Fred felt more like a mummy than a sailor now, with all his layers of clothing. At this moment, however, the cold wasn't bothering him. On the near horizon was one of the reasons he had sailed on the Lady Rebecca.
The island of Tierra del Fuego rose from the ocean, forbidding and wild. Almost vertical walls of rock soared up from the sea to ragged, rugged peaks topped with snow and ice, the tallest disappearing into the clouds. Black gorges and chasms filled with snow broke the uniform gray of the shore. A wilder and lonelier coast he had never seen or even imagined. Somewhere to the north lay the entrance to the Strait of Magellan, too narrow and winding for sailing ships, fit only for the smoke-box steamers.
Tierra del Fuego, the land of fire. Fred liked the way the name felt on his tongue and repeated it to himself. Tierra del Fuego. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could live in such a barren place, but Magellan had named the island after seeing the fires of the natives ashore. He had acquired that bit of knowledge in the comfortable library at Yale, literally half a world away, yet which now seemed to be a part of another universe entirely.
He stomped his feet, rubbed his hands together for warmth, and stared out at the dark and forbidding shore. Finally, as the sun was setting, the mate returned to the deck, struck the bell and yelled, "That'll do the watch." Fred took one last look at the distant shore and trudged back to the fo'c'sle cabin.
The weather turned unsettled and gloomy about a hundred miles north and east of St. John's Point. The wind had shifted nor'-nor'east and was dropping. A long bank of clouds lay on the easterly horizon. Captain Barker stood on the poop deck with the mates, discussing the likely change in the weather.
“It'll blow from the southeast and then east, afore the westerlies fill in again," Mr. Rand opined. Captain Barker saw that Mr. Atkinson stood looking engaged in the conversation but offering to no opinions of his own. The captain approved. Better to listen and learn than to open your mouth and demonstrate your inexperience.
“I think you are right, Mr. Rand. If we can round Staten Island and square away with an easterly breeze, we might be around and into the Pacific as slick as a whistle.”
Rand shook his head. "Have you ever managed that trick, Captain?”
“No, sir, but no reason that we might not get lucky this time.”
“I've never thought it wise to rely on luck, sir," the mate grumbled.
“Well, neither have I, but I am loath not to appreciate it when it comes along," the captain replied.
As Rand had predicted, the wind blew a fresh east by south. Captain Barker ordered the helmsman to sail her full and by, as close to the wind as she would bear with all sails drawing. In the rising wind, they struck the upper and lower t'gansails and the cro'jack and were still sailing close enough to the edge of losing sails or rigging, but somehow everything held together. She plowed along to weather at close to eight knots and by dawn was within forty miles of St. John's Point on Staten Island, the gateway to Cape Horn.
The weather grew thick and they could see perhaps five sea miles. The daylight was halfhearted, yet bright enough through the clouds to see that they were now no longer alone in these waters. There were at least six ships, emerging and disappearing in the gloom, all bound for Cape Horn. Captain Barker recognized two of them, both Frenchmen, the full-rigged Desaix and the Crillion. If he recalled the shipping reports, they had sailed from Antwerp bound for Frisco a few days before the Rebecca sailed from Cardiff.
Captain Barker stood next to the helmsman, watching the set of the sails and wondering if they would be able to weather St. John's Point on a single tack. He was tempted to square away and take the shortcut between the toe of Tierra del Fuego and Staten Island, through the Le Maire Strait. Wouldn't that be a story to tell? Still, he decided against it. There were rocks extending a considerable way north of Staten Island that would be impossible to see in the overcast. Finding just one rock with these seas running would hole the ship and bring the top-hamper crashing down. Not the way he wanted to end the voyage.
So they stood on, the Rebecca shouldering the building seas. All hands were now clustered on the main deck just abaft the fo'c'sle head, staring out into the gloom, looking for the dim shadow that would be the outline of the eastern end of Staten Island.
A cry rang out as the lookout spotted St. John's Point, barely a point to leeward and a scant five miles off. Captain Barker debated with himself whether to stand on and clear the point by the slimmest margin or to bear away. As he considered the question, the six other ships all, one by one, wore about and stood to the north.
Mr. Rand bounded over. "We'll never clear the point, Captain. Can't you see the rocks to leeward? Look at the seas breaking over them. We still have time to wear ship. If we don't, God help us.”
Captain Barker turned and snapped, "Mister, I'll be the one saying when to wear ship and when to stand on. We're a full point to windward and the wind is lifting us. She'll come up some yet. The wind striking those cliffs there will lift us farther still. We'll be clear and squaring yards in ten minutes, so stand aside and stand by.”
Rand grumbled to himself, and then stamped off to leeward.
The Lady Rebecca drove on and the spray from the breaking waves reached higher. Captain Barker shouted forward, "As we pass, hold on, every man for himself. It'll be rough.”
As the point drew abeam, the sound of the breakers rose to a roar. They were suddenly buffeted by waves from both sides. The swell from the open Atlantic struck from port while the waves rebounding off the rocks rolled back out and struck them from starboard. The sea seemed to be rising up to swallow them, with spray flying in all directions, in a wild cacophony of wind and wave.
And then suddenly, there was silence. The easy hum of the wind and creaking of the rigging was the only sound they heard. They were past the point. They had rounded Staten Island. Now, Cape Horn was one hundred and fifty miles away and, magically, they had a favoring wind. Captain Barker felt like letting go with a cheer, but only clasped his hands behind him and smiled. He turned to the helmsman.
“Quartermaster, bear off two points, and once the yards are squared bear off two more.”
“Aye, sir. Two points and two more when the yards are square.”
“Mr. Rand," Captain Barker shouted, "square away and shake out the t'gansails and royals. I don't want to waste one ounce of this breeze.”
“Aye, captain," the mate replied.
“And once the sails are set and square, send everyone aft," the captain continued. "It's time we spliced the mainbrace. Have the purser break out the rum cask. A tot for every man.”
August 8, 1905 – 58 days out of Cardiff
The next day, the easterly breeze held and the Lady Rebecca stood boldly on, south and west, with all sails set. At noon, Captain Barker and Mr. Rand took their sun sights. Once he had reduced them to latitude and longitude, Captain Barker came on deck and commented to Mr. Atkinson, in a voice meant to carry well beyond the poop deck, "Our position is 56 degrees 20 minutes south and 67 degrees 30 minutes west.”
Mr. Atkinson broke into a wide grin and replied, half shouting, "Then we have passed the meridian? We have rounded the Horn?”