CHAPTER XV. DEPARTURE FROM WELLINGTON...
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CHAPTER XV.
DEPARTURE FROM WELLINGTON--CALLING AT LYTTELTON, PORT CHALMERS, THE BLUFF, AND ARRIVAL AT MELBOURNE --LEAVE SANDRIDGE PIER--IN BASS'S STRAITS--OFF THE ISLAND OF RODONDO--THE BOUNTY ISLANDS--CAPE HORN --ST. PAUL'S ROCKS--ARRIVAL IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.
ON Monday, the 28th of December, 1868, we took our departure from Wellington in the steamer "Rangitoto," for Melbourne. En route, we called in at Lyttleton on the 29th, and went on shore to pass through the dark railway tunnel-- 1 1/2 miles in length, which leads to Christchurch, this city of the plain. Here I visited the Council Chamber, which, with its pointed stone ceiling, ribbed, painted and gilded, is an architectural gem of its kind in New Zealand.
On the 30th we left Lyttelton, and on the 31st we arrived at Port Chalmers. In a small steamer we steamed nine miles up the harbour, to the stone-built capital of Otago, Dunedin-- "the city upon the hill." Its appearance exceeded my expectations. The harbour is very picturesque in appearance. We left Port Chalmers on the 4th of January, and were in Bluff Harbour on the following day. The so-called town at the bluff, is seated on a sandy shore, and consisted at this time of seventeen shabby wooden houses. Its appearance was bleak and uninviting in the extreme.
We left it on the 6th, and were entering Port Philip Heads at 8 p.m. on the 11th, and next day, the 12th, we were in the new and famous city of Melbourne. As, since the time in question,
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I have written a descriptive account of Victoria and its capital, Melbourne, to which I shall hereafter refer, I will not say another word on this subject, except that after a stay of a few weeks we found it necessary to proceed on a sea voyage to England.
With this object in view, we left Sandridge Pier on the 22nd of February, 1869, amidst many a cheer from a crowd on the wharf and the crews of fine large passenger ships which were soon to follow us on the trackless waters of the ocean: after that we cheered the Duke of Edinburgh's ship of war, the "Galatea." We anchored for the night, and on the 23rd, we up-anchor and commenced our voyage, with the wind dead-ahead. At last with a steam tug's assistance we got as far as Queenscliff, and anchored there till the 27th, when we sailed through Port Philip Heads. Next day, Sunday, was followed by a squally night, when the full moon, at times, shone out brightly, and at other times was hid from view by rapidly driving masses of black clouds; we found ourselves with Australia on our left, Tasmania on our right, and the steep pinnacle little island of Rodondo before us, and lying on the north side of Bass Straits
Yes, the island of Rodondo was before us. I remember that boisterous Sunday night. Shall I ever forget it? Not while memory lasts. There was the small island of Rodondo--which is rugged in appearance, conical in shape, and rises sheer out of the water, to a height of 1130 feet. Its sides are so steep that even seals cannot find a resting place on them. We had been tacking and making way down the Strait all day against a strong head-wind. To clear the island in question, without tacking again, our skilled Captain sailed close up to it. There was deep water all round it, and near to it. We were so close to it that, by the light of the moon, we could distinguish its jagged rocks and scrubby surface. We appeared to be about 300 yards from the dashing waves which foamed around it. Its proximity looked dangerous: but we placed the greatest
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reliance on our Captain's knowledge. Our sails were full and distended by the stormy breeze to their full extent, and we should in a minute more, be scudding past it. The minute passed; the poop and decks were crowded by excited passengers: some were silent, others demonstrative, but all looked serious. When--what? Why, without warning, and in an instant, the wind ceased to blow. The sea was rough but the air was calm, and to everyone's amazement the ship's sails were empty and idly napping against the masts. She kept moving though there was no wind below; there was no wind aloft; far above the mast-head clouds were driving past.
"D-n that!" I heard the Captain exclaim as he looked up at his ship's sails. "What is the matter?" whispered frightened voices. The truth was we were fairly under the lee of the island, and completely sheltered from the wind. Fortunately our ship had been previously going at the rate of ten knots an hour, and had way on her just sufficient to carry us past the island in two or three minutes, when her sails again filled--and we escaped the danger of drifting on to Rodondo's rocks, and certain destruction. Soon after this, we passed the islands called Kent's Group.
Next day the wind was fair, and after experiencing tempestuous weather for several days, we passed early on the morning of March 5th, between Stewart's Island (the most southerly part of New Zealand) and some dangerous rocks called the Snares.
We were now fairly on our voyage to Cape Horn, and I may as well say, that our ship was called the "Essex," was 1000 tons burthen, and commanded by Captain Ridgers. We carried 166 passengers, and 67 ship's company, with children, equal to 255 souls. The saloon was full of first-class passengers, and the ship carried besides, a large and valuable cargo. We were saloon passengers, and were fairly comfortable during the voyage.
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On Sunday the 7th, we were in latitude 47 deg. 29' S., and longitude 177 deg. 21' E. The day was clear and beautiful. The Captain was anxious to sight the Bounty Islands, which are seldom seen, and are incorrectly laid down as regards longitude. At 6 p.m. we were in full sight of them. They appeared like a chain of large rugged and bare rocks, about three and a half miles in length. To endeavour to lay them down correctly; we stood on-and-off them at about four miles distance; but our Captain discovering a sunken rock awash, about two miles
from them, deemed it prudent--as we were not on a voyage of discovery--to change the ship's course more to the south, and give them a wide berth. There was an odour of guano from them. There was not the slightest signs of a landing place visible on them. An everlasting surf seems to beat against their naked sides, and in stormy weather it must be a frightful place. Ships bound for Cape Horn, which have never been heard of, may have been shipwrecked on some dark night on these isles of desolation, and hopelessly
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lost. The position of the Bounty Islands, as it was laid down on this occasion by our Captain, was considered to be in latitude 47 deg. 29' S., and longitude 174 deg. 54' E. Their situation, authoritively given in Butler's Atlas, is--lat. 46 deg. 5' S. and lon. 178 deg. E.
On the 8th, we gained a day--our position then being lat. 48 deg. 40'; lon. 170 deg.. During the next four days we had fine weather, and bore away further south: each day's run averaging about 250 knots, or 933 in all. By the 12th, the weather had become cold, wet and boisterous, and so it continued till the 23rd, on which day we buried a cabin passenger, who had come on board at Melbourne ill of consumption. The wind was high, and there was a heavy swell on the sea, as the dead body of our fellow passenger, wrapped up in canvas, like a mummy, and a round shot at its feet was--amidst the reading of the funeral service--slid off a gun-carriage, and dropped into the stormy waters on the verge of the Southern Antarctic Ocean.
We saw no icebergs, though on the 26th, we were as far south as 56 deg. 37', and were nearing the much-dreaded Cape Horn. On the 27th, before daylight, we commenced to round it. During the night preceding, it blew fearfully hard, and towards daybreak the gale rose into a terrific squall, and was strong enough to blow some of our main and foretop sails into ribbons. The chief officer, whose watch on deck it was, became timid. He called the Captain, who rushed on to the poop, with nothing but his shirt and coat on. There was no great danger if our spars held good. Our ship was sound and well built. It was now between three and four o'clock in the morning. The Captain was still on deck, coolly giving his orders to take in sail: when, after seeing all made snug, and influenced, no doubt, by his scanty Highland attire and the Cape Horn cold--he returned to the warm cot in his cabin.
The slumbers of the passengers were unpleasantly disturbed
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by falling ropes, seamen's shouts and the fierce wind roaring and whistling through the rigging. At daybreak we sighted the island of Diego Ramirez which lies some little distance S.W. of that great group of islands called Tierra del Fuego.
I went on deck just as the island of Diego Ramirez was passing out of sight. Everything on deck was gravely quiet; even the sailors looked demure. Only one or two other passengers besides myself were on the wet poop. The ship was tearing through the water with amazing swiftness--fifteen miles an hour. It blew so hard that I could not stand without holding on to something fixed. There were neither waves nor billows to be seen.in the watery waste around me. For a short time the gale was at its height, and blew so fierce and strong that the ocean appeared like a seething cauldron--an immense expanse of boiling white foam, through which our good ship was straining, and, as it were, racing for its life to get round--to double the Horn at thirty miles distant from it, and on our 28th day out from Port Philip Heads.
Cape Horn, discovered in the year 1616 by the Dutch navigator, Schouter, who named it after his native town Hoorn--is a wild and precipitous headland, 500 feet in height, and forms the south point of Hermit's Island, the most southerly isle of the Tierra del Fuego group, which is separated from the southern extremity of South America by the Straits of Magellan. Cape Horn lies in lat. 55 deg. 59; lon. 67 deg. 16 W.
The 28th was Sunday and a beautiful day considering our proximity to the "Horn," which we had now rounded, and our vessel was bearing, us away to warmer latitudes. Once round the "Horn," our passengers rejoiced that, the bowsprit of our vessel pointed to old England, though the latter was still far distant. For a few days the weather was cold and misty, accompanied at times with a head wind. One day we were becalmed, on another we could take no
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observation of the sun. In one twenty-four hours, with the sun shining at intervals, we ran 271 nautical miles in a fair gale.
On the 6th of April, in lat. 40 deg. 43' S; lon. 34 deg. 39' W. we were shooting albatrosses, and the sea was smooth enough for us to lower a boat to pick up the dead ones. Light and variable winds for a few days, in which the operation of skinning the albatrosses was carried on--and for a change, on the 11th, we experienced a heavy gale of wind, which was succeeded by a beautiful day on the 12th. By the 15th, we were in the tropics, and the 20th was a lovely day. The wind was light, but sufficient to keep our clipper ship moving at the rate of six miles an hour. "Ah!" I said to myself, "who could believe that the calm and quiet sea we are now sailing over, and the glorious marine views above, below us, and around us, could be agitated by storms, and broken up by tempests." We all enjoyed that day. The sky overhead was a soft pale blue colour; and the sea below us a bright light blue, and appeared like an azure plain set and sparkling with monster diamonds. The breeze was cooling, and one felt moderately warm.
I sometimes think that life is very like a sea-voyage; it may be a short or a long one: there may be an untimely shipwreck or a safe arrival in the haven of old age. There may be a breaking-up of the human constitution, as well as of a ship. Life has its calms and its storms: its fair and its foul weather, and like a ship, its end is decay and dissolution.
By this time we had spoken several ships, and on the evening of the 22nd, the Captain and ship's officers gave a grand concert on the poop, and a luxurious dinner in the saloon. This ship's fete was a success, and I think a source of gratification to nearly all on board. Admission to the concert was by ticket. The price I forget; but it was considerable.
On the 26th we crossed the line. How glad we felt that
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we were going north of it, and getting nearer to Old England. At about 12 o'clock at night of the 26th, we neared a ledge of rocks, called St. Paul's or Don Pedro's Eocks. The night was fine, the sea was almost calm, and the moon shone out from a clear sky. We were not far from this great bank of jagged and black rocks, against which the sea was breaking. We kept at about one mile distance from them. They are about three quarters of a mile in length, and stand about five miles from the equator. They are seldom approached by ships, and are of course uninhabited.
On the morning of the 18th of May, we were among the Orange Islands--the Azores or Western Islands. We passed one named Flores, and another called Corvo. The weather was fine, and the Islands, though hilly, looked beautiful. They may well be called fruit islands, for their climate and rich volcanic soil annually produce over 160,000 boxes of oranges, and 17,000 pipes of wine.
About the 25th our passengers appeared dull and silent.
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The winds had become contrary and tantalizing. Two months before this we were all anxiety to round Cape Horn: a month before, we said how glad we should be to cross the line, and a week before, our great hope was soon to pass the Western Islands. All these hopes had been realized, still we were 300 miles from the Land's End, and had given up all hopes of making a quick passage in our clipper ship, which was only going one day 108 knots, another 88, a third 70, and so on. As a divertissement on the 26th, a swallow came on board. The first day it flew in-and-out the cabin windows, and about the saloon. The second day, it perched on the brass railing above the dining table at breakfast, and on the poop it ate the flies we offered it from off our hands. By the 27th thirty-two vessels were in sight. Now it is the 28th, the weather is tempestuous, the sea runs high, and the easterly wind blows strong. Now we are on the crest of a huge wave: next we sink down into a valley of the ocean: now we are rising again on the ridge of a billow, and suddenly we see down below us a little craft. It is a pilot boat. Where did it come from? Did it rise from the depths of the sea, or drop from the clouds above? I never saw her before that instant. Never mind where she came from, there she is, she has news, and a Channel guide on board. Down we go again, and a huge wall of waters divides us once more from the welcome stranger: she hails us, and our Captain answers. I wonder how she will ever come alongside us, and convey to us the latest news and a Pilot. She is a smart-built, miniature ship, she looks like a yacht. There she is tacking again; how taut her little masts; how trim her sails; how skilfully and coolly, yet daringly she is handled, as the spray dashes wildly and breaks over her clean decks and damps her white sheets. She has a small crew, consisting of three or four stalwart and weather-beaten seamen. She is now on our lee-side, 50 yards distant, and her crew are launching a tiny boat--into which descends the Pilot
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and his man. The cockle-shell of a boat will upset. No she won't. She floats like a cork, skims over the angry and foaming waters like an albatross, and safely arrives alongside our ship. The Pilot leaps on board us, and places at our disposal his budget of news, and his nautical services. The Pilot is weather-wise, and sage in sea matters. He knows all about the winds, the currents, the shoals and the rocks in the English Channel. May the 29th, a cold wind is blowing hard, and dead ahead--the sea is so rough at night that the dead lights--shutters--are down over our cabin windows. Now it is Sunday, and a beautiful day. We have church service on deck: now it is the last day in May, and we are off the Isle of Wight. Now we take a steam-tug--now we pass Beachy Head, then, at 10 p.m. we are passing Hastings: how beautiful the gas lights look. They illuminate this famous watering place for two miles along the shore. It is the 1st of June, and glorious weather. Now we pass Folkestone, Dover, Deal, Broadstairs, Ramsgate and Margate in succession, and most pleasant to look at, and then we enter the Thames: by 3 p.m. we are passing Gravesend: now at 6 p.m. we are in the West India Docks, and our voyage of ninety-nine days from Melbourne to London is happily ended.
