The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
became disabled, and the steering-wheel was utterly unavailable. During this period a very curious circumstance happened; the sea driving faster than the vessel—itself a log lying in the trough of the waves, which rose in mountains on all sides—acted on the screw in such a manner that in its turn it worked the engines at a greater rate than they had ever attained by steam! After much trouble the couplings were disconnected, but for several hours the jarring of the machinery revolving at lightning speed threatened to make a breach in the stern.
No one on board will soon forget the night of that great gale. The vessel, scarcely larger than a “penny” steamer, and having “guards,” or bulwarks, little higher than the rail of those boats, was engulfed in the tempestuous waters. It seemed literally to be driving under the water. Waves broke over it every few minutes; a rope had to be stretched along the deck for the sailors to hold on by, while the brave commander, Captain Marston, was literally tied to the aft bulwark, where, half frozen and half drowned, he remained at his post during an entire night. The steamer had the “house on deck,” so common in American vessels. It was divided into state-rooms, very comfortably fitted, but had doors and windows of the lightest character. At the commencement of the gale, these were literally battered to pieces by the waves dashing over the vessel; it was a matter of doubt whether the whole house might not be carried off bodily. The officers of the expedition took refuge in the small cabin aft, which had been previously the general ward-room of the vessel, where the meals were served. A great sea broke over its skylight, smashing the glass to atoms, putting out the lamps and stove, and filling momentarily the cabin with about three feet of water. A landsman would have thought his last hour had come. But the hull of the vessel was sound; the pumps were in good order, and worked steadily by a “donkey” engine in the engine-room, and the water soon disappeared. The men coiled themselves up that night amid a pile of ropes and sails, boxes, and miscellaneous matters lying on the “counter” of the vessel, i.e., that part of the stern lying immediately over the rudder. Next morning, in place of the capital breakfasts all had been enjoying—fish and game from Kamchatka, tinned fruits and meats from California, hot rolls and cakes—the steward and cook could only, with great difficulty, provide some rather shaky coffee and the regular “hard bread” (biscuit) of the ship.
The storm increased in violence; it was unsafe to venture on deck. The writer’s room-mate, M. Laborne, a genial and cultivated man of the world, who spoke seven languages fluently, sat down, and wrote a last letter to his mother, enclosing it afterwards in a bottle. “It will never reach her,” said poor Laborne, with tears dimming his eyes; “but it is all I can do.” Each tried to comfort the other, and prepare for the worst. “If we are to die, let us die like men,” said Adjutant Wright. “Come down in the engine-room,” another said, “and if we’ve got to die, let’s die decently.” The chief engineer lighted a fire on the iron floor below the boilers, and it was the only part of the vessel which was at all comfortable. Noble-hearted Colonel Bulkley spent his time in cheering the men, and reminding them that the sea has been proved to be an infinitely safer place than the land. No single one on board really expected to survive. Meantime, the gale was expending its rage by tearing every sail to ribbons. Rags and streamers fluttered from the yards; there was not a single piece of canvas intact. The cabins held a wreck of trunks, furniture, and crockery.
In one of the cabins several boxes of soap, in bars, had been stored. When the gale commenced to abate, some one ventured into the house on deck, when it was discovered that it was full of soapsuds, which swashed backwards and forwards through the series of rooms. The water had washed and rewashed the bars of soap till they were not thicker than sticks of sealing-wax.
OUR “PATENT SMOKE-STACK.”
At last, after a week of this horrible weather, morning broke with a sight of the sun, and moderate wind. There were spare sails on board, and the rudder could be repaired; but what could be done about the funnel? The engineer’s ingenuity came out conspicuously. He had one of the usual water-tanks brought on deck, and the two ends knocked out. Then, setting it up over the boiler, he with pieces of sheet-iron raised this square erection till it was about nine feet high, and it gave a sufficient draught to the furnaces. “Covert’s Patent Smoke-Stack” created a sensation on the safe arrival of the vessel in San Francisco, and was inspected by hundreds of visitors. The little steamer had ploughed through 10,000 miles of water that season. She was immediately taken to one of the wharfs, and entirely remodelled. The sides were slightly raised, and a ward-room and aft-cabin, handsomely fitted in yacht-fashion, took the place of the house on deck. It was roofed or decked at top in such a manner that the heaviest seas could wash over the vessel without doing the slightest injury, and she afterwards made two voyages, going over a distance of 20,000 miles. Poor old Wright! She went to the bottom at last, with all her crew and passengers, some years later, off Cape Flattery, at the entrance of the Straits of Fuca, and scarcely a vestige of her was ever found.
And now, retracing our steps en route for the Australian station, let us call at one of the most important of England’s settlements, which has been termed the Liverpool of the East. Singapore consists of an island twenty-five miles long and fifteen or so broad, lying off the south extremity of Malacca, and having a city of the same name on its southern side. The surface is very level, the highest elevation being only 520 feet. In 1818, Sir Stamford Raffles found it an island covered with virgin forests and dense jungles, with a miserable population on its creeks and rivers of fishermen and pirates. It has now a population of about 100,000, of which Chinese number more than half. In 1819 the British flag was hoisted over the new settlement; but it took five years on the part of Mr. Crawford, the diplomatic representative of Great Britain, to negotiate terms with its then owner, the Sultan of Johore, whereby for a heavy yearly payment it was, with all the islands within ten miles of the coast, given up with absolute possession to the Honourable East India Company. Since that period, its history has been one of unexampled prosperity. It is a free port, the revenue being raised entirely from imports on opium and spirits. Its prosperity as a commercial port is due to the fact that it is an entrepôt for the whole trade of the Malayan Archipelago, the Eastern Archipelago, Cochin China, Siam, and Java. Twelve years ago it exported over sixty-six million rupees’ worth of gambier, tin, pepper, nutmegs, coffee, tortoise-shell, rare woods, sago, tapioca, camphor, gutta-percha, and rattans. It is vastly greater now. Exclusive of innumerable native craft, 1,697 square-rigged vessels entered the port in 1864–5. It has two splendid harbours, one a sheltered roadstead near the town, with safe anchorage; the other, a land-locked harbour, three miles from the town, capable of admitting vessels of the largest draught. Splendid wharfs have been erected by the many steam-ship companies and merchants, and there are fortifications which command the harbour and roads.
“A great deal has been written about the natural beauties of Ceylon and Java,” says Mr. Cameron,100 “and some theologians, determined to give the first scene in the Mosaic narrative a local habitation, have fixed the paradise of unfallen man on one or other of those noble islands. Nor has their enthusiasm carried them to any ridiculous extreme; for the beauty of some parts of Java and Ceylon might well accord with the description given us, or rather which we are accustomed to infer, of that land from which man was driven on his first great sin.
“I have seen both Ceylon and Java, and admired in no grudging measure their many charms; but for calm placid loveliness, I should place Singapore high above them both. It is a loveliness, too, that at once strikes the eye, from whatever point we view the island, which combines all the advantages of an always beautiful and often imposing coast-line, with an endless succession of hill and dale stretching inland. The entire circumference of the island is one panorama, where the magnificent tropical forest, with its undergrowth of jungle, runs down at one place to the very water’s edge, dipping its large leaves in the glassy sea, and at another is abruptly broken by a brown rocky cliff, or a late landslip, over which the jungle has not yet had time to extend itself. Here and there, too, are scattered little green islands, set like gems on the bosom of the hushed waters, between which the excursionist, the trader, or the pirate, is wont to steer his course. ‘Eternal summer gilds these shores;’ no sooner has the blossom of one tree passed away, than that of another takes its place and sheds perfume all around. As for the foliage, that never