austrian and German medical schools may well be the world’s best. I really believe this is a great step forward for American medicine! And it will be medicine based on science and not tradition or someone’s notions.
Enough! I prattle on and on. How I wish we were together again. I doubt we would spend too much time with the news and even gossip. There are so many better things for our lips and hearts to do.
Oh, Hanna has returned the book I found in a used bookstore. The title is “The Ancient Wisdom of Aristotle.” She says it really inspired William Jr. to new heights of accomplishment. I love to read certain passages before sleeping. When I read them, I imagine being with you again.
I will love you always.
Kayleigh
***
Dear Kayleigh,
We continue with yet another day of head seas. The longer we have winds from the northwest, the larger the sea becomes. My chief concern for the moment is the heavy pitching of the ship. Our cargo is ponderous and we ride low in the water. This forces me to be concerned about the water we take over our decks and the pounding of our hull. The shear of the ship has kept us reasonably dry, but as the sea continues to build and the ship continues to pitch, the pounding increases. We are close-hauled, beating, and covered a respectable 120 miles noon the sixth to noon the seventh. Yesterday, we had a little excitement as we replaced the plank that started to move. Men were over the side. Since we are caulked on both sides of the ship’s ribs, the water that has come into the ship must remain there.
At two in the afternoon of the seventh, the overcast cleared, but it brought on calm. Soon the sun came out and with it another north by northwest wind. We wore ship to the westward but there was not enough wind to stay her against the continuing head sea.
I was called again on deck at midnight. The sky turned hazy and the wind began to blow hard while the barometer began to fall. This is typical of the forties. By noon today, I ordered the topsails double-reefed and furled our courses and spanker. As I sit at my desk I can hear the wind howling and the sea pounding our bow. Reefing the topsails did help reduce the pitching, and the ship is riding much better. Worse weather is coming, the barometer tells us that.
My spirits are high. I had nearly 6 hours sleep and my log shows we made 138 miles between yesterday at noon and today. My spirits are high because I am nearer to San Francisco, a step closer to achieving our goals, and closer to receiving your letters. We’ve left so much undone, so much to be resolved. I wonder if anyone has ever built a future on such haste as we have?
Your husband and friend,
Isaac
***
“Bring the wind off our port side, abeam, reef topsails, and dowse the spanker, Mr. Lennon.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helmsman, take her off the wind and spill the topsails. Mr. Gabriel, reef topsails. Stay alert, there! Keep the yards steady!”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 27