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CHAPTER XVI - THE PASSAGE HOME
I NEVER had so much interest before, and very likely I shall never
have so much interest again, in the state of the wind, as on the
long-looked-for morning of Tuesday the Seventh of June. Some
nautical authority had told me a day or two previous, 'anything
with west in it, will do;' so when I darted out of bed at daylight,
and throwing up the window, was saluted by a lively breeze from the
north-west which had sprung up in the night, it came upon me so
freshly, rustling with so many happy associations, that I conceived
upon the spot a special regard for all airs blowing from that
quarter of the compass, which I shall cherish, I dare say, until my
own wind has breathed its last frail puff, and withdrawn itself for
ever from the mortal calendar.
The pilot had not been slow to take advantage of this favourable
weather, and the ship which yesterday had been in such a crowded
dock that she might have retired from trade for good and all, for
any chance she seemed to have of going to sea, was now full sixteen
miles away. A gallant sight she was, when we, fast gaining on her
in a steamboat, saw her in the distance riding at anchor: her tall
masts pointing up in graceful lines against the sky, and every rope
and spar expressed in delicate and thread-like outline: gallant,
too, when, we being all aboard, the anchor came up to the sturdy
chorus 'Cheerily men, oh cheerily!' and she followed proudly in the
towing steamboat's wake: but bravest and most gallant of all, when
the tow-rope being cast adrift, the canvas fluttered from her
masts, and spreading her white wings she soared away upon her free
and solitary course.
In the after cabin we were only fifteen passengers in all, and the
greater part were from Canada, where some of us had known each
other. The night was rough and squally, so were the next two days,
but they flew by quickly, and we were soon as cheerful and snug a
party, with an honest, manly-hearted captain at our head, as ever
came to the resolution of being mutually agreeable, on land or
water.
We breakfasted at eight, lunched at twelve, dined at three, and
took our tea at half-past seven. We had abundance of amusements,
and dinner was not the least among them: firstly, for its own
sake; secondly, because of its extraordinary length: its duration,
inclusive of all the long pauses between the courses, being seldom
less than two hours and a half; which was a subject of never-
failing entertainment. By way of beguiling the tediousness of
these banquets, a select association was formed at the lower end of
the table, below the mast, to whose distinguished president modesty
forbids me to make any further allusion, which, being a very
hilarious and jovial institution, was (prejudice apart) in high
favour with the rest of the community, and particularly with a
black steward, who lived for three weeks in a broad grin at the
marvellous humour of these incorporated worthies.
Then, we had chess for those who played it, whist, cribbage, books,
backgammon, and shovelboard. In all weathers, fair or foul, calm
or windy, we were every one on deck, walking up and down in pairs,
lying in the boats, leaning over the side, or chatting in a lazy
group together. We had no lack of music, for one played the
accordion, another the violin, and another (who usually began at
six o'clock A.M.) the key-bugle: the combined effect of which
instruments, when they all played different tunes in differents
parts of the ship, at the same time, and within hearing of each
other, as they sometimes did (everybody being intensely satisfied
with his own performance), was sublimely hideous.
When all these means of entertainment failed, a sail would heave in
sight: looming, perhaps, the very spirit of a ship, in the misty
distance, or passing us so close that through our glasses we could
see the people on her decks, and easily make out her name, and
whither she was bound. For hours together we could watch the
dolphins and porpoises as they rolled and leaped and dived around
the vessel; or those small creatures ever on the wing, the Mother
Carey's chickens, which had borne us company from New York bay, and
for a whole fortnight fluttered about the vessel's stern. For some
days we had a dead calm, or very light winds, during which the crew
amused themselves with fishing, and hooked an unlucky dolphin, who
expired, in all his rainbow colours, on the deck: an event of such
importance in our barren calendar, that afterwards we dated from
the dolphin, and made the day on which he died, an era.
Besides all this, when we were five or six days out, there began to
be much talk of icebergs, of which wandering islands an unusual
number had been seen by the vessels that had come into New York a
day or two before we left that port, and of whose dangerous
neighbourhood we were warned by the sudden coldness of the weather,
and the sinking of the mercury in the barometer. While these
tokens lasted, a double look-out was kept, and many dismal tales
were whispered after dark, of ships that had struck upon the ice
and gone down in the night; but the wind obliging us to hold a
southward course, we saw none of them, and the weather soon grew
bright and warm again.
The observation every day at noon, and the subsequent working of
the vessel's course, was, as may be supposed, a feature in our
lives of paramount importance; nor were there wanting (as there
never are) sagacious doubters of the captain's calculations, who,
so soon as his back was turned, would, in the absence of compasses,
measure the chart with bits of string, and ends of pocket-
handkerchiefs, and points of snuffers, and clearly prove him to be
wrong by an odd thousand miles or so. It was very edifying to see
these unbelievers shake their heads and frown, and hear them hold
forth strongly upon navigation: not that they knew anything about
it, but that they always mistrusted the captain in calm weather, or
when the wind was adverse. Indeed, the mercury itself is not so
variable as this class of passengers, whom you will see, when the
ship is going nobly through the water, quite pale with admiration,
swearing that the captain beats all captains ever known, and even
hinting at subscriptions for a piece of plate; and who, next
morning, when the breeze has lulled, and all the sails hang useless
in the idle air, shake their despondent heads again, and say, with
screwed-up lips, they hope that captain is a sailor - but they
shrewdly doubt him.
It even became an occupation in the calm, to wonder when the wind
WOULD spring up in the favourable quarter, where, it was clearly
shown by all the rules and precedents, it ought to have sprung up
long ago. The first mate, who whistled for it zealously, was much
respected for his perseverance, and was regarded even by the
unbelievers as a first-rate sailor. Many gloomy looks would be
cast upward through the cabin skylights at the flapping sails while
dinner was in progress; and some, growing bold in ruefulness,
predicted that we should land about the middle of July. There are
always on board ship, a Sanguine One, and a Despondent One. The
latter character carried it hollow at this period of the voyage,
and triumphed over the Sanguine One at every meal, by inquiring
where he supposed the Great Western (which left New York a week
after us) was NOW: and where he supposed the 'Cunard' steam-packet
was NOW: and what he thought of sailing vessels, as compared with
steamships NOW: and so beset his life with pestilent attacks of
that kind, that he too was obliged to affect despondency, for very
peace and quietude.
These were additions to the list of entertaining incidents, but
there was still another source of interest. We carried in the
steerage nearly a hundred passengers: a little world of poverty:
and as we came to know individuals among them by sight, from
looking down upon the deck where they took the air in the daytime,
and cooked their food, and very often ate it too, we became curious
to know their histories, and with what expectations they had gone
out to America, and on what errands they were going home, and what
their circumstances were. The information we got on these heads
from the carpenter, who had charge of these people, was often of
the strangest kind. Some of them had been in America but three
days, some but three months, and some had gone out in the last
voyage of that very ship in which they were now returning home.
Others had sold their clothes to raise the passage-money, and had
hardly rags to cover them; others had no food, and lived upon the
charity of the rest: and one man, it was discovered nearly at the
end of the voyage, not before - for he kept his secret close, and
did not court compassion - had had no sustenance whatever but the
bones and scraps of fat he took from the plates used in the after-
cabin dinner, when they were put out to be washed.
The whole system of shipping and conveying these unfortunate
persons, is one that stands in need of thorough revision. If any
class deserve to be protected and assisted by the Government, it is
that class who are banished from their native land in search of the
bare means of subsistence. All that could be done for these poor
people by the great compassion and humanity of the captain and
officers was done, but they require much more. The law is bound,
at least upon the English side, to see that too many of them are
not put on board one ship: and that their accommodations are
decent: not demoralising, and profligate. It is bound, too, in
common humanity, to declare that no man shall be taken on board
without his stock of provisions being previously inspected by some
proper officer, and pronounced moderately sufficient for his
support upon the voyage. It is bound to provide, or to require
that there be provided, a medical attendant; whereas in these ships
there are none, though sickness of adults, and deaths of children,
on the passage, are matters of the very commonest occurrence.
Above all it is the duty of any Government, be it monarchy or
republic, to interpose and put an end to that system by which a
firm of traders in emigrants purchase of the owners the whole
'tween-decks of a ship, and send on board as many wretched people
as they can lay hold of, on any terms they can get, without the
smallest reference to the conveniences of the steerage, the number
of berths, the slightest separation of the sexes, or anything but
their own immediate profit. Nor is even this the worst of the
vicious system: for, certain crimping agents of these houses, who
have a percentage on all the passengers they inveigle, are
constantly travelling about those districts where poverty and
discontent are rife, and tempting the credulous into more misery,
by holding out monstrous inducements to emigration which can never
be realised.
The history of every family we had on board was pretty much the
same. After hoarding up, and borrowing, and begging, and selling
everything to pay the passage, they had gone out to New York,
expecting to find its streets paved with gold; and had found them
paved with very hard and very real stones. Enterprise was dull;
labourers were not wanted; jobs of work were to be got, but the
payment was not. They were coming back, even poorer than they
went. One of them was carrying an open letter from a young English
artisan, who had been in New York a fortnight, to a friend near
Manchester, whom he strongly urged to follow him. One of the
officers brought it to me as a curiosity. 'This is the country,
Jem,' said the writer. 'I like America. There is no despotism
here; that's the great thing. Employment of all sorts is going a-
begging, and wages are capital. You have only to choose a trade,
Jem, and be it. I haven't made choice of one yet, but I shall
soon. AT PRESENT I HAVEN'T QUITE MADE UP MY MIND WHETHER TO BE A
CARPENTER - OR A TAILOR.'
There was yet another kind of passenger, and but one more, who, in
the calm and the light winds, was a constant theme of conversation
and observation among us. This was an English sailor, a smart,
thorough-built, English man-of-war's-man from his hat to his shoes,
who was serving in the American navy, and having got leave of
absence was on his way home to see his friends. When he presented
himself to take and pay for his passage, it had been suggested to
him that being an able seaman he might as well work it and save the
money, but this piece of advice he very indignantly rejected:
saying, 'He'd be damned but for once he'd go aboard ship, as a
gentleman.' Accordingly, they took his money, but he no sooner
came aboard, than he stowed his kit in the forecastle, arranged to
mess with the crew, and the very first time the hands were turned
up, went aloft like a cat, before anybody. And all through the
passage there he was, first at the braces, outermost on the yards,
perpetually lending a hand everywhere, but always with a sober
dignity in his manner, and a sober grin on his face, which plainly
said, 'I do it as a gentleman. For my own pleasure, mind you!'
At length and at last, the promised wind came up in right good
earnest, and away we went before it, with every stitch of canvas
set, slashing through the water nobly. There was a grandeur in the
motion of the splendid ship, as overshadowed by her mass of sails,
she rode at a furious pace upon the waves, which filled one with an
indescribable sense of pride and exultation. As she plunged into a
foaming valley, how I loved to see the green waves, bordered deep
with white, come rushing on astern, to buoy her upward at their
pleasure, and curl about her as she stooped again, but always own
her for their haughty mistress still! On, on we flew, with
changing lights upon the water, being now in the blessed region of
fleecy skies; a bright sun lighting us by day, and a bright moon by
night; the vane pointing directly homeward, alike the truthful
index to the favouring wind and to our cheerful hearts; until at
sunrise, one fair Monday morning - the twenty-seventh of June, I
shall not easily forget the day - there lay before us, old Cape
Clear, God bless it, showing, in the mist of early morning, like a
cloud: the brightest and most welcome cloud, to us, that ever hid
the face of Heaven's fallen sister - Home.
Dim speck as it was in the wide prospect, it made the sunrise a
more cheerful sight, and gave to it that sort of human interest
which it seems to want at sea. There, as elsewhere, the return of
day is inseparable from some sense of renewed hope and gladness;
but the light shining on the dreary waste of water, and showing it
in all its vast extent of loneliness, presents a solemn spectacle,
which even night, veiling it in darkness and uncertainty, does not
surpass. The rising of the moon is more in keeping with the
solitary ocean; and has an air of melancholy grandeur, which in its
soft and gentle influence, seems to comfort while it saddens. I
recollect when I was a very young child having a fancy that the
reflection of the moon in water was a path to Heaven, trodden by
the spirits of good people on their way to God; and this old
feeling often came over me again, when I watched it on a tranquil
night at sea.
The wind was very light on this same Monday morning, but it was
still in the right quarter, and so, by slow degrees, we left Cape
Clear behind, and sailed along within sight of the coast of
Ireland. And how merry we all were, and how loyal to the George
Washington, and how full of mutual congratulations, and how
venturesome in predicting the exact hour at which we should arrive
at Liverpool, may be easily imagined and readily understood. Also,
how heartily we drank the captain's health that day at dinner; and
how restless we became about packing up: and how two or three of
the most sanguine spirits rejected the idea of going to bed at all
that night as something it was not worth while to do, so near the
shore, but went nevertheless, and slept soundly; and how to be so
near our journey's end, was like a pleasant dream, from which one
feared to wake.
The friendly breeze freshened again next day, and on we went once
more before it gallantly: descrying now and then an English ship
going homeward under shortened sail, while we, with every inch of
canvas crowded on, dashed gaily past, and left her far behind.
Towards evening, the weather turned hazy, with a drizzling rain;
and soon became so thick, that we sailed, as it were, in a cloud.
Still we swept onward like a phantom ship, and many an eager eye
glanced up to where the Look-out on the mast kept watch for
Holyhead.
At length his long-expected cry was heard, and at the same moment
there shone out from the haze and mist ahead, a gleaming light,
which presently was gone, and soon returned, and soon was gone
again. Whenever it came back, the eyes of all on board, brightened
and sparkled like itself: and there we all stood, watching this
revolving light upon the rock at Holyhead, and praising it for its
brightness and its friendly warning, and lauding it, in short,
above all other signal lights that ever were displayed, until it
once more glimmered faintly in the distance, far behind us.
Then, it was time to fire a gun, for a pilot; and almost before its
smoke had cleared away, a little boat with a light at her masthead
came bearing down upon us, through the darkness, swiftly. And
presently, our sails being backed, she ran alongside; and the
hoarse pilot, wrapped and muffled in pea-coats and shawls to the
very bridge of his weather-ploughed-up nose, stood bodily among us
on the deck. And I think if that pilot had wanted to borrow fifty
pounds for an indefinite period on no security, we should have
engaged to lend it to him, among us, before his boat had dropped
astern, or (which is the same thing) before every scrap of news in
the paper he brought with him had become the common property of all
on board.
We turned in pretty late that night, and turned out pretty early
next morning. By six o'clock we clustered on the deck, prepared to
go ashore; and looked upon the spires, and roofs, and smoke, of
Liverpool. By eight we all sat down in one of its Hotels, to eat
and drink together for the last time. And by nine we had shaken
hands all round, and broken up our social company for ever.
The country, by the railroad, seemed, as we rattled through it,
like a luxuriant garden. The beauty of the fields (so small they
looked!), the hedge-rows, and the trees; the pretty cottages, the
beds of flowers, the old churchyards, the antique houses, and every
well-known object; the exquisite delights of that one journey,
crowding in the short compass of a summer's day, the joy of many
years, with the winding up with Home and all that makes it dear; no
tongue can tell, or pen of mine describe.
Content of CHAPTER XVI - THE PASSAGE HOME [Charles Dickens' novel: American Notes]
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