Chapter Thirty-fourth.

OUR WHEELS REVOLVE—THE NATIVES OF THE ISLAND EXTINCT—THE WRONGS THEY HAVE SUFFERED—THE ISLAND ONCE A PARADISE—SAN DOMINGO, HER MOUNTAINS—CUBA—A SHOWER BATH GRATIS—“SAIL HO!”—CAYCUS ISLAND AND PASSAGE—TURTLE FOR DINNER—A SERMON—GALLANT CONDUCT OF OUR STEAMER—WE SHIP A SEA—A SPANISH VESSEL IN DISTRESS—OUR TILLER CHAINS GIVE WAY—A KNIFE AND FORK IN SEARCH OF MINCE PIES—GULF STREAM—WATER-SPOUTS—“LIGHT SHIP”—SANDY HOOK—ANXIETY—SIGHT OF NEW YORK—FEELINGS AND CONDITION OF THE PASSENGERS—A SAD FATE—AGROUND—A NEW PILOT—AGAIN UNDER WEIGH—NEAR THE DOCK—A DEATH—MAN OVERBOARD—MAKE FAST—AT HOME—ONE WORD TO THOSE ABOUT TO EMBARK.

Jan. 30th. We finish taking in provisions, coal, and water, and at 1 P.M., let go our hawser, our wheels revolve, and we are again under weigh, heading out to sea. We take a hearty dinner while yet in the bay, but there is a tremendous sea outside, and many will be obliged to pay tribute to Neptune. This is a delightful island, but it is changed from the paradise Columbus found it. Of the once happy, but now grossly abused natives, I saw but two, and am told they are almost extinct. What a sad commentary upon the law that “might makes right.” What tenure could have been more perfect than that by which the native held this island. It was bequeathed to their forefathers by the Creator, and transmitted from father to son; but a stranger visited them, and they mistook him for a messenger from the Great Spirit, a visitor from the clouds. They worshipped the stranger, invited him to their groves and pleasure grounds, and gave him bread and wine. But alas! they have embraced the viper. The stranger taking advantage of the confidence they, in their simplicity, reposed, smites them with a ruthless hand, and hunts them down like wild beasts, until the last son, goaded to desperation, severs the cord of life and goes to meet the spirit of his fathers on the great “hunting ground.” The nation sinks into oblivion, while that of their ruthless invader is emblazoned upon every tablet, and the leader in this act of infamy sleeps in triumph under an imposing cenotaph. Why does the sympathy of nations sleep while there still exists a remnant of this truly noble, but down-trodden people. As we reach the ocean we take a more easterly course, and are brought in full view of the light-house, which is on the extreme point of the island; we pass this point at 9 P.M., when we take a more northerly course, and stand directly for Cuba and the Caycus passage, designing to make, also, the western point of Hispaniola. We have a severe gale, but our steamer rides it out most gallantly.

31st. (Morning). We are in sight of Hispaniola, Hayti, or San Domingo, by all of which names it has been known at different times; her mountains looming up several thousand feet above the horizon. The sea is calm, our run pleasant; Cuba now appears off our larboard bow, about forty miles distant. It is indicated by heavy clouds, at the base of which, or just above the horizon, is seen the dark outline of her mountains. The mountains within the tropics are universally capped with clouds, which, in floating over, are caught by the peaks, and there waste away, the diminution supplied by the condensation of vapor, or the addition of other clouds. During the evening, a heavy sea broke against the side of the steamer, bursting our port fastening, and shooting a column of water eight inches in diameter, directly into the berth of my room-mate. It will readily be imagined that he awoke. We have just passed point St. Nicholas, the northwest point of St. Domingo, and point Mayxi, the most easterly point of Cuba.

Feb. 1st. A ship is seen, “hull down,” off our larboard quarter; no land in sight, a heavy sea, and we are standing directly for the Caycus Islands, which we shall make about sunset.

2nd. We have made the Caycus passage, left the Caribbean Sea, and are now in the Atlantic, heading north by west, making a direct course for New York. We cross the tropic of Cancer at a quarter to 9 A.M. We have now nothing to do but promenade, sit in our state-rooms, and read, eat, sleep, and think of home. We have about 300 passengers on board. We have live sheep, poultry in abundance, and some twenty huge turtles, weighing from two to three hundred pounds each, some of each falling daily victims to our voracious appetites. One little turtle which looked as though he had been taken from his native island, much against his will, was thrust into a barrel, and there compelled to lay on his back. As I passed, I thought he eyed me with solicitation, and I requested one of the firemen to turn him over. This he did, much to the poor creature’s apparent satisfaction. I relieved his pangs for the moment, and shall probably help devour him for dinner. Mr. Foster and myself had supplied ourselves liberally with oranges, pine-apples, limes, “forbidden fruit,” bananas, &c., and spent much of our time in feasting. According to observation at 12 M., we were 920 miles from New York; we have made, in twenty-four hours, 214 miles, and are now under a full press of canvas.

3rd. (Sunday). We have a sermon by an English clergyman, from Kingston. By observation at 12 M., we had made 234 miles in twenty-four hours. We have a strong wind, and very heavy sea; boxes and barrels are running foot races on deck, it rains in torrents, hatches are closed down, but our ship rides gallantly. She rises manfully from the strife, shakes off the spray, and again leaps upon her antagonist.

4th. Stormy unpleasant day. We are now off the coast of the Carolinas, in the gulf-stream. The wind blows cold off the land, reminding us of winter. Three days ago we were picking oranges and limes, the thermometer at 105°. Oh! anthracite coal! I most earnestly implore thy protection. While at dinner, we shipped a sea, which burst through the windows, putting out the lights, carrying every dish from the table, and saturating the entire company. The captain who, with a party of ladies, was sitting at the head of the table, claimed the most liberal instalment. At half past 2 P.M., a vessel appears, and bears down for us, running before the wind. She proves a Spanish bark; her rudder has been carried away, a spar is lashed on in its place, by which they are trying to manage her. She has up a foresail and spanker, and hoists a signal of distress. It is blowing a gale, raining in torrents, and the sea running mountain high. Our quarter boats could not live an instant, rendering it impossible to assist them. As they passed near us, we saw two men on the foretop-gallant yard. At 6 P.M., our tiller chains gave way, the steamer is thrown around into the troughs, and rolls so that it is impossible to keep footing on deck. The table, which has just been spread for supper, is swept of every dish: the cold beef chases the vegetables around the saloon, as if death could not dissipate the force of habit; the mustard and vinegar cruets, impelled by the same instinct, gave chase to the beef, and after a protracted run, brought up at my state-room door, entirely exhausted. The most amusing trial of speed took place between a knife and fork and a mince-pie; the latter lost its cap, or I think it would have won the race. Our chains are soon repaired, and we head on our course. It is dark, and we see nothing more of the last sail; wine circulates freely; our steamer seems intoxicated, and many of her passengers are down with the same complaint.

5th. Cold unpleasant morning; a heavy sea on. The wind blowing against the current of the gulf-stream, causes a spray, which rises in columns and seems to congeal in the air. We are in close proximity to several water-spouts, seeming the connecting links between the ocean and the clouds. We are under twenty-one inches of steam, but no canvas, the wind having been dead ahead for the past two days.

6th. Clear and cold; five sails in sight; ocean as smooth as a mirror. We fall in with a Delaware pilot, who reports us one hundred miles from New York. An exclamation of joy burst from the passengers, who are now all on deck. At 9 A.M., we saw the smoke of a steamer off our larboard quarter; ten sail in sight; the ocean presents a most sublime spectacle, not a breath disturbs its repose; as if jaded by prolonged agitation, it has relapsed into a quiet slumber. We are in sight of the light-ship off Delaware Bay; a pilot comes on board; Sandy Hook is in sight; the Jersey shore stretching away to the left, but just seen above the horizon. We passed Sandy Hook light-house, twenty-five miles from New York, at 7 P.M. As night draws her curtain round, we see looming up from the horizon, directly in our course, a halo of light, indicating the locality of the city. All are prepared to land, each, for the time being, absorbed in his own thoughts. What a diversity; the countenance of each portraying in vivid colors the hopes and fears within. Here, seated by one of the main pipes, is an emaciated form, clothed in rags; the head is reclining on the hand, the eye sunken, the visage ghastly, and now the whole frame writhes under a most distressing cough. A few short months have done their work. One year ago, a stalwart, robust, enterprising man, full of life and enthusiasm, left his wife and children to seek his fortune in a distant land. He reached his destination, and struggled hard, his prospects alternating between hope and fear; still he struggled on until at last he discovered that some lurking disease was undermining his constitution. The approach was gradual, but it did its work. The victim borrowed money and sailed for home. He is before me. He is destined to clasp to his bosom, once more, his wife and children, but in one short week is borne to a neighboring church yard.

This is the history and fate of more than one of our passengers; we, however, have many on board who are returning with robust constitutions and well-filled purses. Their countenances are lighted up with the fond anticipation of soon being restored to those whose greeting smile and warm embrace will heal the laceration of the past.

The excitement runs high; there is a prospect of reaching our dock by 10 o’clock. As we approach the Narrows, our steamer suddenly slackens her pace, and we hear a cry of “aground.” Our pilot has run us upon the shoals of Coney Island; the wheels are reversed, but we are fast; the lead is thrown with a cry of “three fathoms o’ the deep ho!” We can plainly see the light of the city looming up from the horizon, but the chances are against us. A new pilot comes on board, who points out the channel; our wheels are reversed, our tiller put hard down, and after several efforts, we are afloat, with the loss of part of our keel. As we pass through the Narrows, our pilot hands us the morning papers, containing a detail of the Hague street disaster. The city is now in sight, and we are steaming along with lightning speed; anxiety most intense. We near our pier, which we find much obstructed by ice; small boats attempt to come off for our hawser, but we are obliged to steam over toward Jersey City and come up again; this time we succeed, and as we are nearing the dock, the death of one of the passengers is announced. He was the last of a party of six that had embarked for, and I believe the only one of the party who lived to reach California. He lost his health soon after his arrival there, and died upon reaching his native shore.

As the steamer was being warped around, a passenger in attempting to jump to the pier, missed it, and fell through the mass of floating ice below. He soon gained the surface, but, uttering the most heart-rending screams, again disappeared. He was eventually rescued, and I jumped for the pier with better success, and stepping into a hack, was rapidly driven in the direction of Broadway. It is now midnight. Thirteen months have elapsed since I left, and for the last six, I have not had the least intelligence from home. My feelings can better be imagined than described, as I pulled the bell at No. 3 Warren street.

One word to those about to embark for California. Take the least possible amount of baggage, in a trunk of the smallest possible size. As no one can anticipate the circumstances under which they may be placed there, nor the wants of a life in California; it is recommended to buy nothing here, as purchases can be made much more judiciously in San Francisco, and other towns in California, and at about as fair rates, at the same time saving the trouble and expense of transportation. The transit charges, by the Nicaragua route, are fifteen cents per pound; this is invariably extra, even if one has a transit passage-ticket, which are issued at a charge of about $25. A limited amount of baggage is taken down the Atlantic and up the Pacific free, but not across. Passengers taking the Panama route, are now landed at Aspinwall (Navy Bay), thence by railroad to Miller’s Station, saving thirty miles of river travel; thence in a row-boat to Gorgona, where mules are stationed in abundance to transport to Panama, twenty-five miles distant. Passengers are landed on the dock at Aspinwall, free of charge, the transit charges being about the same as by the Nicaragua route.