Two Years Before the Mast

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Two Years Before the Mast
Richard H. Dana, Jr.

INTRODUCTION

In 1869, my father, the late Richard Henry Dana, Jr., prepared a
new edition of his ``Two Years Before the Mast'' with this
preface:

``After twenty-eight years, the copyright of this book has
reverted to me. In presenting the first `author's edition' to the
public, I have been encouraged to add an account of a visit to the
old scenes, made twenty-four years after, together with notices of
the subsequent story and fate of the vessels, and of some of the
persons with whom the reader is made acquainted.''

The popularity of this book has been so great and continued that
it is now proposed to make an illustrated edition with new
material. I have prepared a concluding chapter to continue my
father's ``Twenty-four Years After.'' This will give all that we
have since learned of the fate of crew and vessels, and a brief
account of Mr. Dana himself and his important lifework, which
appears more fully in his published biography[1] and printed
speeches and letters.[2] This concluding chapter will take the place
of the biographic sketch prefixed to the last authorized edition.
There is also added an appendix with a list of the crews of the
two vessels in which Mr. Dana sailed, extracts from a log, and
also plates of spars, rigging and sails, with names, to aid the
reader.

In the winter of 1879-80 I sailed round Cape Horn in a full-rigged
ship from New York to California. At the latter place I visited
the scenes of ``Two Years Before the Mast.'' At the old town of
San Diego I met Jack Stewart, my father's old shipmate, and as we
were looking at the dreary landscape and the forlorn adobe houses
and talking of California of the thirties, he burst out into an
encomium of the accuracy and fidelity to details of my father's
book. He said, ``I have read it again and again. It all comes back
to me, everything just as it happened. The seamanship is
perfect.'' And then as if to emphasize it all, with the exception
that proves the rule, he detailed one slight case where he thought
my father was at fault,---a detail so slight that I now forget
what it is. In reading the Log kept by the discharged mate,
Amerzeen, on the return trip in the Alert, I find that every
incident there recorded, from running aground at the start at San
Diego Harbor, through the perilous icebergs round the Horn, the
St. Elmo's fire, the scurvy of the crew and the small matters like
the painting of the vessel, to the final sail up Boston Harbor,
confirms my father's record. His former shipmate, the late B. G.
Stimson, a distinguished citizen of Detroit, said the account of
the flogging was far from an exaggeration, and Captain Faucon of
the Alert also during his lifetime frequently confirmed all that
came under his observation. Such truth in the author demands truth
in illustration, and I have cooperated with the publishers in
securing a painting of the Alert under full sail and other
illustrations, both colored and in pen and ink, faithful to the
text in every detail.

Accuracy, however, is not the secret of the success of this book.
Its flowing style, the use of short Anglo-Saxon words,[3] its
picturesqueness, the power of description, the philosophic
arrangement all contribute to it, but chiefly, I believe, the
enthusiasm of the young Dana, his sympathy for his fellows and
interest in new scenes and strange peoples, and with it all, the
real poetry that runs through the whole. As to its poetry, I will
quote from Mrs. Bancroft's ``Letters from England,'' giving the
opinion of the poet Samuel Rogers:

``London, June 20, 1847.

``The 19th, Sat. we breakfasted with Lady Byron and my friend Miss
Murray, at Mr. Rogers'. . . . After breakfast he had been
repeating some lines of poetry which he thought fine, when he
suddenly exclaimed, `But there is a bit of American prose, which,
I think, has more poetry in it, than almost any modern verse.' He
then repeated, I should think, more than a page from Dana's `Two
Years Before the Mast' describing the falling overboard of one of
the crew, and the effect it produced, not only at the moment, but
for some time afterward. I wondered at his memory, which enabled
him to recite so beautifully a long prose passage, so much more
difficult than verse. Several of those present, with whom the book
was a favorite, were so glad to hear from me that it was as true
as interesting, for they had regarded it as partly a work of
imagination.''

In writing the book Mr. Dana had a motive which inspired him to
put into it his very best. The night after the flogging of his two
fellow-sailors off San Pedro, California, Mr. Dana, lying in his
berth, ``vowed that, if God should ever give me the means, I would
do something to redress the grievances and relieve the sufferings
of that class of beings with whom my lot has been so long cast.''
This vow he carried out in no visionary scheme of mutiny or
foolish ``paying back'' to the captain, but by awakening a
``strong sympathy'' for the sailors ``by a voice from the
forecastle,'' in his ``Two Years Before the Mast.''

While at sea he made entries almost daily in a pocket notebook and
at leisure hours wrote these out fully. This full account of his
voyage was lost with his trunk containing sailors' clothes and all
souvenirs and presents for family and friends by the carelessness
of a relative who took charge of his things at the wharf when he
landed in Boston in 1836. Later, while in the Law School, Mr. Dana
re-wrote this account from the notebook, which, fortunately, he
had not entrusted to the lost trunk. This account he read to his
father and Washington Allston, artist and poet, his uncle by
marriage. Both advised its publication and the manuscript was sent
to William Cullen Bryant, who had then moved to New York. Mr.
Bryant, after looking it over, took it to a prominent publisher of
his city, as the publishers at that time most able to give the
book a large sale. They offered to buy the book outright but
refused the author any share in the profits. The firm had
submitted the manuscript to Alonzo Potter, afterwards Bishop of
Pennsylvania, then acting as one of their readers. Bishop Potter,
meeting Dana in England years later, told him most emphatically
that he had advised the purchase at any price necessary to secure
it. The most, however, that the elder Dana and Bryant were able to
get from the publishers was $250, so that modest sum with two
dozen printed copies was all the author received at that time for
this most successful book. Incidentally, however, the publication
brought Mr. Dana law practice, especially among sailors, and was
an introduction to him not only in this country but in England.
Editions were published in Great Britain and France. Moxon, the
London publisher, sent Mr. Dana not only presentation copies but
as a voluntary honorarium, there being no international copyright
law at that time, a sum of money larger than the publisher gave
him for the manuscript. He also received kindly words of
appreciation from Rogers, Brougham, Moore, Bulwer, Dickens and
others, and fifteen years later his reputation secured him a large
social and literary reception in England in 1856. At last, in
1868, the original copyright expired and my father brought out the
``author's edition'' thoroughly revised and with many important
additions to the text including the ``Twenty-four Years After''
under a fair arrangement for percentage of sales with Fields,
Osgood and Co., the predecessors of the present publishers.

In reading the story of this Harvard College undergraduate's
experience, one should bear in mind, to appreciate the dangers of
his rounding the Cape, that the brig Pilgrim was only one hundred
and eighty tons burden and eighty-six feet and six inches long,
shorter on the water line than many of our summer-sailing sloop
and schooner yachts.

Richard Henry Dana.

[1] ``Richard Henry Dana, Jr.'' A Biography. By Charles Francis Adams.
In two volumes. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company.

[2] ``Speeches in Stirring Times and Letters to a Son.'' Richard Henry
Dana, Jr., with introduction and notes by Richard Henry Dana, 3rd.
In one volume. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company.

[3] Extracts from this book were chosen by the oculists of the
United States for use in testing eyes on account of its clearness
in style and freedom from long words.

CHAPTER I

The fourteenth of August[1] was the day fixed upon for the sailing
of the brig Pilgrim, on her voyage from Boston, round Cape Horn,
to the Western coast of North America. As she was to get under way
early in the afternoon, I made my appearance on board at twelve
o'clock, in full sea-rig, with my chest, containing an outfit for
a two or three years' voyage, which I had undertaken from a
determination to cure, if possible, by an entire change of life,
and by a long absence from books, with a plenty of hard work,
plain food, and open air, a weakness of the eyes, which had
obliged me to give up my studies, and which no medical aid seemed
likely to remedy.

The change from the tight frock-coat, silk cap, and kid gloves of
an undergraduate at Harvard, to the loose duck trousers, checked
shirt, and tarpaulin hat of a sailor, though somewhat of a
transformation, was soon made; and I supposed that I should pass
very well for a Jack tar. But it is impossible to deceive the
practised eye in these matters; and while I thought myself to be
looking as salt as Neptune himself, I was, no doubt, known for a
landsman by every one on board as soon as I hove in sight. A
sailor has a peculiar cut to his clothes, and a way of wearing
them which a green hand can never get. The trousers, tight round
the hips, and thence hanging long and loose round the feet, a
superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, well-varnished
black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a fathom of
black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a slip-tie to the
black silk neckerchief, with sundry other minutiae, are signs, the
want of which betrays the beginner at once. Besides the points in
my dress which were out of the way, doubtless my complexion and
hands were quite enough to distinguish me from the regular salt
who, with a sunburnt cheek, wide step, and rolling gait, swings
his bronzed and toughened hands athwart-ships, half opened, as
though just ready to grasp a rope.

``With all my imperfections on my head,'' I joined the crew, and
we hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night.
The next day we were employed in preparation for sea, reeving
studding-sail gear, crossing royal yards, putting on chafing gear,
and taking on board our powder. On the following night, I stood my
first watch. I remained awake nearly all the first part of the
night from fear that I might not hear when I was called; and when
I went on deck, so great were my ideas of the importance of my
trust, that I walked regularly fore and aft the whole length of
the vessel, looking out over the bows and taffrail at each turn,
and was not a little surprised at the coolness of the old seaman
whom I called to take my place, in stowing himself snugly away
under the long-boat for a nap. That was a sufficient lookout, he
thought, for a fine night, at anchor in a safe harbor.

The next morning was Saturday, and, a breeze having sprung up from
the southward, we took a pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and
began beating down the bay. I took leave of those of my friends
who came to see me off, and had barely opportunity for a last look
at the city and well-known objects, as no time is allowed on board
ship for sentiment. As we drew down into the lower harbor, we
found the wind ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to
anchor in the roads. We remained there through the day and a part
of the night. My watch began at eleven o'clock at night, and I
received orders to call the captain if the wind came out from the
westward. About midnight the wind became fair, and, having
summoned the captain, I was ordered to call all hands. How I
accomplished this, I do not know, but I am quite sure that I did
not give the true hoarse boatswain call of ``A-a-ll ha-a-a-nds !
up anchor, a-ho-oy!'' In a short time every one was in motion, the
sails loosed, the yards braced, and we began to heave up the
anchor, which was our last hold upon Yankee land. I could take but
small part in these preparations. My little knowledge of a vessel
was all at fault. Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and
so immediately executed; there was such a hurrying about, and such
an intermingling of strange cries and stranger actions, that I was
completely bewildered. There is not so helpless and pitiable an
object in the world as a landsman beginning a sailor's life. At
length those peculiar, long-drawn sounds which denote that the
crew are heaving at the windlass began, and in a few minutes we
were under way. The noise of the water thrown from the bows was
heard, the vessel leaned over from the damp night-breeze, and
rolled with the heavy groundswell, and we had actually begun our
long, long journey. This was literally bidding good night to my
native land.

[1] [In the year 1834.]

CHAPTER II

The first day we passed at sea was Sunday. As we were just from
port, and there was a great deal to be done on board, we were kept
at work all day, and at night the watches were set, and everything
was put into sea order. When we were called aft to be divided into
watches, I had a good specimen of the manner of a sea-captain.
After the division had been made, he gave a short characteristic
speech, walking the quarter-deck with a cigar in his mouth, and
dropping the words out between the puffs.

``Now, my men, we have begun a long voyage. If we get along well
together, we shall have a comfortable time; if we don't, we shall
have hell afloat. All you have got to do is to obey your orders,
and do your duty like men,-- then you will fare well enough; if
you don't, you will fare hard enough,-- I can tell you. If we pull
together, you will find me a clever fellow; if we don't, you will
find me a bloody rescal. That's all I've got to say. Go below, the
larboard[1] watch!''

I, being in the starboard or second mate's watch, had the
opportunity of keeping the first watch at sea. Stimson, a young
man making, like myself, his first voyage, was in the same watch,
and as he was the son of a professional man, and had been in a
merchant's counting-room in Boston, we found that we had some
acquaintances and topics in common. We talked these matters over--
Boston, what our friends were probably doing, our voyage, &c.--
until he went to take his turn at the lookout, and left me to
myself. I had now a good opportunity for reflection. I felt for
the first time the perfect silence of the sea. The officer was
walking the quarter-deck, where I had no right to go, one or two
men were talking on the forecastle, whom I had little inclination
to join, so that I was left open to the full impression of
everything about me. However much I was affected by the beauty of
the sea, the bright stars, and the clouds driven swiftly over
them, I could not but remember that I was separating myself from
all the social and intellectual enjoyments of life. Yet, strange
as it may seem, I did then and afterwards take pleasure in these
reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming insensible to
the value of what I was losing.

But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an order from the
officer to trim the yards, as the wind was getting ahead; and I
could plainly see by the looks the sailors occasionally cast to
windward, and by the dark clouds that were fast coming up, that we
had bad weather to prepare for, and I had heard the captain say
that he expected to be in the Gulf Stream by twelve o'clock. In a
few minutes eight bells were struck, the watch called, and we went
below. I now began to feel the first discomforts of a sailor's
life. The steerage, in which I lived, was filled with coils of
rigging, spare sails, old junk, and ship stores, which had not
been stowed away. Moreover, there had been no berths put up for us
to sleep in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to hang our
clothes upon. The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling
heavily, and everything was pitched about in grand confusion.
There was a complete ``hurrah's nest,'' as the sailors say,
``everything on top and nothing at hand.'' A large hawser had been
coiled away on my chest; my hats, boots, mattress, and blankets
had all fetched away and gone over to leeward, and were jammed and
broken under the boxes and coils of rigging. To crown all, we were
allowed no light to find anything with, and I was just beginning
to feel strong symptoms of sea-sickness, and that listlessness and
inactivity which accompany it. Giving up all attempts to collect
my things together, I lay down on the sails, expecting every
moment to hear the cry, ``All hands ahoy!'' which the approaching
storm would make necessary. I shortly heard the raindrops falling
on deck thick and fast, and the watch evidently had their hands
full of work, for I could hear the loud and repeated orders of the
mate, trampling of feet, creaking of the blocks, and all the
accompaniments of a coming storm. In a few minutes the slide of
the hatch was thrown back, which let down the noise and tumult of
the deck still louder, the cry of ``All hands ahoy! tumble up here
and take in sail,'' saluted our ears, and the hatch was quickly
shut again. When I got upon deck, a new scene and a new experience
was before me.

The little brig was close-hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as
it then seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The heavy head
sea was beating against her bows with the noise and force almost
of a sledgehammer, and flying over the deck, drenching us
completely through. The topsail halyards had been let go, and the
great sails were filling out and backing against the masts with a
noise like thunder; the wind was whistling through the rigging;
loose ropes were flying about; loud and, to me, unintelligible
orders constantly given, and rapidly executed; and the sailors
``singing out'' at the ropes in their hoarse and peculiar strains.

In addition to all this, I had not got my ``sea legs on,'' was
dreadfully sea-sick, with hardly strength enough to hold on to
anything, and it was ``pitch dark.'' This was my condition when I
was ordered aloft, for the first time, to reef topsails.

How I got along, I cannot now remember. I ``laid out'' on the
yards and held on with all my strength. I could not have been of
much service, for I remember having been sick several times before
I left the topsail yard, making wild vomits into the black night,
to leeward. Soon all was snug aloft, and we were again allowed to
go below. This I did not consider much of a favor, for the
confusion of everything below, and that inexpressible sickening
smell, caused by the shaking up of bilge water in the hold, made
the steerage but an indifferent refuge from the cold, wet decks. I
had often read of the nautical experiences of others, but I felt
as though there could be none worse than mine; for, in addition to
every other evil, I could not but remember that this was only the
first night of a two years' voyage. When we were on deck, we were
not much better off, for we were continually ordered about by the
officer, who said that it was good for us to be in motion. Yet
anything was better than the horrible state of things below. I
remember very well going to the hatchway and putting my head down,
when I was oppressed by nausea, and always being relieved
immediately. It was an effectual emetic.

This state of things continued for two days.

Wednesday, August 20th. We had the watch on deck from four till
eight, this morning. When we came on deck at four o'clock, we
found things much changed for the better. The sea and wind had
gone down, and the stars were out bright. I experienced a
corresponding change in my feelings, yet continued extremely weak
from my sickness. I stood in the waist on the weather side,
watching the gradual breaking of the day, and the first streaks of
the early light. Much has been said of the sunrise at sea; but it
will not compare with the sunrise on shore. It lacks the
accompaniments of the songs of birds, the awakening hum of
humanity, and the glancing of the first beams upon trees, hills,
spires, and house-tops, to give it life and spirit. There is no
scenery. But, although the actual rise of the sun at sea is not so
beautiful, yet nothing will compare for melancholy and dreariness
with the early breaking of day upon ``Old Ocean's gray and
melancholy waste.''

There is something in the first gray streaks stretching along the
eastern horizon and throwing an indistinct light upon the face of
the deep, which combines with the boundlessness and unknown depth
of the sea around, and gives one a feeling of loneliness, of
dread, and of melancholy foreboding, which nothing else in nature
can. This gradually passes away as the light grows brighter, and
when the sun comes up, the ordinary monotonous sea day begins.

From such reflections as these, I was aroused by the order from
the officer, ``Forward there! rig the headpump!'' I found that no
time was allowed for daydreaming, but that we must ``turn to'' at
the first light. Having called up the ``idlers,'' namely,
carpenter, cook, and steward, and rigged the pump, we began
washing down the decks. This operation, which is performed every
morning at sea, takes nearly two hours; and I had hardly strength
enough to get through it. After we had finished, swabbed down
decks, and coiled up the rigging, I sat on the spars, waiting for
seven bells, which was the signal for breakfast. The officer,
seeing my lazy posture, ordered me to slush the mainmast, from the
royal-mast-head down. The vessel was then rolling a little, and I
had taken no food for three days, so that I felt tempted to tell
him that I had rather wait till after breakfast; but I knew that I
must ``take the bull by the horns,'' and that if I showed any sign
of want of spirit or backwardness, I should be ruined at once. So
I took my bucket of grease and climbed up to the royal-mast-head.
Here the rocking of the vessel, which increases the higher you go
from the foot of the mast, which is the fulcrum of the lever, and
the smell of the grease, which offended my fastidious senses,
upset my stomach again, and I was not a little rejoiced when I had
finished my job and got upon the comparative terra firma of the
deck. In a few minutes seven bells were struck, the log hove, the
watch called, and we went to breakfast. Here I cannot but remember
the advice of the cook, a simple-hearted African. ``Now,'' says
he, ``my lad, you are well cleaned out; you haven't got a drop of
your 'long-shore swash aboard of you. You must begin on a new
tack,-- pitch all your sweetmeats overboard, and turn to upon good
hearty salt beef and ship bread, and I'll promise you, you'll have
your ribs well sheathed, and be as hearty as any of 'em, afore you
are up to the Horn.'' This would be good advice to give to
passengers, when they set their hearts on the little niceties
which they have laid in, in case of sea-sickness.

I cannot describe the change which half a pound of cold salt beef
and a biscuit or two produced in me. I was a new being. Having a
watch below until noon, so that I had some time to myself, I got a
huge piece of strong, cold salt beef from the cook, and kept
gnawing upon it until twelve o'clock. When we went on deck, I felt
somewhat like a man, and could begin to learn my sea duty with
considerable spirit. At about two o'clock, we heard the loud cry
of ``Sail ho!'' from aloft, and soon saw two sails to windward,
going directly athwart our hawse. This was the first time that I
had seen a sail at sea. I thought then, and have always since,
that no sight exceeds it in interest, and few in beauty. They
passed to leeward of us, and out of hailing distance; but the
captain could read the names on their sterns with the glass. They
were the ship Helen Mar, of New York, and the brig Mermaid, of
Boston. They were both steering westward, and were bound in for
our ``dear native land.''

Thursday, August 21st. This day the sun rose clear; we had a fine
wind, and everything was bright and cheerful. I had now got my sea
legs on, and was beginning to enter upon the regular duties of a
sea life. About six bells, that is, three o'clock P.M., we saw a
sail on our larboard bow. I was very desirous, like every new sailor,
to speak her. She came down to us, backed her main-top-sail, and the
two vessels stood ``head on,'' bowing and curveting at each other like
a couple of war-horses reined in by their riders. It was the first
vessel that I had seen near, and I was surprised to find how much
she rolled and pitched in so quiet a sea. She plunged her head into
the sea, and then, her stern settling gradually down, her huge bows
rose up, showing the bright copper, and her stem and breasthooks
dripping, like old Neptune's locks, with the brine. Her decks were
filled with passengers, who had come up at the cry of ``Sail ho!'' and
who, by their dress and features, appeared to be Swiss and French
emigrants. She hailed us at first in French, but receiving no answer,
she tried us in English. She was the ship La Carolina, from Havre,
for New York. We desired her to report the brig Pilgrim, from Boston,
for the northwest coast of America, five days out. She then filled
away and left us to plough on through our waste of waters.

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