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_ 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 main-t'-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 fairly 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 ringbolt 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. _
Read next: PART I: CHAPTER XVII. THE CORAL ISLANDS
Read previous: PART I: CHAPTER XV. CHIPS AND BUNGS
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