The provisions served for dinner were rice and bouillon, a plain unclarified broth. This was made of beef boiled together with the last of the turnips, carrot and other beet vegetables. I think I make it sound better than it tastes.
Yes, I definitely have – for it tastes awful. While making gruel two people were scalded with boiling water, by the lurching of the vessel.
Four months in these conditions have been trying, to even the most placid personality. Tensions rise and fall naturally with the heat, even with the time of the day. One small thing, like a spilt dinner, a vomiting child, a fumble in the dark gone wrong, could have immediate repercussions, vocal if not physical.
After dinner an unholy row broke out below decks, which sent everyone rushing to see what was happening. The sound coming out of the hatch was of women screaming, not mere crying, but blood-curdling screeching. The Captain ran from his cabin with his pistol in hand and bravely jumped down the hold in an effort to restore peace. Mr Olsen was right behind him and a melee of the first order was taking place. The Captain pulled the women apart, tore struggling men from each other, but an air of madness seemed to have control. Finally he raised his pistol and fired into the air. The effect was electrifying. The sudden cessation of struggle and noise was dramatic. It was as if the figures had become wooden actors in a play. However, the tableau was short lived.
Mr Olsen had pulled one girl off another. Both their bodices were ripped and both carried bloody fingernail scratches on their exposed breasts. The First Mate turned the girl he was restraining around to look at her bleeding marks. As he did so, a young swarthy man, apparently her sweetheart lunged at Mr Olsen, who felled him with a single blow. The ruckus began again, now some defending Mr Olsen, some the young man. The Captain cocked his pistol and fired again up the open hatch, which finally subdued all the excited hot heads.
The young man, over whom the cat fight was all about, was taken to the brig for his own safety.
26th October
This morning three repentant parties made their peace. The young man had fought off rats all night and was very subdued. Of course many dwelled on the fight, it being a great subject of conversation.
Mr Olsen and myself, when we met at midday, laughed uproariously at the incident and we found ourselves both clinging to the mast for support. I said to him I thought it was definitely time we got to New Zealand and he agreed wholeheartedly.
It was yet another cold, drizzly day and few sailors or passengers escaped a wetting of some sort, but by now these hardships were but trifles. Whether in the cabins or the hold, on the ‘head’ or in the galley, all on board were expecting to see land within the week and a rising sense of anticipation has filled the boat.
There were two Mollyhawks caught this day and the cook dressed them for dinner. I had a small taste and I suppose it was tolerably good eating, for almost anything was better than salt beef. I heard some of the crew were eating the rats on board, but I am not reduced to that just yet.
27th October
An extraordinary thing happened. Mr Purcell, who had never said one amorous thing to me, though, if I were honest, his intentions had been very clear, suddenly proposed marriage, saying it would be good for me. I was more surprised than anything and less than politely did laugh at him, though I didn’t mean to offend. I thought to myself that I cannot see marriage to him or anyone. Well, perhaps to Mr Olsen, but he will never ask me, of that I am certain.
I told the children after schooling about the marriage proposal and they all laughed except Matthew, who looked at me very strangely but made no comment. I don’t think they like Mr Purcell either, especially Little Jenny who tries not to go near his cabin door.
We are now nearly in the longitude of Sydney Australia, but a long way off south in latitude. There are many birds following us and people have lines out trying to catch them. The Cape Hen is a bird rather larger than a raven, while the Cape Pigeon is about the same size as the pigeons back home and beautifully mottled black and white.
Pigeons are caught every day, but yesterday one of the passengers was trying for a Pigeon when a Cape Hen got its wing entangled and by that means it was brought on board. He was a glossy dark lead colour, with white legs, web footed and a white ring round the eye. His wings measured nearly seven feet from tip to tip. He was a voracious fellow, he bit a boy who went near him, very hard on the hand and ate some beef on the deck. He was butchered and ended up as a stew.
The albatross following us are very big birds, some known to have a ten foot wingspan. We continue to see them, but rarely ever bring one on deck. There have been several hooked but they would either break the line or the hook. One broke the line seventy yards from the hook. He had so much line that he couldn’t rise with it and there we left him floating with the hook in his mouth. A lot of passengers laughed, but I watched the huge bird, sitting helplessly on the water, knowing death would come, from one source or another. I felt much pity for the magnificent creature. I now don’t want to eat any more sea birds; I hope they will stop catching them. There have been lines hanging from the stern ever since England but apart from the porpoise, no one has ever caught a fish. We do not see flying fish anymore as we had done in the tropics.
This day the sea was benign, calm and reflective, and it seems everyone was on deck on a most beautiful morning. All the crew and passengers were in good spirits, for a huge iceberg was off the starboard quarter. It sat there, silent yet majestic, in startling white and the most perfect blue colour underside. I was enthralled. Even though talk rapidly went round of ships bigger than ours that had been sucked under an iceberg and though the crew were wary, it does not seem that we are getting close enough to be in danger. The ship sailed past, even though we were getting driven very far south now - yet the westerly’s elude us still. There was much talk that if this keeps up we will see more icebergs.
Chapter Sixteen
Storm in the Southern Ocean
One day, as the ship ghosted forward, not one but two albatross were caught. Both were mature adult birds with ten foot wingspans and weighed 18 lbs or so. They took bait on lines by hooks into their beaks, falling into the sea and being dragged along till they died. This made for a lot of interest. The skins were taken for preservation by an amateur taxidermist in First Class, while Cookie made the flesh into pie.
A number of passengers tut-tutted and disapproved, especially those who had read Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. In his poem a sailor kills an albatross and as their ship falters, the bird is hung around his neck in penance. A few passengers in steerage heard the mutterings of the learned and scoffed and ridiculed their pomposity. Birds are food and food is to be eaten. The albatross are no different to a quail, or a duck, or even a swan - only bigger!
That afternoon, there was a subtle change in the air. The Captain and Mr Olsen were the first to feel it. The sky was slowly growing heavier, thicker and somnolent and the horizon became more indistinct. When asked, Matthew said he felt it also, that it was like the weight of the world trying to press down on his head and shoulders. He went about his chores, but could not stop himself looking at the sky and its changing patterns, unlike anything they had seen so far on the voyage. The evening sky turned yellow and those who looked saw a milky sun drifting down towards the horizon. As darkness fell the wind eased right off, till the sails began to slap and flap and an eerie calm settled on to the boat. The light wind veered even more to the east, and was, as the sailors say, ’full in the teeth,’ meaning it was ahead of them yet again. They went on the other tack to avoid icebergs and lookouts were kept on the forecastle and up the lower mainmast.
By dawn the next day, the sympiesometer (barometer) had fallen to 800 mbs and the wind began to rise. The storm was approaching so slowly that the experienced captain was showing concern, staying on deck and scanning the sky, even missing his meals. By now most passengers were aware of a change and many of them were out helping the crew. There had been a lot of
idle talk about weather and they were keen to see a real storm. After all, they had survived the previous gales without great mishap. Every yard of sail was taken in, except main and foretop sails and these were double reefed.
Orders had been given during the day to tie and batten everything down as securely as possible, but the task was difficult. Every cabin and steerage bunk had trunks and boxes of different shapes and sizes to contend with. Come nightfall, the wind rose and sleep became impossible. Yet far worse was to come. The wind kept increasing and by the midnight bell there was a full gale.
Daylight at last brought a slight cessation of the wind, and even the sky lightened for a period, almost as if they had gone through the eye of the storm. The wind was no worse than they had already experienced and many passengers began to laugh at the serious looking officers. Yet there was no blue sky, only revolving clouds and a gloomy semi-light which did nothing to raise the spirits of those who recognised the symptoms. The relative calm lasted just a short while before the skies blackened again. Within a period of barely thirty minutes, the storm finally and fully unleashed its awful power upon them. In an incredibly brief period the wind rose in a succession of steps, each one more malevolent than the last. The gallant boat bowed before the fury of each blast of wind, responding gamely to the assaults, as she rose to face the battering waves.
When man is in control of the forces of wind, he can harness the energy to make it push his ship in a desired direction. But a sailor knows that should that wind suddenly come from an angle or strength that the sails are not set for, it can have the power to over-ride the ability of the helmsperson. The ship can then turn round out of control and in the worst scenarios, even to founder.
The wind continued to steadily increase and now there were four men on the massive steering wheel, with only the slightest power over it and the carpenter stood ready with an axe to cut away rigging, even a mast if necessary.
The sky was gradually darkening all around them but the rain held off, while the ship raced along before the wind under nearly bare poles. Then even as the crew watched, the few small sails left were blown apart, torn to ribbons. The vessel rolled as if in great pain, leaning from gunwale to gunwale, so cabin side seemed to be floor and floor became cabin side. At midday, the spare spars lashed to the side of the long boat began to come free. This was life threatening to anyone in the area, but they had to be secured before they seriously damaged the ship. Spars are heavy lengths of timber, most weighing many tons, and could smash out the bulwarks, or conceivably even bring a mast down. The sailors struggled with incredible bravery and finally managed after nearly two hours of major effort, to tie them all down. Mr Olsen rewarded the whole watch with a tot of rum.
No sooner was that task completed, when the main-topmast yard, a big spar at the top of the mainmast, was hit by a massive bolt of lightning, snapping it like a carrot. The sky, even at mid-afternoon, was now inky black, but the lightning flash lit up the ship with enormous candlepower, lighting briefly even the far recesses of the steerage sleeping quarters. One second later, a huge thunderclap hit the boat. It was deafening. The rigging shook, the hull itself vibrated violently. Passengers and crew clung to anything nearby for support. Nothing had ever let them believe that nature could be so voluble or savage.
Mate was at the wheel next to the helmsman when the lightning struck and as he watched, the spar split and crashed on to the deck. The weight was enough to drive through the heaviest of deck timbers if it had fallen on its end but with luck, the spar landed flat, in a great tangle of wire, sail and ropes. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Down it came, bringing sail and all with it, leaving the shattered main mast on fire like a burning roman candle. Mate immediately leapt to the deck, crying,
“Call all hands to clear the deck - call all hands to clear the deck!”
He was barely heard. His call even had to be relayed below decks to the off-watch crew, for down below they heard nothing, in their fatigue and over the noise of the battle between boat and element. The weary sailors stumbled to their duties, all now numbed with exhaustion.
Mate assembled the on-deck watch. Above them the mast stump was blazing and already sending splats of burning tar down on to the deck. If any of the tar landed in another sail, the fire would quickly spread out of control. Sailors fear fire more than the lash, more than privation and even starvation. Most sailors are landlubbers not even able to swim. A fire at sea, with nowhere to escape, is the greatest horror imaginable.
“We must clear the decks. Helm – turn to starboard 130 degrees- we must run before the wind and keep the sparks off the sails. Quick now, everybody.”
The ship bore away at speed and all available hands scurried up the mast, Mate leading them. A bitterly cold wind sprung up and then, as luck would have it, rain began to fall. It came slightly at first, as if giving warning. Then increasing in velocity, it began to drum in a wild fury. It tormented every exposed piece of man, animal and boat and fell in torrents for a number of hours. The fire soon self-extinguished, but the deck was a mess. During the afternoon and early evening the wind continued unabated, while at times the sea tossed right over the vessel, from astern to over the bow. As the ‘Nell Gwynn’ ran under bare poles before the tempest, the tattered remnants of the sails were just cut free. Even those desperate to see New Zealand, or any land at all for that matter, did not begrudge the easing of conditions as the ship ran before the storm. For two hundred miles they sailed back towards England. Matthew served the helmsmen coffee as often as he could get it up to them, but despite his best efforts he lost most of the cups to the wind and water. By the early evening, the barometer began to rise and, as the fury in the wind eased, even the white walls of water began to moderate their displeasure. The storm had passed.
There had been much talk amongst the crew and the male passengers, of how they had all been anxious to see a storm and they were now perfectly satisfied. The Captain said he had been in more severe and had even been struck by lightning too. As Mr Bill Parsons, a second class passenger, remarked,
“This did not accord with my preconceived ideas of a storm at sea. I believe in future I will leave marinising to mariners!”
There had been some sport during the storm. In bad weather there was always a rope tied along the length of the main deck for people to hold on to. By some means it came loose when a score or more were holding on. Down they went with a lurch of the vessel, one upon the other and rolling to the lower side of the vessel, then it rolled to the other side and they all followed.
Keeping in the cabin beds was difficult enough, but down in steerage it was far worse, as the bunks there were athwartships, and not fore and aft as in the cabins. If you were the near exact length from headboard to ship’s side, first the top of your head pressed heavily into the pillow and headboard and then one minute later your feet felt as if they could burst through the bunk end as the body seemed to double its weight. For anyone shorter in stature the agony could even be worse as the body slid up and down like a projectile, a sadistic form of torture indeed.
There were some who could make light of most of their situation almost anywhere, particularly the Irish. There was regular amusement amongst them, watching pots, pans and kettles rolling from side to side in one body; anything not fastened took the same course. A dish of batter and preserved meat flew across the steerage quarters. It ended up in someone’s bunk over on the opposite side, which upset both the sleeper and the owner of the food.
One of the children fell out of bed, landing with his bum in some treacle that had found its way on to the floor. On the next roll he and his younger brother were seen busily licking it off the floor. A neighbour fell so hard down his bunk that he burst through the timber ends and slid on his backside, all the way to the other side. When the storm subsided, it left a tangled mess of spars, rigging, broken sea chests, spoiled food and sodden wet clothing. It would take days for things to be restored to some normality and meantime the ship would resemble a giant
floating washing line. Passengers and crew alike were physically exhausted, but they had all survived.
Chapter Seventeen
The Torment of Mr Olsen
Mr Olsen was a very busy man and his troubled mind was torn between thoughts for Miss Jessica and the repairing of the wreckage from the storm. For two weeks he had anguished over what seemed to be the most difficult task ever set him.
But work cleared his thinking and when the ship was in order again, he waited for the right time to present himself to her. While his intentions were simple and straightforward, the successful outcome was anything but certain; his plan was studded with possible strife and failure. He had lain in his hammock, the syncopated swaying failing to send him to sleep like never before, his mind in a turmoil, a mess of ‘what ifs’ and ‘buts.’
Mr Olsen had recently become aware that one of the first class passengers had been spending time with the beautiful Miss Jessica. At first Mate thought nothing of it but, as his own pleasure of her company increased, he realized an emotion never before experienced. Something so foreign he could have chuckled out loud. He was actually becoming jealous.
‘Why is that? How could that be?’ he asked himself, through the long nights in his hammock, and all too much of the day, when his mind should have been on other things.
Because… because… he struggled hard with his brain rebelling against the reality - because… because… could it be that he was in love? If this was love, why did he feel so bad about it? Why was his stomach always twisted in a knot; why did he now have trouble even eating? Why did his heart seem to skip whenever she smiled at him? How could she be so beautiful, and yet seem to like him? What right did he have, when there were some rich passengers, more than one even, paying her too much attention by far? Finally one morning, at six bells, after lying awake the best part of the whole night, he came to a momentous decision. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, not even during his brief encounter with Jean Sando, the University Dean’s daughter, all those years ago. But now he had made his mind up.
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