16. CHAPTER XVI.
The mild blue weather we enjoyed after leaving the Marquesas,
gradually changed as we ran farther south and approached
Tahiti. In these generally tranquil seas, the wind
sometimes blows with great violence; though, as every sailor
knows, a spicy gale in the tropic latitudes of the Pacific, is far
different from a tempest in the howling North Atlantic. We
soon found ourselves battling with the waves, while the before
mild Trades, like a woman roused, blew fiercely, but still
warmly, in our face.
For all this, the mate carried sail without stint; and as for
brave little Jule, she stood up to it well; and though once in a
while floored in the trough of a sea, sprang to her keel again and
showed play. Every old timber groaned—every spar buckled
—every chafed cord strained; and yet, spite of all, she plunged
on her way like a racer. Jermin, sea-jockey that he was,
sometimes stood in the fore-chains, with the spray every now
and then dashing over him, and shouting out, “Well done,
Jule—dive into it, sweetheart. Hurrah!”
One afternoon there was a mighty queer noise aloft, which
set the men running in every direction. It was the maint'-gallant-mast.
Crash! it broke off just above the cap, and
held there by the rigging, dashed with every roll, from side to
side, with all the hamper that belonged to it. The yard hung
by a hair, and at every pitch, thumped against the cross-trees;
while the sail streamed in ribbons, and the loose ropes coiled,
and thrashed the air, like whip-lashes. “Stand from under!”
and down came the rattling blocks, like so many shot. The
yard, with a snap and a plunge, went hissing into the sea,
disappeared, and shot its full length out again. The crest of a
great wave then broke over it—the ship rushed by—and we
saw the stick no more.
While this lively breeze continued, Baltimore, our old black
cook, was in great tribulation.
Like most South Seamen, the Julia's “caboose,” or cook-house,
was planted on the larboard side of the forecastle.
Under such a press of canvas, and with the heavy sea running,
the barque, diving her bows under, now and then shipped green
glassy waves, which, breaking over the head-rails, fairly deluged
that part of the ship, and washed clean aft. The caboose-house
—thought to be firmly lashed down to its place—served as a
sort of breakwater to the inundation.
About these times, Baltimore always wore what he called
his “gale-suit;” among other things, comprising a Sou'-Wester
and a huge pair of well anointed sea-boots, reaching almost to
his knees. Thus equipped for a ducking or a drowning, as the
case might be, our culinary high-priest drew to the slides of
his temple, and performed his sooty rites in secret.
So afraid was the old man of being washed overboard, that
he actually fastened one end of a small line to his waistbands,
and coiling the rest about him, made use of it as occasion
required. When engaged outside, he unwound the cord, and
secured one end to a ring-bolt in the deck; so that if a chance
sea washed him off his feet, it could do nothing more.
One evening, just as he was getting supper, the Julia reared
up on her stern, like a vicious colt, and when she settled again
forward, fairly dished a tremendous sea. Nothing could withstand
it. One side of the rotten head-bulwarks came in with a
crash; it smote the caboose, tore it from its moorings, and after
boxing it about, dashed it against the windlass, where it stranded.
The water then poured along the deck like a flood, rolling
over and over pots, pans, and kettles, and even old Baltimore
himself, who went breaching along like a porpoise.
Striking the taffrail, the wave subsided, and washing from
side to side, left the drowning cook high and dry on the after-hatch:
his extinguished pipe still between his teeth, and almost
bitten in two.
The few men on deck having sprung into the main-rigging,
sailor-like, did nothing but roar at his calamity.
The same night, our flying-jib-boom snapped off like a pipe-stem,
and our spanker-gaff came down by the run.
By the following morning, the wind in a great measure had
gone down; the sea with it; and by noon we had repaired our
damages as well as we could, and were sailing along as
pleasantly as ever.
But there was no help for the demolished bulwarks; we had
nothing to replace them; and so, whenever it breezed again,
our dauntless craft went along with her splintered prow dripping,
but kicking up her fleet heels just as high as before.
