There was nothing for it but to lash mast and oars together, in the form of a raft, take the plug out of the boat, and let her fill. Then get over the side and dive down, and make a line fast round his tail. Taking this line over the raft of mast and oars, we pulled his tail up to the surface, and at the same time, turned the boat on her side. With the help of the boat’s axe, we hacked the sword short off at the snout, righted and baled out the boat. Well satisfied with the trophy, for our trouble, despite the ten mile pull back.
Eventually the great day comes when the cargo is all stowed and the ship is down to her marks. An age old custom on the Nitrate Coast before breaking moorings, is to cheer each ship in the harbour. A spokesman is chosen who usually has a voice like a full-toned foghorn. He faces the ship hailed and calls “Three cheers for such and such ship.” The crew let go like one man, and the ship cheered must reply, though she may be the best part of a mile a way, and woe betide her if she does not pick up her name, and reply in time; for all the ships round about, that have spotted this lack of attention, join in raising loud groans, and to hear the weird reverberating echo — particularly noticeable at night time — of a dozen or more ships’ crews groaning, is a thing never to be forgotten. The ship “groaned” never forgets it either. Once “groaned” it is then too late for her to answer the cheers of the hailing ship; she has just to grin and bear it, and to stand the chaff for evermore. It is looked on as a terrible disgrace, and years afterwards, some of the crew, in some outlying port of the world will mention the ship they are from, and somebody will at once say, “Oh yes, you were ‘groaned’ in Iquiqui, on such and such a date.”
Finished loading, then comes the great affair of breaking moorings, for here one is moored fore and aft. Each ship in the harbour sends over a few men, and it is a whole day’s job to get up the stern moorings, get the cable forward, shackled on again and hove in. Every bit of the work has to be done by hand, and when it is taken into consideration that every link of the chain , of which there may be fifty or sixty fathoms, weighs anything up to ten or fourteen pounds, it will be realised that it is no joy ride. At last it is completed, sail is set, and the ship quickly slips over the horizon.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DERELICTS
As it turned out, this was to be my last voyage in sail, and will always stand out as being the very worst. The passage out consisted of a series of gales topped off with a fire. Whilst on the homeward voyage we never had the skysails in once, except as a matter of form off the Horn; 165 days from Iquiqui to the Lizard (Cornwall). Six weeks in the Doldrums where it rained so incessantly that we had the oil completely washed off our oilskins. Five times we crossed the line, to-day a mile or two north, to-morrow, we had drifted south again; next day further south, then north again and so on, till we were like jellyfish. Bad weather may be bad, but too much so-called good weather, is I think, worse. Particularly when it means, as in the Doldrums, hauling and pulley hauling the yards round day after day, and night after night, till, as in our case, the crew got absolutely exhausted. However, all good things must have an end, as ours did with a flicker of wind from the N.E. Round came the yards once again and, for the hundredth time, the hope that it might be the true N.E. Trades, and, this time, it was. Why I say true Trades is because one often picks up the false N.E. Trades even south of the Line, and again you’d get the Portuguese trades sometimes 35° and even 40° north of the Line, which may develop into the true Trades of the Tropics and good old flying fish weather. As a matter of fact, they remained only too true, and in consequence, worked us away to the westward, so that we were well over to the Gulf of Mexico.
On this voyage I caught what I firmly believe to be the first specimen ever known of a fish with hands and feet. The head winds had forced us over towards the Gulf until we were well within the region of the well-known “Gulf Weed” almost identical in appearance with mistletoe. This weed flows out of the Sargasso Sea, and originated the old tale of ships which become embedded in acres and acres of this weed, to turn slowly round and be steadily, but surely, drawn to the centre of the much feared sea, until at last, with provisions and water all gone, they become derelicts, continuing their everlasting circling through the ages. One almost regrets that the steamer has torn that theory all to pieces, as they crossed and recrossed the dreaded Sargasso Sea with ever sighting any legendary and seaweedy island.
In point of fact derelict ships never remain stationary either in the Sargasso or any other sea. There is a continual flow, mainly due to the currents set up by the revolution of the earth, and the retarding action of the water. The earth, moving round to the eastwards, tends to leave the water behind it, and promptly sets up what is called the Equatorial Current, which has its origin around the Line on the Coast of Africa. This flows to the westward, increasing in momentum till it strikes the north coast of South America, and flows north into the Caribbean or Sargasso Sea, through the Gulf of Mexico, circling round and flowing out through the Staits of Florida; thus forming the Florida and Counter-Equatorial Current, and flowing back again to the westward, and bringing into existence the great Gulf Stream, which strikes the coast of England, and to which we owe our much maligned climate. A split in the Gulf Stream takes place off the Coast of Ireland, one part going south, forming the Reynolds Current — one of the most erratic in the world. The other branch goes north, making the Arctic Current and coming to the Coast of Newfoundland in the guise of the Labrador Current, bringing with it thousands upon thousands of icebergs. In fact, one theory regarding the formation of the great Banks of Newfoundland, is that they have been caused by the deposit from icebergs, which were originally glaciers, and brought with them, through the countless ages millions of tons of earth. The icebergs, on striking the warm water, are alleged to melt, and deposit their material at the bottom of the sea. Whatever the truth, the Banks are certainly very much in evidence, and form a happy hunting ground for cod, fog and icebergs.
The smaller currents are unfortunately the most erratic, and don’t help matters when trying to make a decent landfall. About the worst culprit is the Reynolds Current, which flows across the mouth of the English Channel. A heavy south-westerly gale in the Bay of Biscay will set this chap running like a mill race in the wrong direction. One of our crack Atlantic Liners (I won’t mention names) coming home from New York; instead of being well south of the Scillies, found herself north of these islands, and sighted the Seven Stones Lightship. This, despite the fact that the Captain was one of the most able and careful navigators on the North Atlantic. A glance at the map will show what a narrow shave she had.
Apart from icebergs, another inducement for the sailor to keep his eyes skinned is derelicts, that have been known to drift about the world for years, covering thousands of miles. Individually, they are a worse danger than icebergs. Often they are nothing but waterlogged and dismasted old Nova Scotia schooners loaded with timber, just floating awash, and utterly impossible to sink, but able to rip the bottom out of any unwary liner. It is by no means uncommon for the hull of a dismasted ship to float, for weeks and even months, with the remains of her crew, unmanageable, and unnavigable, with limited provisions and no means of communication. If she has been dismasted anywhere near the Line, she is fairly sure to find her way into the Great Caribbean Sea, or the Gulf of Mexico, where she may circle and circle indefinitely. On the other hand she may, with luck, come out on the Florida Current, but long ere this happens, only a few pitiful skeletons remain to tell the story.