The Shining Sea (17 page)

The
Essex
was running fast, at times making nine knots an hour. On February 3, they reached latitude 42°14' 30” south and longitude 59° 9' 51” west. Porter decided it was time to make a formal announcement of where they were going, although everyone aboard had by now probably guessed. Even so, to have the rumor officially confirmed created a stir. The captain's clerk posted this electrifying notice on the bulletin board:

Sailors and Marines:

A large increase of the enemy forces compels us to abandon a coast that will neither afford us security nor supplies. . . . We will therefore, proceed to annoy them, where we are least expected. What was never performed, we will attempt. The Pacific Ocean affords us many friendly ports. The unprotected British commerce on the coast of Chili, Peru, and Mexico, will give you an abundant supply of wealth; and the girls of the Sandwich Islands, shall reward you for your sufferings during the passage around Cape Horn.

The following day, February 4, the wind hauled around to the southwest during the afternoon, creating a disagreeable cross sea. For the next six days, until February 10, the wind was variable, coming from all points of the compass, but mostly from the southwest. At times it blew so hard that Porter had to reduce the
Essex
to a single storm staysail. Albatrosses and other birds that frequent the high latitudes appeared around this time. The
Essex
men tried various methods of catching them, but none worked.

Porter had to admit that, in spite of his former complaints, he was impressed with how well the
Essex
was performing during the heaviest blows and worst seas. He felt confident now in her capacity to handle the horrendous passage around the Horn. As added precautions, he took the spare spars from the spar deck to the gun deck, and put two long 12-pounders below. With the
Essex
as prepared for rough seas as Porter could make her, she drew closer to the dreaded land at the end of the earth. On February 11, she was at latitude 51° 13' south and longitude 63° 53' west—between Tierra del Fuego, the archipelago at the southern tip of South America, and the Falkland Islands.

Porter kept steering toward the Strait of Le Maire—the eighteen-mile-wide passage between Tierra del Fuego and Staten Land (Isla de los Estados). He feared that the treacherous passage through the infamous Strait of Le Maire would be too dangerous, and decided to avoid it by sailing east of Staten Land, one of the more godforsaken places on the planet. In his opinion, no part of the world was more horrible than Staten Island. He never considered winding his way through the dangerous Strait of Magellan.

There were precedents for choosing Le Maire. In March 1741, Lord George Anson, during his famous voyage, had decided to ignore the Strait of Magellan and sail his six-ship squadron through the Strait of Le Maire, rather than to the east of Staten Island. Porter had studied Anson's historic journey and wished to make the name
Essex
as well known in the Pacific as the
Centurion
, Anson's flagship, was. Porter admired Anson's single-minded determination to capture a Spanish treasure ship and bring it to England, which he eventually did. But Porter thought little of Anson's seamanship. The admiral lost all his ships, except the
Centurion
,
and 80 percent of his men. It took him three horrific months just to round Cape Horn. Deaths from scurvy and other diseases were heartrending.

Porter wanted to avoid Anson's mistakes, and he had so far. Much had been learned since Anson's day about how to keep a crew healthy, of course, so it is more than a little odd that Porter continually made reference to Anson's problems in his journal. Porter also mentioned Spanish Admiral José Alfonso Pizarro, who sailed in pursuit of Anson with a small fleet, but was defeated by storms. He never found Anson, and returned to Spain with only one ship. Other than the fact that these two admirals were well known—especially Anson—Porter's references to them, although more than a little strange, were apparently for the purpose of having the reader compare his superior seamanship to theirs, even though their voyages were made decades earlier, when many fewer ships had rounded Cape Horn, and much less was known about navigation and ship-borne illness.

Captain Cook on his first voyage in 1768 had the same decisions to make about how to get safely around Cape Horn. He decided to sail through the Strait of Le Maire, believing it to be a better route than traveling to the east of Staten Island or through the extremely difficult Strait of Magellan. It took Cook three tries before he made it through the Strait on his fourth attempt.

Sailing to the east of Staten Island, although appearing to be a safer route than either Cook or Anson chose, was still fraught with danger. Forty miles long and nine miles wide, the island was seventeen and a half miles off the eastern extremity of Tierra del Fuego, separated from it by the Strait of Le Maire. With forbidding mountainous peaks, some of which rose to 2,600 feet, Staten Island was the tail end of the Andes. The jagged coastline was menacing, containing inhospitable bays and inlets. Numerous small islands and plenty of shoals lay around the coast, creating great hazards for mariners.

As Porter steered to the east of the island, a fine north wind was blowing, and the
Essex
was making seven and nine knots with studding sails set on both sides. On February 13, the wind increased, and the weather became rainy with thick haze. Visibility was soon down to a mile. Porter thought he was about thirty-five miles off Cape St. John, the eastern extremity of Staten Island, but he began to get concerned that he might
be closer when the
Essex
encountered a violent ripple that indicated a strong current was running. At the same time he saw an unusual amount of kelp—some of it looking as if it had been drying on the beach for a time—and flocks of birds resembling geese. Lookouts were increased, and Porter prepared to haul his wind.

Suddenly, deadly breakers appeared less than a mile away. The
Essex
was sounding in forty-five fathoms of water, but not for long. Porter reacted fast and hauled on a wind to the eastward. But it was too late. A tremendous sea was running, and the ship was driving forecastle under. There appeared to be no chance of weathering the land, which Porter could see ahead, bearing east by north, running out in small lumps, surrounded by dreadful breakers. If the
Essex
crashed into the rocks, she would be smashed to pieces, and the wind was driving her fast toward them.

In this moment of supreme crisis, Porter moved with desperate speed, managing to set the mainsail and get the ship about. The jib and spanker were then set, but in a few moments the jib was torn to pieces. Nonetheless, Porter had avoided the breakers. But he was far from being in the clear. He felt the currents taking the ship, not to the east, but westward toward the Strait of Le Maire and a deadly lee shore. A gale was blowing, and night was coming on fast. The wind was directly on shore, and a tremendous sea was running. He saw no prospect of keeping off the lee shore except by carrying a heavy press of canvas until the wind changed. The loss of a single spar, or the splitting of a topsail at this critical moment would have doomed the ship.

After standing west northwest for about an hour, the water unexpectedly grew smooth, indicating a sudden change of current, and whales appeared at the side of the ship. Porter thought he was in the Strait of Le Maire. He kept the lead going constantly and found soundings to be regularly forty-five fathoms in a coral bottom. Then, at 7:30, the land was discovered ahead, and on both bows, distant about a mile. They were definitely in the Strait of Le Maire now.

Porter ordered the helm put a-weather and made all sail to the southward. The
Essex
drove through the strait with no difficulty, and by nine o'clock in the morning she was through, to the great relief of all aboard, particularly the captain. They had had a close call. Porter had nothing but
praise for the ship. Although she had been at times pitching her forecastle under with a heavy press of sail in a violent sea, she stood the test and brought them through safely.

Staten Island and the Strait of Le Maire were only a prelude, however. Cape Horn and its savage winds and seas lay ahead. But Porter felt prepared. Guns had been put below, spars had been taken from the upper deck, the weight aloft had been reduced, the best sails had been bent, and preventer shrouds were up to secure the masts. As the
Essex
entered the most dreaded passage on earth, Porter felt that she was ready.

Before long, they were there, and as the
Essex
approached the Horn, the sea was unexpectedly smooth with a pleasant breeze blowing from the north. Porter allowed himself thoughts of a speedy passage. Haze partially obscured his view, as he steered southward. On February 14, the horizon was mostly clear and the wind from the west; the sun was out, and except for dark clouds in the north, the weather was pleasant. They were in latitude 55° 58' 47” south, and longitude 67° 16' 18” west.

Cape Horn itself was soon visible, and it did not bear the prospect of the repulsive monster of their nightmares. Its rocky cliffs thrust boldly up from the sea. Their pointed tops, although treeless, were covered with a thin mantle of greenish-brown grass. The land looked strangely benign. The sea, the temperature, and the sky, were the opposite of what they had expected. For a blissful moment they thought the worst was behind them. Their pleasant interlude did not last long, however. The black clouds that were hanging over the Cape suddenly burst upon them with a fury. In a few minutes they were reduced to a reefed foresail, and a close-reefed main topsail, and in a few hours to storm staysails. The full fury of the Horn's violent winds and irregular seas was now upon them, threatening at every roll of the ship to jerk away their masts.

Using the winds coming from the north, Porter steered south to get as much offing as possible, thinking that the terrible weather might be a consequence of local currents producing high winds and irregular seas. He was soon disabused of that idea, however; the farther away from land they got the worse the gale and the sea became. In these latitudes winds whipped around the globe from west to east unimpeded, bringing violent storms of a magnitude and frequency seldom seen in any other part of the world.

For the next four days, from February 14 to 17, the
Essex
sped south. Soon they lost sight of the land. The wind blew hard from the northwest, and with it came heavy, cold rain and a dangerous sea. They were often under a close-reefed main topsail and reefed foresail, and were frequently reduced to storm staysails. By keeping a point free, however, Porter found that the
Essex
made little leeway, and he was able to gain a considerable amount of westing. Since he carried as much sail as he could, the ship was often flooded, as the sea broke over her.

The days were cold, wet, and miserable. Some men were frostbitten; Porter himself suffered from the chill. Hands were constantly at work, making and unmaking sail. Every opportunity to increase speed was grasped, but often moderate weather would be succeeded within minutes by fierce winds and hail, requiring them to shorten sail. The crew had no shoes and their woolen clothing was insufficient. To make matters worse, the rum from St. Catharine's was soon gone.

On February 18, a violent storm struck, greater than anything they had experienced before, threatening the bowsprit and masts. As morning wore on, the storm worsened, forcing Porter back to the main storm staysail and then to bare poles. Despite the furious winds and tremendous head sea, however, he hoped for an opportunity to set enough sail to steer north. The opportunity presented itself briefly around twelve o'clock when the wind hauled around to the southwest. Making doubly sure that the yards were secure, Porter set close-reefed fore and main topsails, and a reefed foresail, with a view to passing the western most point of Tierra del Fuego and sailing into the calmer waters of the Pacific.

For the next few days, he continued to make progress west. On February 21, he estimated that the
Essex
was at latitude 57° 30” south and longitude 77° west. It seemed to him that this was as far west as Cook had traveled on his first voyage before steering northward for the Pacific. Porter was certain they had passed the most difficult tests. He estimated that the
Essex
had gone from the Strait of Le Maire to this point faster than any ship in history, in spite of the westerly gales. He thought that all their sufferings and anxieties would soon be over. Unfortunately, he could not be certain where they were. He had been navigating by dead reckoning. No opportunity of taking lunar observations had presented itself, and his chronometer, because of the cold, was of no use.

Late on February 21, the wind shifted again to the northwest. Porter took advantage of it, racing south and west, making almost two degrees of longitude in twenty-four hours, trying to make certain the ship had achieved as much westing as possible. He figured he was now in longitude 79° 20” west—four degrees west of the western most point of Tierra del Fuego. But he had been cruelly deceived. Just when he decided that now was the time to stand to the north, he was able to make a lunar observation that showed unmistakably that the
Essex
had reached only longitude 75° 20” west—not enough to get around Cape Pilor, the westernmost point of Tierra del Fuego.

Disappointed as he was, Porter pressed on to make more westing, worrying all the time about the crew's spirits. They seemed to be holding up, however. They still had fresh water, but food grew so scarce they were forced to eat their pet parrots and monkeys. They had not been long in these terrible seas, but the crew's desire for fresh food was so strong that a rat was esteemed a delicacy.