“Well, that is a consideration. I hadn't given it much thought. Pisaqua is a small port. Empaneling an Admiralty court could take some time. And there would be legal expenses.”
“I just thought," Mary suggested, "that we might not wish to delay the ship further or add to our costs. Perhaps you might discharge Mr. Rand in Callao and hire a new mate in his stead. That might serve us all for the better.”
James Barker smiled. He wondered whether his wife's concerns were merciful or merely mercantile. Nothing wrong with either. She had a decent head for business, another reason to be sorry to be sending her home.
After a long absence, Mary Barker sat down again at her writing desk in the cabin. She hadn't written for so long because she had had nothing to write about, save her own misery and hopelessness. She finally felt like writing again.
Ship Lady Rebecca October 25, 1905
Dearest Mother,
It had been my intention to send these letters to you on a passing steamer or sailing ship that we might cross on our voyage. It now looks like I will be the courier after all. Rather than these being missives from your wandering daughter, they may perchance serve as a diary of this most horrible voyage.
I have not written as often as I had meant to, but then the children and I did spend months on end strapped into our berth in the dark and wet cabin, so there was both little opportunity to write and even less to say. James, aided by the cabin steward, did what he could to see to our care, but there was not much that either could do.
We hope to arrive in Pisagua, Chile, in a few days, all depending on the wind. James has told me that the winds off Chile can be difficult and drop away all together. I hope and pray that this wind holds. After so many months of too much wind, the prospect of being delayed by the lack of it would almost be too much to bear.
James has promised to put the children and me on the first steamer bound for home. The steam ships transit the more sheltered Straits of Magellan rather than rounding Cape Horn. Also by then, it should be approaching Spring in the Southern latitudes so we can anticipate a less violent and far faster passage.
How I long to see you and the cousins again. How I long simply to be in the company of women again. It has been too long since I could speak to anyone other than the steward, to James and on occasion, to Thomas. You will be pleased to know that Thomas is well and has apparently served the ship most ably during these difficult months.
Once I return to England, it is my intention to never again go to sea. James is my husband and a fine captain, but I believe that I have truly seen hell around the Horn, and if it is within my power, I shall stay happily ashore henceforth.
Your loving daughter,
Captain Barker compared his latitudes with Mate Atkinson's sight, and gave the order to turn east toward the Chilean coast. Will was almost too excited to sleep. He left his bunk before dawn and climbed the ratlines to the main crosstrees to try to catch a glimpse of the shore. Acting Third Mate Paul Nelson saw him climbing; he smiled and shook his head, remembering his first landfall and how excited he had been.
At first, Will saw nothing but unbroken horizon. Then a brown haze seemed to float on the water. It grew to a low smudge. Finally, he could just make out an indistinct line. "Land ho," Will called out. He looked down at the poop deck and saw the captain walk over to Nelson. Not long thereafter, Nelson joined Will on the crosstrees. Nelson used Will's shoulder as a brace for his telescope. "There's Chile, all right. Just where she's supposed to be." Will yelled "Yahooeeee!" Nelson just laughed.
October 28, 1905 – 139 days out of Cardiff
The harbor at Pisagua was a little more than a shallow cove on a dun-colored coast. The town was the same drab brown as the hills that rose above a barren and featureless landscape. Were it not for the other sailing ships at anchor in the roadstead, it would be have easy to sail past the harbor without noticing the nondescript hovels of the town.
Donnie, Frenchie and Fred all stood by the rail watching the ships at anchor grow slowly larger and more distinct as the Lady Rebecca stood into the anchorage. The town of Pisagua itself was in the shadow of the sun rising over the hills behind it.
“Doesn't look like much, does it?" Fred commented. After four and a half months at sea, he had hoped for more than an assemblage of dusty shacks on a treeless sunbaked hillside.
“Don't, 'cause it ain't," Donnie replied. "Nothing there, really, and the whores are about as ugly as the town. Just wait till we call at Callao. Now that's a sailor's town. You know what Pisagua means?" He cast a sideways glance at his shipmates. "Means piss water. Good name for it, too.”
“Alor," Frenchie replied. "You make that up. Didn't he make that up?”
Fred shrugged, "Agua is water in Spanish and pis means piss, so I guess it could be right.”
“Merde." Frenchie shook his head. "We sail round Cape Horn in ze winter, all for piss water?”
Captain Barker stood next to the helmsman as the Lady Rebecca ghosted under topsails into the anchorage. Mr. Rand, recently released from confinement on promises of good behavior and the understanding that he would be leaving the ship in Callao, assumed his station on the bow in charge of the anchor. Captain Barker looked over the anchorage and chose his spot. He said a few words to the helmsman, who spun the wheel, slowly bringing the bow into the wind. He nodded to Mr. Atkinson at the break of the poop. Atkinson bellowed, "Main, loose the halyard, up bunts and clews.”
Barker yelled, "Mr. Rand, let go the anchor. Three shots.”
Rand responded, "Let go the anchor. Three shots, aye." He yanked back the hand brake and a gritty red cloud rose up as the rusty chain flew through the hawse. At the third shackle, linking each fifteen-fathom shot, he hauled back on the brake and then secured the devil's claw to the chain.
“Back the fore topsail," Atkinson shouted. The ship began sailing backwards, snubbing the anchor chain. "Loose the halyard. Up bunts and clews. Furl the topsails. A harbor furl, if you please.”
Paul Nelson sent up the yellow "Q" flag, requesting free pratique from customs.
Mary Barker came up on deck. The captain walked over to her. "Welcome to Chile, my dear.”
“When may we go ashore?" she asked.
Captain Barker chuckled. "Unfortunately, we are a bit short of boats, at present. We have the signal up for customs, so they should be sending out a boat shortly. I am sure that we can arrange for additional boats from shore or from the ships in the harbor. Please try to be a bit patient, my dear. I know that that is not easy after so many months at sea.”
Within about an hour, a boatload of Chilean customs officials and an English-speaking pilot put off from the mole in a small steam launch and headed for the Lady Rebecca. After completing all the preliminary customs documents, they agreed to carry Captain Barker to shore to visit the British consul and the shipping agent.
As they pulled away from the ship, the captain did all he could to retain his composure. The Lady Rebecca sat low in the water, her freeboard less than four feet. The black hull had been scrubbed free of paint by brash ice and was now an ugly rusty red. The jib-boom was canted up while the derigged fore and mainmasts made her once lofty rig look stunted, almost crippled. He knew his ship's condition in minute detail and yet the one thing he couldn't do while sailing her was to take her all in, in one glance. Now the sight of the damage to his beautiful ship took him full aback.