Life in India/High Latitudes
High Latitudes.
Our ship pressed on in her southward course, battling with wind and wave, until the equator had been left two thousand miles behind us. We had now made southing enough, and turning eastward, varied our course but little for four thousand miles. The most southern point of Africa was far to the north of us, and there was no land to stop our progress to the east.
With the tropics we had left tropical heat and languor, and in these higher latitudes found cool air, high winds, and rough seas. We were again glad to be clothed warmly, and to walk the deck briskly, wrapped in coat and cloak. This seemed appropriate to December and the Christmas holidays; but it must be borne in mind that we were in the southern hemisphere, where December and January are midsummer months, and July and August winter months. We were really experiencing a summer in the south temperate zone, in a latitude corresponding to that of South Carolina, or Gibraltar, in the north. These seas, however, some hundreds of miles to the south of the Cape of Good Hope, are cool, if not cold, in summer as well as in winter.
The wind in these latitudes generally blows freshly from the west; hence those who would go to the east give the Cape a wide berth, and favoured by these west winds sail rapidly on their course. The rough seas we here meet are, to those sensitive to sea-sickness, a drawback from the satisfaction of rapid progress. But the hardy seaman thinks not of this. As he looks aloft at the swelling canvas filled by a favouring breeze, with every backstay, brace, and sheet strained to its utmost tension, and glances over the side at the foaming waters through which his vessel ploughs her way, a smile steals over the most grim countenance, while its owner speculates as to how many knots she makes an hour, and how many degrees of longitude she will have passed when the daily reckoning is cast at noon.
Our captain seemed ill at ease. At times he was cross-grained and surly; but these “spanking breezes” that furled our royals, and sent us foaming through the waters with bending masts and snapping cordage, often charmed the evil spirit away; they were as David's harp to the uneasy soul of Saul.
Christmas week was a stormy one. We now had an opportunity to see the ocean in its angrier moods. On December 23d, we were running at our greatest speed before a fresh breeze; the ship, a pyramid of canvas, dashed proudly through the water. The wind increasing, the captain furled three studding-sails, and went below to breakfast. Before the meal was over, a wave came rolling in at our stern-windows, flooding the cabin, and at the same instant, a boom, unable to bear the strain, snapped asunder, one fragment dropping into the sea. The lighter sails were soon got in, but still every thing creaked and strained. The flying-jib was then furled, and the spanker brailed up; the fore topgallant-sail, main royal, and main topgallant-sails soon followed. Still the wind was not satisfied; order followed order; the courses were got in; the sailors rushed aloft, and lying out upon the yards, took reef after reef in the top-sails, until at noon we were dashing ahead with a few narrow strips of canvas stretched to the gale, and the waves tossing us on their broad brawny backs, or flinging over us their foaming tops.
During the whole day an India-bound ship was in full view, keeping pace with all our movements. In the heaving sea, she rolled and righted, and rolled and righted, and rolled again, while the brave seamen, cheeriest when work is hardest and danger greatest, were stripping her of her white vesture. At last she was like ourselves, stripped and girt for the battle with wind and wave. It was a gallant and a goodly sight.
Evening came, but not the still quiet of the closing day on shore. The bulkheads and partitions creaked and groaned as if a thousand tortured spirits were writhing in their close seams; the ship leaped as though smitten by rolling hills, and then pitched into yawning gulfs. The wind whistled through the cordage and roared around the sturdy masts, while the dash of waters upon the deck added to this dismal concert.
I had often wished to see the ocean in a rage, but now felt nearly satisfied; a few days later, when, in a much fiercer gale, the ship was hove-to, unable to run on account of the violence of the sea, and rolling her yards and bulwarks into the waves, I should have felt well content if I were never to see a wave again. The driving rain and fierce winds, that seemed tearing mountain masses from the ocean, and hurling them with intense malignity at us, drove us from the deck to the cabin. Here the only practicable employment was holding on to some fixed object.
At night it seemed still worse, for the violent rolling of the ship loosened all things moveable, sending them rushing across the cabins. The noise beggared description. You might have imagined that all things had long since gone to destruction; but still the crash and clatter went on. At one time the steward's pantry-door was jerked open, and out flew a cheese, a keg of pickles, and other articles; with the next roll of the ship, back they went, entering our room, and tearing down our curtain; another roll, and they are off again, and so on, till captured and secured by the poor distracted steward. Our captain felt this weather sorely; angry with the winds, the waves, and all about him, he chafed, and fretted, and scolded, and swore. A stranger to the wellspring of peace, he attributed his unhappiness to his situation, rather than to its proper source—his want of trust in God. Discontented and grumbling, he declared that he would “buy a monkey, and turn music-grinder," if ever he got to America again, rather than go to sea.
But day dawned, and with it brighter scenes. The wind had abated, and the sea, though still high, was not so violent as to forbid our enjoying its grandeur and sympathizing with the little storm-petrels that joyously skimmed its surface, or admiring the majestic albatross, soaring around us with its sail-like wings (twelve feet from tip to tip) spread to the wind, or settling in easy repose upon the tossing waves.
About this time we began to see some signs of encouragement to persevere in prayer and efforts to benefit our fellow-voyagers. The captain, though often harsh and discontented, frequently came to our religious services. He was evidently ill at ease. A copy of Pilgrim's Progress, which had been lent him, was often in his hands; and his Bible was not unread. One of the crew also, (an English lad of respectable and pious parentage,) was very seriously impressed with divine things. He told our doctor, who daily went to the forecastle to visit a poor sick sailor, that he had resolved to be a Christian.
One Sunday evening, when George was at the wheel, (by which the rudder is turned, and the ship guided, the ladies seated near him commenced singing hymns. They were singing,
"Guide me, O thou great Jehovah!"
New-Year's day rose fair and lovely. The waters, so lately tossed in all the fury of the storm, now sparkled gayly in the bright sunlight. It was the day set apart by many Christians in America for prayers for the conversion of the world to Christ, and we resolved to unite our supplications to theirs. Well might we turn to God for aid, when, after eighty-three days at sea, the forecastle was still closed against us, and so little had been done for the precious souls sailing with us in that little barque over the sea of life to the eternal world. It proved a solemn and a profitable day.
A new year was opening upon us, and, with it, new events. The next Sunday, the first Sabbath of the year, was a marked one in our little community. A solemn stillness rested on all things. Even the winds and waves seemed to respond to our morning song—
“Welcome, sweet day of rest
That saw the Lord arise!”
In the afternoon our services had commenced, when the captain came in and took his armchair in the corner. The sermon was full of plain earnest truths; and when, at its close, the speaker called upon a brother missionary to add a word of exhortation, all felt that it was a solemn season. The truth was plainly brought home to all, that no effort was needed to ruin the soul of man; that he was on the road to death; and that to make his destruction sure, it was only needful that he should do nothing. A ship is under sail, the wind blows fresh, and she is bearing down upon a rock: let her alone, and her destruction is certain. Or a squall suddenly arises: let her alone, shorten no sail, do not put the vessel before the wind, and no effort is needed to insure her ruin. Or she springs a leak: the water gains upon her; only do nothing, and she will soon sink to the bottom of the sea, and carry with her to destruction her rich freight of souls. So, sinner, is it with you. Do nothing, and your ruin is as certain as it is fearful. Hell gapes for you, and if you turn not, you are lost!
The captain's uneasiness was excessive. He could not sit still. His handkerchief was constantly in his hands or at his eyes. In the evening, a tract headed, “The door was shut," which was given to him, seemed to affect him deeply.
The following Saturday we were called together by one of our number to read a note, put into his hands by the steward. It was from the captain, and ran as follows:—
“Dear Sir:—In the early part of the voyage, you asked my permission to go into the forecastle and talk with the seamen. Permission was then refused you. It is to be hoped that three-fourths of the voyage is past; and as it is never too late to do good, you now have my free permission, for yourself and the other servants of God in your company, to visit the seamen in the forecastle, to warn them to flee from the wrath of God, and to seek their souls' salvation through the intercession of the Lord Jesus. As the men are in the habit of sleeping on deck in the night, I think the watch off duty could spare an hour in the morning to be instructed in the way of everlasting life. If you are received by the men, you can arrange with them on the hour of your visits. Your visits must be with the watch below, and not interfere with ship's duty.
“Wishing you success in all your labours,
I remain, very respectfully,
How could we but exclaim—“What hath God wrought!” Those only could appreciate our feelings of joy and wonder, who had been like us shut up with an isolated company of their fellow-beings, within the narrow limits of a merchantman for near a hundred days. What could more plainly show the power of God over the hearts of men! If you would know our emotions, when, after this first visit to the forecastle, two of our number reported that they were gladly received by the men, read, as we did, the 126th Psalm:—
“When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing: then said they among the heathen, The Lord hath done great things for them. The Lord hath done great things for us; whereof we are glad. Turn again our captivity, O Lord, as the streams in the south. They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”