To Cuba and back. :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sunday, February 13.—It is cold and rough,
though not at all stormy, and those who are
on deck wear thick coats and caps. There is
no clergyman on board, and we have no religious
service. Capt. Bullock used to read the
Liturgy himself, but in these West India and
New Orleans voyages there are many Roman
Catholics, and those who are not Romanists
are of so many denominations, that he received
little encouragement in maintaining an official
worship; and it is no longer held, unless there
is a clergyman on board and a request is made
by the passengers.

All day there has been no sail in sight, except
the steamer Columbia, for Charleston,
S. C.; and she soon disappeared below the
horizon.

We are near Cape Hatteras. It is night,

and soon the Light of Hatteras throws its
bright, cheerful beam for thirty miles over a
huge burial-ground of sailors. How many
struggles with death, how many last efforts of
the last resources of skill and courage, what
floating wrecks of ships, what waste of life,
has that light shone over! Under that reef,
perished Bache, flying for harbor before the
gale, in his little surveying brig. Every league
has been and will be a field where lives and
treasures are sown thick from the hand of
Destruction,—one of those points on the earth's
surface where, in the universal and endless
struggle between life and death, preservation
and destruction, the destroyers have the advantage.

Soon after 9 p.m. we stand out direct, to
cross the Gulf Stream. A bucket is thrown
over the side, and water drawn. Its temperature
is at 42°. In fifteen minutes more,
it is thrown again, and the water is at 72° 30'.
We are in the Gulf Stream.

Monday, February 14.—Sea rather rough,
and a good deal of sea-sickness. Several
passengers have not been seen since we left

the dock, and only about half appear at table.
We are to the eastward of the Gulf Stream.
The weather is clear, and no longer cold. At
noon, we are in about the latitude of Charleston,
S. C. No vessels in sight, all day. It
is strange, and always excites the surprise
and comment of sea-faring men, that in the
great highway of nations, with the immense
commerce that is perpetually running East
and West, North and South, a steamer may
make her three hundred miles a day, for day
after day, and see no sails.

This is a truly glorious moonlight night.
The seas and floods "in wavering morrice
move;" the air is pure and not cold, the
sky a deep blue, the sea a deep blue, the
stars glisten, and the moon bathes all in a
serene glory. It is hard to leave the deck
and such a scene, for the small state-room
and its sleeping-shelf. But there must be
sleep for infirm human nature,—a nature that
has even less self-sustaining power than a
locomotive engine, and must not only be
supplied with fuel and water at every stopping
place, but must lie by, in a dark corner,

in absolute repose and mere oblivion,
for one quarter of its time, or it will wear
out in a few days.

Tuesday, February 15.—A bright, sunny,
cheerful day. Passengers have laid aside
their thick coats and fur caps, the snow and
ice are gone from the rigging and spars, the
decks are dry, the sea is calm, and the steady-going
engine alone, with easy exercise of
power, drives the great hull, with its freight of
cargo and provisions and human beings, over
the placid sea, as fast as a furious gale could
drive it, and leaves her long wake of foam
on the sea, and her long wake of dark smoke
in the sky.

The passengers are recovering from sea-sickness.
The women sit on deck and sew and
read, and the children play. That family of
Creole children,—how sallow, how frail, what
delicate limbs, yet not without life, and with
no little grace! But they are petted, and the
girls complain, and the boys are disposed to
tyrannize over the other boys and the dogs
It is interesting to see, or to fancy we see
the effect not only of climate, but of slavery,

and of despotic institutions, on the characters
of children. What career is there for Cuban
youth of ambition or merit? and what must
be their life without one?

I am feeling very much at home in the
Cahawba. She is an excellent sea boat, and
under the best of discipline. I hardly believed
that her commander could,—that any commander
could,—fully come up to all the praise
that had been bestowed on him; but I think
he weathers it all. The rule of quietness prevails,
almost to the point of an English dinner-party.
No order is given unless it be necessary,
and none louder than is necessary for it
to be heard. The reports are made in low
voices, and the passengers are to see and hear
as little as possible of the discipline of the
ship. They do not know the quiet but certain
means for ensuring the performance of every
duty. They do not know that reports are
made of the state of every part of the ship,
and that, through the night, the cabins and
passage ways and every place where fire can
take, are watched, and that the watch reports
every half hour. They have not learned the

merits of sturdy, faithful Miller, the chief mate,
or quick, plucky Porter, the second mate, who
can hardly keep down his "Liner" training to
the tone of the Mail Steamer, nor the thorough
excellence of the Engineer. But they do know
the capital qualities of Mr. Rodgers, the Purser,
a grandson of the old Commodore, a nephew
of Perry, and connected by blood or marriage
with half the navy,—for his station and duties
are among the passengers, and all become his
personal friends.

The routine of the ship, as regards passengers,
is this: a cup of coffee, if you desire it,
when you turn out; breakfast at eight, lunch
at twelve, dinner at three, tea at seven, and
lights put out at ten.

Wednesday, February 16.—Beautiful, serene,
summer sea! The thermometer is at 70°,
awnings are spread, the ladies have their books
and sewing on deck, the men read and play
chess and smoke, and the children play. We
have crossed the Gulf Stream again, and are
skirting along the Coast of Florida, as near to
shore as safety permits; and here the deep sea
runs close to the land. All objects on shore are

plainly discernible by the naked eye, from the
deck. We are below St. Augustine, about
half-way between that and Key West. The
coast is an interminable reach of sand beach,
with coral reefs before it and the Everglades
behind it. There are three small white tents,
on the green sward, close upon the beach,
backed by a grove of trees, with signals flying.
That is the station of the United States Coast
Survey. Towards evening, we pass a rough
camp which was one of the camps of "Billy
Bowlegs," the famous Seminole warrior. There
is the wreck of a bark, her lower-masts still
standing, while the beach is strewn with casks
and boxes. It is an old wreck, and they make
no signal for aid.

After dark, a light is made on our starboard
bow. It is Cape Florida Light. At 11 p.m.
we make the light on Carysfort Reef, the outermost
and southernmost of the Florida lights;
and, having given a good berth to the reef,
stand out to sea again, to cross the Gulf
Stream the third time.

What can exceed the beauty of these nights
at sea—these moonlight nights, the still sea,

those bright stars, the light, soft trade-wind
clouds floating under them, the gentle air, and
a feeling of tropical romance stealing over the
exile from the snow and ice of New England!
There is something in the clear blue warm sea
of the tropics, which gives to the stranger a
feeling of unreality. Where do those vessels
come from, that rise out of the sea, in the
horizon? Where do they go to, as they sink
in the sea again? Are those blue spots really
fast anchored islands, with men and children,
and horses, and machinery, and schools, politics
and newspapers on them, or are they
afloat, and visited by beings of the air?