Porter’s imagination soared when he thought of what he could accomplish in the Pacific. Wreaking havoc on Britain’s whaling fleet would significantly impact her economy. Whalers were so important that the Royal Navy was forbidden to impress men out of them. The British were not expecting the Essex in the Pacific. Porter could surprise their whaling fleet before word of his presence reached Admiral Dixon.
Given all these factors, Porter made the final decision to proceed to the Pacific. He wrote later to Bainbridge explaining his thinking:
[At St. Catherine’s] I obtained intelligence of your action with a British frigate, and of the capture of the Hornet, of a considerable augmentation of the British force on the coasts of Brazil, and so no hopes of being able to join you except at the last appointed rendezvous and there my stock of provisions would not admit of my going to cruise . . . , to go elsewhere than to the places appointed would be a departure from your instructions and as it now became necessary for me to act discretionary I determined to proceed to the nearest port that would render my supplies certain and at the same time put it out of the power of the enemy to blockade me and thus be enabled to extend my cruise.
Porter claimed that he had no idea where to find Bainbridge at this point. The only realistic way to extend his cruise, he insisted, was to go into the Pacific. Supplies could be obtained at the Chilean ports of Concepción and Valparaiso, and conceivably from enemy whalers, or from privateers—or even from warships. No other course was open to him, he argued, but doubling the Horn. “There appeared no other choice left for me,” he wrote, “except capture, starvation, or blockade.”
Porter understood well the disadvantages he was operating under. The possible disasters were innumerable, but instead of deterring him, the challenge only stirred his ambition. He ignored for the moment the Essex’s battery of carronades and how inadequate they would be in a fight with a British frigate. He knew the Admiralty would be coming after him, especially if he had any success. He welcomed London’s attention, but would the Essex be up to the task he was assigning her? The remarkable victories of American warships in the early months of the war had been due in large part to their superior gunnery. Porter would not have that advantage. He could only be successful if he closed with an enemy, blasted away with his carronades, and boarded. To do this he would have to rely on the witless behavior of British captains, something they were not noted for, although, of course, the Royal Navy had its incompetents. Nothing was going to deter Porter, however. He was too close to realizing his dream. So he put aside the risks, thought only of what might be accomplished, and pressed on.
He convinced himself that the Essex could reach Concepción in no more than two and a half months. He could buy jerk beef, fish, fowl, and wine there—and probably a lot more. He also thought there was a good chance of obtaining supplies from captured whalers and privateers, which would allow him to avoid Concepción or any other Spanish port and keep his presence in the eastern Pacific a secret for as long as possible.
CHAPTER
8
DOUBLING CAPE HORN
AND SO THE FATEFUL DECISION TO DOUBLE CAPE HORN (2,500 miles south of St. Catharine’s) and sail into the Pacific was made. Porter did not reveal his intentions to the crew right away, but some of the men had been around the Horn before, and when they saw the ship heading south, they sensed where the captain was going. Word got around quickly. Dreams of fat prizes and Polynesian women aroused every imagination.
The rigors of Cape Horn still lay ahead, however. The Essex would be the first American warship to double the Horn. Of course, it was a little ridiculous bragging about being the first American warship when European—especially Spanish—ships had been plying the Pacific for centuries. And American whalers and sealers had been in the eastern Pacific for years, going back to the 1780’s. It was an American sealer, the Topaz (Captain Mayhew Folger), for instance, that rediscovered Pitcairn Island in February 1808 and answered the question of what had happened to Fletcher Christian, his mutinous comrades, and HMS Bounty.
As the Essex plowed south, the temperature dropped steadily. Storms and generally poor weather plagued the crew. The cold began to be a problem. Woolen clothing that Porter had thoughtfully brought aboard was now a necessity, and blankets were needed at night.
On January 28, the Essex reached latitude 34° 58’ 09” south and longitude 51° 11’ 37” west. Porter began preparing for the passage around the Horn. He unbent and put below all the light sails (sky-sails, royal studding-sails, and other sails that were fit only for tropical weather). He also ordered the royal-masts and rigging sent down; unreaved all the running rigging that was not absolutely necessary; sent every heavy article out of the tops; and diminished the weight aloft in every way he could. All the shot went below, except for six to each gun on the gun deck, and he removed the guns from the extremities to amidships, set up the main rigging, and bent the storm-stay-sails.
From January 28 to February 2, 1813, the weather was unsettled and wintry, but the crew remained in good spirits. Porter was more than a little pleased with their health. His strict health regimen was working exceptionally well. The ship was now three months into her voyage, and the crew had had but seven days in port, yet no sign of the dreaded scurvy had appeared.
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.
The Shining Sea Page 11
