OFF CAPE HORN.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

A dilapidated pocket diary for 1860 lies on my writing-desk. There is a faint suggestiveness of bilge-water and tar and damp woollen shirts about it. The pencilled leaves are soaked and stained with salt-water. Only now and then do I find a legible word or sentence until I reach the middle of the book, where my eyes fall upon the following badly blotted record:

"Fri..., July 2.—Blowi.. grea. gun. ..om S.S.W. ..... close reef ........ iced up ..... overboard .... Mr. Burn. secon. mate ..... Wayland, .....ard bound."

Do I dream it, or does some one mention to-morrow as my thirty-eighth birthday? Nonsense! I am only sixteen—making my first sea-voyage "round the Horn" in the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—fifty-eight days out from New York.

I have not found a sailor's life all that my fancy painted it; rather the reverse. I am disappointed with the life for which I once longed so eagerly—disgusted, I may say. Which is not so surprising. Like other home boys, I have been accustomed to wear dry clothing, to sleep all night, to have father and mother— But never mind; those last words make me feel more homesick than ever.

It is seven o'clock a.m.—or six bells, if you like it better. The starboard watch, to which I belong, is on deck, but as all hands have spent rather more time on deck than below for about two weeks, it don't matter much, only for the prospect of hot coffee sweetened with molasses at breakfast-time. And when a fellow has not had a dry thread on him for days, something hot to drink, even if it's only dried peas and chiccory, is a great luxury.

Of course it is blowing a gale of wind—it has done nothing else for a month, but for a wonder the gale comes from the right direction. That is why Captain Drew is carrying sail so, for, taking advantage of the fair wind, the old ship is running like mad through the straits of Le Maire, which is a passage about fourteen miles wide, between Staten Land and Terra del Fuego.

Yesterday the decks were all awash with water, and the rigging dripped like a sponge. To-day everything from the royal truck down is covered with ice. This is very hard upon one's fingers, especially as it don't do to wear mittens aloft—even if you have them.

If you want to know how it seems to reef or stow a sail at such times, just try and roll up a yard or two of sheet-iron, out-of-doors, with bare hands, when the thermometer is at zero or a little lower. But it is not hard to get round deck in icy weather. Oh no. All you have to do is to sit down and wait for the ship to roll the right way—you won't have long to wait, either.

It blows harder than ever. I should like to see a picture of the old ship now, as with everything set but the royals, she goes tearing and plunging through the long gray seas, with a gray sky overhead, and a gray fog-bank all around the horizon. How I should enjoy seeing such a picture—especially if it was hanging against the sitting-room wall, and I was standing directly in front of it!

"Look!" exclaims old Martin, who is standing beside me at the rail. And all at once on the starboard bow I see breaking through the gray mist a bleak, barren, rocky promontory, pointing like a great index finger to the place where the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans meet. At least so I try to express it in a poetical kind of way, but old Martin only grinned.

"That's Cape 'Orn," he replies, "an' before we get round t'other side of it, if we don't ketch it, call me a Dutchman."

I had thought there was nothing left in the way of bad weather to catch. But I am mistaken. By six o'clock in the afternoon the ship is under lower topsails, with yards braced against the backstays, buffeting the longest seas and the fiercest southwest gales of rain, sleet, snow, and hail that we have seen yet.

It is all the work of a moment. I have just lashed the starboard side-light in the fore-rigging in obedience to the second mate's orders, and before I can swing myself inboard, the Sandwich buries herself bodily in a tremendous sea. My numb fingers relax their hold on the icy ratlines, and I feel myself swept away in the grasp of a mighty wave.

It seems that I am not alone. As I dash the water from my eyes, I see some one swimming, or rather treading water, within arm's-length. It is Mr. Burns, the second mate.

"Keep cool, boy," he shouts, "and kick your boots off first of all."

Fortunately I am not encumbered with a coat, and encouraged by his presence, I rid myself of my boots without much trouble. But I am at best an indifferent swimmer, while Mr. Burns, who was born on Cape Cod, seems perfectly at home even in the long topping seas against which I beat with frantic arms.

"Rest your two hands on my shoulders," he says, "and give over struggling. There'll be a boat out after us directly." But as I too readily obey, I note in the gathering darkness that on his usually cheery face is a look of anxiety. He does not expend his strength in swimming, but merely moves his legs and arms in such a way as to keep us both afloat.

I am chilled and numbed with the terrible cold. I can not speak, can hardly think. Down we sink into a deep black valley of water, to rise on the cresting summit of an awful wave, again and again, but still no welcome sound of oars rattling in rowlocks. An hour passes, which seems an age, and I despairingly see that Mr. Burns shows signs of growing weakness.

This fact, together with the growing darkness, benumbing cold, and shrieking gale, does away with the last remnant of my courage.

"It's no use, Mr. Burns," I gasp through my chattering teeth; "I'm going to let go. Good-by, sir."

Life is very dear to the young second mate. He has a wife and babe in his far-off home; no wonder that he makes no reply. Life is dear to me too, for that matter, only I have lost hope, and he has not. With a whispered prayer, I take my hands from his shoulders, and in another moment am swept unresistingly away in the darkness.

But all at once my outstretched hands touch some floating object, which at the same time strikes against my chest. Mechanically I throw both arms over it, and am vaguely conscious of being easily buoyed up, but by what I can not conceive. I dimly know that it is smooth, soft, round, and somewhat slimy to the touch. For aught I know or care, it may be the sea-serpent himself; but I am past conjecture. A drowsy, numbing, and by no means unpleasant stupor is creeping over me, while, as the roaring of wind and sea is strangely blended with an increasing singing in my ears, I dreamily drift into oblivion, my last conscious thought being that dying is not so very disagreeable after all.

"We was running afore it for the straits of Le Maire, and Jim Coffin on the lookout at daybreak sings out that he see the sea-sarpint ahead, with what looked like a mermaid alongside. We brought the schooner to the wind, lowered the boat, and picked you up; and though you was the deadest live man ever I see, it was all Dan and me could do to unhook your arms from round the big kelp—sea-weed stuff, you know, large round some of it as a t'gallan'-yard—that you was hanging to. But we got you aboard all right, and I hope you ain't feeling none the worse for coming to life again."

Such is the explanation to which I listen as one in a strange dream, while I stare vacantly about me from among the blankets of a narrow berth in a snug little cabin. The speaker is Captain Samuel Dole, of the sailing schooner Wayland, from Desolation Island, bound to New London, Connecticut, with a full fare of skins and seal oil. Captain Dole administers divers restoratives with such good effect that by night I am clothed and in my right mind again.

A swift-sailing schooner is the Wayland, and forty-one days later I am literally received with open arms and open-mouthed astonishment by those who had seen me set sail for San Francisco. My story makes me a nine days' hero, and a little later I have the pleasure of seeing in the paper the arrival of the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—at San Francisco, one hundred and twenty-three days from New York; "Harry Franks, ordinary seaman, lost on the passage."

I have no chance of personally contradicting this statement until, three years afterward, I ship as second mate on board the bark Doris, whose captain proves to be Mr. Thatcher K. Burns, formerly second officer of the Sandwich. He does not welcome me as one from the dead. Captain Burns has seen too many strange things in his sea-faring life to be surprised at anything. He looks sharply at me for a moment, as I rather effusively greet him.

"Ah, yes," he says, in his sharp, business-like way; "thought I'd seen you somewhere, Mr.—er—Franks. Picked up, were you? So was I. Hadn't swum twenty strokes before the Sandwich's boat reached me, and a sweet job we had getting back to the ship. Well, get the decks cleared up as soon as possible. I want to get away on morning tide. Some of the men will be down directly," and with a nod Captain Burns hurries off to the Custom-house for his clearance papers.

And this is what the blotted entry in my old pocket diary refers to.