If his thoughts were dark, at the least the skies were blue and the wind favorable. He wondered whether Mary and the children would recover from their seasickness sufficiently to come on deck and enjoy the sun. These winds were colder than the trades but perhaps with blankets they might enjoy the brief sunshine, which was all the more remarkable with every mile they sailed south.
As he worked out his position with the sight reduction tables, he saw that they were still making over 250 miles a day. The Falkland Islands lay due east over the horizon. He wondered idly where the Susannah might be. She had to be in their wake. He could feel it. Not even a fire had slowed down the Lady Rebecca. They had to be ahead of the German ship. Soon they would round Staten Island and all that remained for them would be to round Cape Horn itself. He prayed for fair weather, even though he knew that might be too much to ask for.
Ship Lady Rebecca August 3, 1905
Dearest Mother,
I know my last letter to you may have been dour, and I do not wish you to think that your daughter does nothing but complain. We have faced considerable discomfort and no doubt face more to come, but all the same, I cannot deny the beauty of these waters.
Yesterday, we saw our first albatross. It was such a magnificent bird. It appeared to ride the winds effortlessly on huge wings, skimming along close to the surface of the sea and then rising higher and higher towards the clouds, in an ascending spiral.
Today we sailed past a whole armada of albatross, sitting quietly on the water, disappearing in the troughs and rising placidly as the crests pass beneath them. We could not have been farther than 50 yards away when they decided to fly off. They flapped their wings, which each must be two yards long, and rather comically paddled madly with their cabbage leaf feet to get them into the air. Fortunately, their grace in flight is not diminished by their awkward ascent.
We are also seeing Mother Carey's chickens now. Some people call them Saint Peter's birds as they seem to walk across the water while feeding. They are smaller and a dusky colour, save for white feathers on their tail and the back of their wings.
I must tell you that I have seen the most beautiful sunsets than ever I could imagine in these waters. Near the equator, sunset is like someone suddenly shut the door. The sun drops quickly below the horizon and there is little twilight to speak of. Now that we have reached the higher latitudes, the sun lingers and the colours, as it sinks into the sea, are almost beyond describing. Last night I feared that we might have no sunset as the sun slipped behind a dark and glowering cloud. A few minutes later, myriad arrows of light shot up from behind the blackness in a panoply of hues and textures. I stood on deck watching in reverent awe as the colours faded into blackness, despite being called several times to dinner by our ever patient steward, Walter.
Later that evening, James called me to come again on deck where he presented to me the Aurora Australes, magnificent cascades of blue and green lights filling the Southern sky.
It appears that the heavens have gone out of their way today to lift my spirits.
Your loving daughter,
9. Below Latitude 50 South
While sweeping up, Will peeked at the chart table. He had come to enjoy his minor conspiracy with Fred, as he regularly passed the position on to his shipmate before the mast. He pulled his notebook and a stub of a pencil from his pocket and jotted down the date, August 3, 1905, and the position—51 degrees 46 minutes south, 64 degrees 10 minutes west.
They had left the Roaring Forties behind and now stood into the Furious Fifties, as the sailors called them. According to the faint pencil marks on the chart, they were roughly abeam of the Falkland Islands, the last inhabited refuge for sailing ships before the Horn.
He finished up the sweeping, took the broom, dustpan and rags back the pantry, and then buttoned his dreadnoughtjacket and went back on deck. He strode quickly to the weather mizzen ratlines and clambered up to the mizzen top. The wind was bitterly cold and made his eyes water as he wrapped an arm around a shroud and peered intently toward the east. At first, all he saw was the gray sea, rollers capped with white crests stretching off toward the horizon, shrouded in low clouds.
Then, as he stared, he thought he saw a dark smudge floating in the blurred juncture between the sea and sky. He blinked several times and wiped his eyes. It was still there. The Falkland Islands. He let out a small yelp. There wasn't much to see, but it was the first land that he had seen since the Bristol Channel. Some place, off to the south and west , was the mighty Cape Horn. His ears smarted from the cold and his cheeks burned with every wind gust. Still, he couldn't help but grin. He swung out on the futtock shrouds and climbed quickly down to the deck.
Ship Lady Rebecca August 4, 1905
Dearest Mother,
This evening James told me that we are now passing the Falkland Islands, the southernmost of all British colonies. Port Stanley in the Falklands is the closest port to Cape Horn, so many ships call there if they are in need of repair. James, however, has a very low opinion of the port. He says that any ship owner whose ship falls into the clutches of the repair yards in Port Stanley will face exorbitant fees and charges, while the ship itself may never be properly repaired. "A pit of thieves and vipers" is, I believe, the phrase he used.
We had a delightful surprise for dinner tonight. The steward-cook, Walter, fixed a stocking-leg duff . It is made with stewed dried apples wrapped in a roll of dough that is boiled in a cheese cloth. With a hot sweet sauce, it tasted nearly as good as the apple dumplings we make at home. Amanda and little Tommy squealed with joy when they tasted it. Walter tells me the name originated in the fo'c'sle where duff is always boiled in the leg of a stocking.
The temperature has been falling dramatically as we sail South. I will often go on deck where I am less prone to sea sickness. On occasion, I have seen the approach of one of the black squalls that strike so fiercely. The wind can blow the breath back into your throat and the sleet feels as if it will cut the skin off my face if I don't I hurry down below to where all is warm and we draw near to the heat of the cabin stove. Above the howling of the wind, I can hear the sailors shortening sail under these terrible conditions. I worry about the welfare of these brave sailors. Of course, I feel so for James and his officers as well, whose duty keeps them out in freezing cold. I can only pray that our rounding will be quick.
Your loving daughter,
Fred marked the daily entry into his journal. August 6. There were now 55 marks on the bunk bulkhead. Fifty-five days from Cardiff. They had passed the Falklands and would soon fetch Staten Island. A respectable if not overly fast passage. He stowed his journal and dressed for the watch. He could feel the cold even in the fo'c'sle cabin. He rubbed his fingers and his breath spread like a tiny fog bank before him. The ship's bell rang and with the rest of his watch, he turned to.
The mate bellowed to take a pull on the fore topsail brace, so he joined the gang at the lee rail and hauled the brace a bit tighter. The crowd drifted back to the break of the poop. Captain Barker's rules forbade anyone from going below except under orders while on watch, so they stood by, shuffling to keep warm. Fred cursed beneath his breath at the son-of-a-bitch captain, as well within his right to do so. It was every sailor's right to growl.