125 CHAPTER IV. PASSAGE FROM RIO TO CAPE HORN. GETTING UNDER WAY. THE LETTER-BAG.-RUNAWAY SAILOR.-ISLE OF ST. CATHERINE.-PAMPEROES. THE SHOTTED GUN.-LOSS OF OUR COON.THE SAILOR AND SHARK.-GENERAL QUARTERS AT NIGHT.-FIREWORKS IN THE SEA. THE PHANTOM SHIP.-PATAGONIANS. THE FALKLAND ISLANDS. THE CAPTURED ALBATROS.--TERRIFIC GALE.-CONDITION OF OUR FRIGATE THE SAILOR'S BURIAL.—THE CAPE OF STORMS. All hands unmoor-the captain's brief command; The anchor quits its bed, the sails expand, The gallant ship before the quick breeze springs. WEDNESDAY, JAN. 14, 1846. This morning as the first rays of the sun lit the Corcovada peak, we tripped our anchors, and, under a light land breeze, stood down the bay of Rio. It being understood that we were to take our departure at this hour, the officers and crews of the national ships, which lay moored around us, were on deck to see us get under way. This being the first time we had gone through with these evolutions on the cruise, a slight solicitude was felt, lest some awkwardness in executing the orders, some want of perfect harmony and dispatch, should be evinced. The liability to those errors which we wished to avoid, was perhaps only enhanced by the presence of so many professional eyes. But the successive orders were executed with admirable promptitude and accuracy. We left our berth with the grace of the swan gliding from the place of her cradled sleep. We left at anchor the U. S. frigate Columbia, bearing the broad pennant of Commodore Rousseau, bound to La Plata; the U. S. sloop-of-war Plymouth, bound to the same place; and the U. S. frigate Raritan, bound to the Mexican gulf. To each and all we waved our adieu, and filled away for Cape Horn. What a contrast between what lay around us, and what lay before us! We were exchanging a quiet harbor for a tumbling ocean,-zephyrs too soft to ruffle the cheek of beauty, for storms which the sturdy ship can hardly withstand,-a clime of perpetual sunshine and flowers for one of eternal ice. THURSDAY, JAN. 15. We were to-day at 12 o'clock two hundred and sixty miles from our anchorage at Rio, a very good commencement of our run south. We have been looking out all day for some vessel to heave in sight, that we might throw on board her our last letter-bag, which, by a singular inadvertence, had been brought off to sea with us. It had been made up during our last night at Rio, and contained our last words of affection and remembrance; and here it was going with us towards Cape Horn, instead of our homes. This was vexatious, and e quired that philosophy which the heart is slow to learn. They who can write their friends every twenty-four hours, will let months perhaps roll away without penning them a sentence. But take away this facility, spread an ocean between them and their kindred, and they will look for a vessel bound home as eagerly as a condemned culprit looks for a reprieve or pardon. FRIDAY, JAN. 16. Our wind still continues directly aft; we have all studding-sails out below and aloft. The weather is extremely warm; the thermometer ranging at 87. The night is quite as oppressive as the day, and perhaps more so, as we are then in our state-rooms. The wind-sail is a great comfort; without it the berth-deck would be almost intolerable. But we are like frogs jumping out of the sun into the frost, and then out of the frost into the sun. Our sailors while at Rio behaved extremely well. They were constantly passing between the ship and the shore, and frequently without an officer in charge of the boat, and yet but one or two instances of intoxication occurred; only one deserted, and he was so worthless a creature that no efforts were made to recover him. We all felt quite relieved when it was known that he had run; our only fear was, that he would relent and come back. Captain Du Pont might have said to him with some propriety, “I shall punish you, not for running away, for that was relieving us of a bad man, but for coming back." Our Rio runaway did not, however, return; if this was the result of an unwillingness to ask further our charity and forbearance, he is certainly entitled to some praise. SATURDAY, JAN. 17. The weather still continues close and sultry. The sky is filled with a dull haze, the sea is smooth, the breeze very light and directly aft, where it has been for the last eight-and-forty hours, and yet we have sailed between 12 o'clock yesterday and the same hour to-day 105 miles. Four knots the hour is slow sailing by the clock, but in the aggregate for the day extends over a wide space of water. You would think so, were you doomed to swim it, though you might have three months to do it in. No man should complain of a horse or a ship that carries him faster than he can carry himself. Besides, why should we be in haste to reach our port? We are out here on a great ocean, exempt from all the troubles and perplexities of the shore. Realms may be revolutionized, capitals shaken, dynasties overthrown, and we feel and know it not. We are as secure as Mahomet's coffin, swinging high and serene above the careering sirocco. If the world wearies you, if its frivolities sicken or its crimes overwhelm you, proceed to sea, get out on the broad ocean, and hold communion with the stars and the free billows. Here you are not a slave to custom, you are not trammelled by party, you have not to coin your cheek to smiles. The ocean exacts no such homage; but impresses on her children a portion of her own grandeur and strength. SUNDAY, JAN. 18. We have had divine service on a very unquiet deck. The fall of the barometer through the first watch, last night, indicated a change in the weather. It came, during the mid-watch, in the shape of a strong blow from the southeast. This is the first pampero that we have encountered, and if the rest are like this, the fewer we have of them the better. They knock you off your course, raise a tumbling sea, and then leave you like a culprit escaping from the scene of his outrage. We have passed the Brazilian island of St. Catharine, unable to gratify our curiosity by any stay there. This small island has many attractions; its fruits are unrivalled; its scenery is wild and picturesque; its inhabitants are mild and amiable. The climate, though warm, is so modified by a sea-breeze that the heat is never oppressive. The birds of this island are remarkable for the sweetness and brilliancy of their music. The fertility of the soil is seen in the rich verdure which waves in a mass of living |