A Clipper Ship and Her Commander

THE years 1850-55 were the romantic period of the United States Commercial Marine. It was before the days of cables or of transcontinental railroads or of inter-ocean canals. Iron was but little used in marine constructions, and steam vessels were employed mainly in coast-wise service. The discovery of gold in California in 1849, and in Australià in 1851, created a demand for vessels of increased size and strength, and, especially, speed. There was a rapid evolution in shipbuilding to meet these requirements, resulting in the famous extreme clippers which greatly abridged the long passages around “the Capes,” — especially important for passengers and mails, —made our country renowned for nautical achievements, and created a general public interest and excitement similar to that shown over the present International yacht-racing. There are many living who can recall the enthusiasm with which were greeted the exploits of the Flying Cloud, the Hurricane, the Sea Serpent, the Sovereign of the Seas, the Nightingale, the Flying Fish, the Westward Ho, the Comet, the Lightning, the British Challenger, and others of similar class.

My purpose is to tell the story of a passage in the Nightingale. She was an extreme clipper, built at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1850, by a Swedish count, for exhibition at the World’s Fair, in London, in 1851, and named the Nightingale in honor of his countrywoman, Jenny Lind, then in the zenith of her fame; and the figurehead was a finely carved bust of Jenny Lind, an admirable likeness.

In the construction of the Nightingale only the best materials were used, — live oak and locust and hard pine. In port she wore mahogany belaying pins in her rails, which were replaced at sea by stouter oak. Her rigging was capped with brass, highly polished; her rail was finely carved and gilded; her cabin was finished in mahogany and satinwood; her rigging was a-taunto, and her decks were holystoned, as on a man-of-war. At sea she was equipped with all canvas possible to be carried; including skysails, staysails, outer jibs, and stun’sails in successive suits. In all waters, as she lay in port, she was the object of frequent inspection and admiration. She sat the water like a duck. I remember in London showing Dickie Green over her, clear to her keelson, with a lantern, and the comments he made on her speed. He owned three hundred ships afloat in all waters, and used to say every morning that he did not care which way the wind blew — it was fair for some of his boats.

Her first voyage was on the famous “tea and silk” course, between Shanghai and London, then employing the fastest ships afloat; and a race was arranged between her and the British clipper Challenger, from Shanghai to London, stakes of two thousand pounds being placed by their respective owners on the result. The Nightingale was defeated, and her commander, chagrined at the result, and being somewhat in years, resigned, leaving the ship in London Docks, in charge of the chief officer, and took a Cunarder home. The owners of the Nightingale, Messrs. Sampson and Tappan, Boston, made light of the pecuniary loss, but greatly deplored the lowering of the flag, and immediately arranged another race, for similar stakes, between the same vessels, over the same course. After consultation with Commodore R. B. Forbes and other leading shipowners, Captain Samuel W. Mather — trained and rapidly advanced by Commodore Forbes, who greatly appreciated him,— then about twenty-nine years of age, of New England birth, and familiar with the China seas, was chosen to command her. Her passage out from London to Angier Point, Java, at the mouth of the China Sea, was by far the fastest ever made. On her return from Shanghai, over the contested course, she beat the Challenger to the English Channel by more than a week. The international maritime competition, now pursued in sport, was then conducted in sober earnest by the largest, fastest merchantmen, along business lines, for nautical supremacy for commercial advantages.

In the spring of 1853 the Nightingale, still commanded by Captain Mather, because of her speed and general record was chartered by the Australian Pioneer Line, R. W. Cameron and Co., to carry mails, passengers, and freights to Melbourne, with the understanding that she was to proceed from there to China ports, where she would load with tea and silk for London. The gold fever in Australia was reaching its height, and the Nightingale’s accommodations were speedily taken.

Lieutenant Maury, then in charge of the Hydrographic Bureau, Washington, had projected his “great circle” theory for shortening the Australian passage. The Cape of Good Hope lies in latitude about 35° south, and for generations the China traders, in doubling the Cape, had done so between parallels 37° and 40°. Here the winds and currents are light and baffling, from the east, making the China passage to the eastward proverbially long. Melbourne lies in about 37° south, and it was natural for the Australian traders, in establishing their routes, to do so in the old China “lane,” between 37° and 40°, meeting adverse winds and tides while doubling the Cape.

Before the Nightingale’s passage, the shortest time made by any vessel under canvas, from any Atlantic port to Australia, was over ninety days, and steamers averaged over seventy. Lieutenant Maury said that that was all wrong; that the true way to reach Australia was to keep clear of the African coast, avoid “the Cape,” and make at once for high latitudes, — say, parallels 55° to 60° south; that there the mariner would find strong counter currents of both wind and water, the meridians of longitude short, and instead of delay from light and baffling easterly winds and currents, he would be borne swiftly along by strong, steady westerly winds and currents till he reached the meridians of Australia, and then could make his latitude to Hobson Bay. In short, “the longest way round was the shortest way there. ” It seems surprising now that, from the very scant materials then available, Lieutenant Maury should have so accurately and confidently laid out his “great circle” route and predicted its success. Only three vessels, I believe, had left any record of passage reaching above 50° south, prior to our time. Commander Wilkes’s expedition had made one, and so, also, had one German and one Frenchman, but the materials furnished by them toward any solution of the problem were very slight. Lieutenant Maury and the Department were very solicitous to have the route tried, and they enlisted the Nightingale in the undertaking. Lieutenant Maury personally solicited Captain Mather to try his “great circle” route, and offered him all his works and maps, and the government nautical literature, to aid him in making the projected passage.

The Nightingale left New York harbor, May 19, 1853, with twenty first-class passengers besides myself, over one hundred second-class, mails, and freights of every commodity required by a pioneer civilization, provisions of all kinds, wheelbarrows, wagons, shovels, hoes, clothing, and nearly every kind of general merchandise. She was officered by as able, experienced men in their respective ranks as ever trod a deck. Her captain was considered, by shipowners at least, to have no superior in his profession. The chief officer, who had been in command formerly on other ships, was much older than the captain, had seen much service, and was a typical “sea dog.” The other officers were of similar ability and record. She carried a very full crew. We followed Lieutenant Maury’s instructions literally, — avoided the African coast and “the Cape,” — and made at once for high latitudes, till we reached parallel 57° south. We were seriously delayed by calms and baffling winds about “the line.” After we crossed the 45th parallel south, there was a perceptibly stronger wind and current from the west, and after crossing the 50th these greatly increased in strength. At this point, with the temerity of the ship that carried the Ancient Mariner, we plunged into unknown seas, but his epithet “silent” could not be applied to them. On the contrary, to an imaginative mind, the billows, perilous and unexplored as those which menaced Vasco da Gama when he essayed to round southernmost Africa, well might seem to lift up a foreboding voice, and, like the Spirit of the Cape which rose between sea and sky to warn the Adventurer back, to call on us to return.

But, in our case, “unseen hands were pushing us behind,” and after crossing the 55th parallel, and all the time we were above it, we had a gale of wind, and a current that alone, as we estimated, sent us ahead at the rate of six knots an hour. The 4th of July I wore a heavy watch-coat and boots; the snow fell on an average over one foot in depth; the air was filled with sleet and snow; the atmosphere was gray, the horizon close, the wind blowing a gale, but steady for days. We carried only the three “ courses ” and three topsails, the main topgallant sail, spanker, and inner jib. Our speed was terrific. By patent log and reckoning both, we made over sixteen knots — twenty statute miles — an hour, — a mile in three minutes, under short sail.

At an earlier stage of the passage the crew had generally surmised and said that the captain, so young, and looking even younger than he was, must have married the owner’s daughter, or he would never have been given, at so early an age, so fine and important a command; but the owners had been prudent enough to surround him with some old sea dogs, for safety.

In parallel 57°, in the dog-watch, four to six p. M., when the chief officer came on deck to relieve the second officer, he swiftly cast his eye toward the horizon in the direction of the wind, then at the struggling canvas, and particularly at the main topgallant sail, which threatened every minute to blow away. As nautical etiquette forbids the officer in charge to alter canvas when the captain is on deck, without his command or consent, the chief officer, after his hurried survey, said, “Captain Mather, that main topgallant sail is laboring very hard.” “It is drawing well, — let it stand, Mr. Bartlett,” was the reply. At six o’clock, when the second officer in turn relieved the first, he also gave a rapid glance about, and said, “Captain Mather, that main topgallant sail is struggling hard.” “It holds a good full, let it stand, Mr. McFarland,” was the reply. Even the old sea dogs among the crew begged the petty officers to send them up to take in sail, while it was held safe to do so. As the helmsman turned his wheel, every turn of a spoke would make the ship jump in the water like a frightened bird. Men were stationed at every belaying pin, holding halyards and clew lines by a single turn “under and over,” ready to let go and clew up, at a signal. We were making a record passage, and sail was to be carried to the last minute, the utmost the ship could bear, while every exigence of storm was anticipated. Later in the evening the captain could not help asking if the crew still thought that he had married the owner’s daughter. Captain Mather illustrated then, as always, a quality of mind usually exhibited by those who succeed in almost any direction, — an extreme daring and extreme caution running parallel.

The weird atmosphere of such a situation, especially at night, is difficult to be imagined or described. In July to be clad as in the cold of midwinter; to look out on the steel-gray air, thick with sleet or blinding snow; to look up to a starless sky; to feel shut in by a closely circumscribed dome and horizon; to watch the huge racing waves furiously shaking out their foam and spray; to feel the steady on-bearing impact of the swift rushing current, hurrying unobstructedly like a resistless fate, wide round the globe; to be dinned by the incessant roar of the sustained gale; to see, but not hear, the night-watch, muffled against the rigor of the cold and storm, moving like ghosts; to hear the grinding roar of the cordage and the report like artillery of the bellying sail as it occasionally flapped; to feel the fierce, bodeful, almost human leap of the ship, as she answered to the shifting wheel; to realize that you are in unknown waters, on untried routes; that, in case of disaster, there is not the slightest chance for rescue, — these are sensations, once experienced, never to be forgotten.

On approaching Australian meridians of longitude we changed our course to north by easterly, heading for Cape Otway, which, on the south shore of Australia, a little west of Hobson Bay, corresponds to Melbourne harbor about as Fire Island does to New York harbor. As we emerged from the region of gloom and storm, we ran into longer days, clearer skies, and balmy air, — till we had been out about seventy-five days, — when, at nine o’clock one evening, the captain came down to his cabin, where I happened to be. He seemed in a brown study. Soon he blew his silver call for his boy, and told him to call Mr. McFarland, who was to have the second long watch, twelve to four o’clock, from midnight. When he came, the captain said to him, “Mr. McFarland, I wish to be called at twelve o’clock to-night, — I expect to make Cape Otway Light.” It did not vary three minutes from twelve o’clock, chronometer time, when McFarland knocked at the captain’s door, and said, “Captain Mather, revolving light two points on port bow.” We both rushed on deck, and there was Cape Otway Light, first light, then dark, — and our passage was virtually over.

We had not seen land since we left Sandy Hook, had sailed over twenty-five thousand “sailing miles,” over unknown waters, and made our objective point within three minutes of the calculated time. This was only one of many routes pioneered and shortened by the Nightingale, and I have been told by most distinguished naval officers that the routes of the Nightingale are considered classic in the United States Navy, and are now generally adopted for sailing vessels.

From Cape Otway to Hobson Bay was a short run, and we were soon in Melbourne harbor. There were then no docks or wharves at which ocean vessels could land, and we anchored some four or five miles out, forming part of a large fleet of various nationalities swinging at anchor. Our unprecedented passage, over such an unusual route, created great excitement. There was hardly more in New York city on the first successful laying of the Atlantic Cable. The time for passengers and mails from the United States had been reduced from ninety-two days to seventy-five, and our captain was fêted by leading officials and merchants. Except for the delays at the Equator, our time would have been well below seventy days. We had hardly anchored when the entire crew, unable to get ashore as planned, refused duty, mutinied. They had shipped to get a free-paid passage to the gold fields, and their chagrin and anger were great on finding their plans baffled.

Our signal was swiftly raised for the captain of the harbor police, who at once came on board, and learning the situation, summoned the official police tugs, which steamed alongside, and removed the crew to the prison hulks in the harbor, — the only prisons or places of confinement, I believe, which the city then afforded. The ship was then put in the hands of stevedores. Our only means of communication with the shore was by our own small boats. The captain’s gig of the Nightingale soon became known as the fastest boat in the harbor. With six oars — steered by a coxswain — she fairly flew. As I was the youngest, — a boy in the teens, — and the lightest in weight, the tiller was usually given to me, and I remember few more exhilarating experiences than those “pulls” between the Nightingale and the Melbourne shores.

The rude piers were thronged by people of more different nationalities than I have elsewhere seen in any one locality, and the confusion of tongues would have done credit to Babel itself. Not only men from the various European countries were gathered there, but Turks, Greeks, Chinese, East Indians, Malaccese, in varied, picturesque costumes. Melbourne was then very quaint and primitive. I used frequently to go up to the city, passing through “Canvas City” —a city of tents only — on the way, and I recall that I used to pay a dollar and a quarter for a chop and a cup of coffee, very poor and poorly served. The city proper was built mainly in low brick constructions. I do not recall any building of more than two stories in height; nor any, unless two or three public buildings, that in our country would have cost ten thousand dollars. The air was fine, and dry even in the harbor. The activity and excitement generally were characteristic of mining enterprises.

After we were discharged and ballasted with stone, we ran up the signal again for the harbor police. The captain of the police came aboard, and when he learned that he was summoned to return our crew, he remonstrated kindly, but seriously, with the captain. He said, “I beg you, Captain Mather, not to persist in your demand. I have never seen men so angry, bitter, revengeful; — they say, and I believe, that they will never turn to; more than that, they threaten to kill you if compelled to sail.” The only reply was, “I want my men; they shipped for the voyage to Australia, China, Europe, and return.” To the further earnest protest of the police captain, Captain Mather simply repeated, “I want my men; they are good sailors; I cannot replace them here except at exorbitant rates, and perhaps not at all. I want my men.” To the renewed predictions of danger the answer was the same: “I want my men; I will take the risk of my life, and I will risk my ship, — you command the harbor police — I want my men.” Seeing that more parley was useless, the police captain sent the men from “the hulks,” under charge of the police. They came on board in irons; sullen, angry, bitter. The police captain said: “Here are your men, Captain Mather; what will you do now ?” “Fly the signal for the tugs, Mr. Bartlett,” was the only response. The tugs came up and took our hawsers. The anchor was raised, a few light kites were unfurled and set, and we were under way for the port of Hong Kong, through the Indian Pacific and the Bashee Channel — separating Luzon from Formosa.

It was a gloomy prospect, putting to sea with a crew in irons. I asked the captain, “Are you really determined to leave harbor, and put out to sea, in this condition ?” “Yes,”was the answer. “What will you do when we get outside?” “Wait till we get three leagues from land, outside British jurisdiction, and see.” The tugs took us outside, and soon the headlands of Hobson Bay were disappearing from sight. Fortunately, a few of the men, finding themselves in open sea and in danger, turned to before getting actually out of sight of land, and in two or three days they were joined by a majority of the crew. In less than a week all but one had returned to duty. One man remained in irons, in confinement between decks, till we reached Hong Kong, where he was handed over to the authorities. After the men had reported for duty, I asked the captain what he would have done if the men had held out. He said, “It would have been mutiny, and probably I should not have had to shoot more than one or two; then the rest would have turned to.”

As we reached the northeastern coast of Australia, the phosphorescent effects were wonderful, especially at night. I used to read without difficulty at twelve o’clock midnight, on deck, any ordinary type, unaided by artificial light. From nine to twelve at night we used to play checkers on deck, till sometimes it seemed as if I moved the men in my sleep. Our wake was a broad band of burnished gold, clear to the horizon. I would hang over the bow to watch the golden spangles as they were thrown up by the ship’s bow, as she met and parted the waves; and every wave-cap, over all the broad plain of waters, was a diamond point.

After leaving the Australian coast we were in smooth seas and light steady breezes, carrying a cloud of sail — the three “courses,” spanker, staysails and jibs, the three topsails, topgallant sails, royals and skysails and stun’sails — alow and aloft. The Nightingale was more like a bird in the air than like a craft afloat. We had only one sharp squall on this passage, and I do not recall a finer sight than watching the captain as he stripped his ship, while he stood on the weather side of the quarter deck, holding with one hand to the mizzen rigging, sweeping with rapid glance the ship, each sail, the furious seas, and driving blasts. His commands were given in swift succession; the helm was shifted at his word; the sails seemed to furl as birds close their wings, while now and then he was blown out, off his feet, horizontally, like a ribbon, still holding by a firm grasp with a single hand to the rigging. With the exception of this squall, our entire passage of nearly forty days was over smooth seas and with steady light winds, making about six knots an hour; floating lazily by day under skies of ever deepening blue; at night, beneath moon and stars of dazzling brilliancy, over seas of burnished gold. We soon reached the Caroline group, and the captain, with characteristic initiative, determined to pioneer a new route between the islands, where, according to the charts, navigable channels ran. During the day, as we neared the islands, we were surrounded by small boats with outriggings — smaller boats suspended from levers extending ten to twelve feet from the main boat, on each of which a man rode to balance the narrow craft. The boats were filled with natives of both sexes, clad only with a tight cloth about the waist. I do not believe that finer forms were ever seen, — such pictures of health, vigor, and alertness. They had fishing tackle, and a variety of fruits and vegetables and of works in coral. Their talk was a peculiar guttural, like the quack-quack of the Malays. They made signs to be taken on board and to trade, but we concluded to keep on and not to let them board us.

At eleven o’clock at night, while the captain and myself were engaged on deck in our usual game, the second officer, Mr. McFarland, came up excitedly, and said, “Captain Mather, there are breakers ahead.” The islands had been visible for a day or so, and now were not far distant on either hand. We went to the bow, and looked and listened. The roar of the breakers was as audible as that of the surf on the south shore of Long Island. The night was clear, and the light of the moon and the stars was brilliant. The wind had almost died away, the canvas was full spread; the sails hanging idly, occasionally flapping. We soon found that a very strong current was setting us in rapidly toward the breakers, and that the wind wholly failed to help us counter it. We at once equipped two large boats with stun’sail halyards for tow lines, manned the boats with six oarsmen each, and lowered them from the davits. They instantly took hold of the ship, and the twelve oars were vigorously pulled. With the utmost exertion of the oarsmen for hours, the ship only swung round, head on to the current, and the men could barely hold the ship steady. With the aid of the glass we saw thousands of natives at points on the shores, evidently waiting for our approach, and expecting disaster. They were reputed to be cannibals, and our chances were discussed with considerable interest. The captain, then in reduced flesh, assured the chief officer, unusually plump and fleshy, that he (the chief officer) would be roasted and carved first, and that he (the captain) would be kept a while at least till they could fatten him. We generously passed down good Jamaica rum to the oarsmen and encouraged every exertion. After several hours of toil and tension, a breeze — a blessed breeze, a favoring breeze — sprang up, filled our sails, and enabled us to claw off, and slowly round the southern islands of the group.

Some thirty days had passed before we sighted Luzon, the northernmost island of the Philippines, and the Bashee Islands, through which we sailed into the China Sea. We soon made the Limoon Channel, and sailing through it was gliding through fairyland. The bold, wooded, mountainous shores, opened up by the tortuous channel, afforded continuous surprises, and, as we came from open sea, a bewilderingly magnificent prospect. Our pilot was a Chinaman in full Chinese costume, wearing his pigtail; and to hear and see him give orders on such a craft, to such experienced seamen, was a novel experience. The port and city of Hong Kong are too widely known to justify detailed description. Its selection and seizure were characteristic of English sagacity and not excessive scrupulousness, when, as William Black says, “England was young and healthy. If she wanted anything she simply took it. Now she is getting old and nervous, and asking if this is right.”

It was a far cry from Melbourne to Hong Kong in 1853-54,— somewhat like going in earlier days from Omaha or Denver to Boston. Hong Kong was the most highly developed of all British foreign ports. The fleet at anchor was unusually numerous, and represented the finest ships of the commercial marine of all civilized nations. It was the port of entry, and of distribution, which brought to it the “racers” of all nationalities, to draw the prizes on the famous tea and silk routes. The army was well represented; so was the navy. Hong Kong’s bishops were palatially housed; the Chinese service was silent, efficient, and automatic. The foreign captains, every day in fresh white linen suits, the brilliant uniforms of army and navy, the picturesque native costumes, all presented an animated spectacle.

Orders arrived at Hong Kong, after several weeks’ delay, for the Nightingale to proceed to Whampoa and take a cargo of Chinese merchandise from there to Shanghai; and accordingly we sailed for that port. Whampoa is about thirty miles below Canton, and is really the port of entry for the latter city, — the nearest approach that commercial vessels can make to Canton. Our comprador kept us supplied with choice fruits, fine vegetables, and rare flowers. There I first learned the great difference in quality and flavor between tropical fruits served in northern climates and those served in the climate where such fruits are raised and ripened. We were always surrounded by acres of “sampans,” — small squarebowed boats, with bamboo-arched coverings that telescoped into one another, expanding or contracting the roof as desired. On these large boats families lived the year round. I soon observed that among the multitude of children playing on and about the boat practically one half wore gourds upon their backs between the shoulders and secured by bands. I asked one of the laundresses, who came on board frequently, why the distinction was made. She answered that those who did not wear gourds were girls; those who did were boys; thus the latter could be rescued when they fell overboard. The girls were not considered worth the trouble.

One early morning I joined a party of American captains, who were invited to make the trip to Canton on a small United States steamer, the Tiger, in command of Lieutenant Perry, a son of Commodore Perry, as I remember. We sailed between miles of boats, lining the banks, occupied by whole families, often from birth to death, who seldom went ashore, and then only to exchange fish for tea and dungaree. On landing at about eight A. M. we went to the factory of Nye Brothers and Co., and found Mr. Gideon Nye, Jr., in his counting-room, which was fitted up like a room in a palace. There were eighteen of us, and we had hardly entered before a Chinese servant appeared, silently ran his eye over the company, apparently counting us, and disappeared. In about thirty minutes he returned and announced that breakfast was ready, and led the party to one of the most elegantly furnished rooms and one of the best appointed tables that it has been my lot to see. No inquiry had been made whether we had had breakfast, and no invitation to one had been extended. On the whole, among all the men I have met in many lands and in various stations in life, Mr. Gideon Nye, Jr., remains in my memory as one of the most finished, yet natural, native gentlemen I have ever known. He was a counting-room king.

We loaded at Whampoa with a miscellaneous cargo, largely of raw sugar, for Shanghai, and took a number of native Chinese merchants as passengers. It seemed strange to see Chinamen wearing the heaviest, costliest furs, and attended by a retinue of servants, one in each retinue kept constantly employed in preparing opium for his master, and manipulating a small piece for hours.

Our experience at Shanghai rectified our ideas as to the climate of China. I had supposed it was generally warm all through China, but I never suffered more from cold than at Shanghai. Our first point of approach was Woosung, corresponding to Shanghai much as Whampoa does to Canton. At Shanghai, after discharging, we loaded with tea and silk for London. We made a fast passage through the China Sea to Angier Point, then the western extremity of the island of Java, which extremity was afterward submerged by submarine seismic action. Angier Point was the last place we touched at,— the last port made either going from China or sailing to it. There mails were left, supplies of fresh provisions taken, and reports entered by each ship, —its name, commander, destination, where from, and date of entry. Angier Point was the most luxuriously tropical land in verdure and in display of fruits, flowers, and bird life I have ever seen. There was no road, not even a beaten path; the rank growth of grass defeating the attempt to make one. The grass reached nearly to the shoulders, and to thrid it was like walking through a field of high grain. The orange trees were at once in blossom and ripened fruit; the bananas hung in huge clusters; the tall cocoa palms bore large cocoanuts, which the monkeys threw about. On the branches of the trees were perched cockatoos, Java sparrows, and birds of the most brilliant plumage in countless numbers, and the monkeys jabbered and gamboled, but the climate was deadly. The Dutch maintained a large fort there, but it was garrisoned only by native troops gathered from Sumatra, China, and on the island. Two or three Dutch officers were kept there, and they were relieved every few months. I saw one of the officers, but he looked more coffee-colored than even the natives.

We doubled the Cape of Good Hope on our return, between latitudes 37° and 40°, to catch the light but favoring easterly current and breeze. Off Lagullas Banks, southeast of the Cape, we were caught in a tremendous gale, and were hove to for nearly twenty-four hours. The sea pounded us mercilessly, the shallow waters there affording a leverage for seas of unusual height and severity. In writing up the log, the captain held himself firmly to the cabin table with his left hand, while he wrote with his right. I gripped the table opposite him with my left hand, while I held the inkstand in my right, shifting its level to suit the motion of the ship; otherwise the ink would have been thrown out and spilled over the cabin. I suppose my face must have expressed some annoyance, which the captain noticed,as he said: “A great deal better than a calm, Mr. Frank, a great deal better than a calm,”

It is more of a science than is commonly supposed to conquer currents and storms. Many a ship is never heard from simply because she was hove to on the wrong tack, — against, instead of with, the cyclonic wind currents. It is the nautical genius utilizing nautical science that differentiates the thoroughbred from the ordinary commander, who lumbers along and occasionally loses his ship. Captain Mather had an unusually full library of nautical literature, of which Reid’s Law of Storms was most frequently consulted. He was well read in all of Maury’s very extensive nautical literature. Maury’s works greatly interested me, and I am firmly of the opinion that no other man has ever so subtly explored, and so accurately, sympathetically, and interestingly reported, the mystery of the sea.

The sight of St. Mary’s Island, the most southeasterly of the Azores, with its mountain shapes rich with verdure,—the red-tiled roofs, — the indented shores, — broke with a charm upon eyes long fasting for a sight of land. It is a unique experience sighting islands at sea from a sailing vessel, particularly in or near tropical latitudes. First, the loom of the land, — the appearance of land, projected by refraction into the sky, — then the land itself, gradually enlarging in area, and continuously disclosing fresh allurement. First “sighting a sail” is an occasion of great interest, the bare tip of the mainmast, less in height than the length of a walking-stick, slowly rising, showing one sail after another, till finally the whole hull is raised.

Soon we were in London, among the clipper queens. But I must not spin this yarn longer. A ship has a history, and many a history that would make a thrilling story. The Nightingale was sold to Nye Brothers and Co., Canton, under whose ownership Captain Mather continued in command. During one of her passages to New York from Shanghai the firm became embarrassed. The daily papers, brought on board by the pilot, published the fact. The captain anchored off Staten Island, in the waters of Richmond County. The ship was hardly anchored before the officers of the law had libeled her and her cargo for one million of dollars. Unfortunately for the first comers, the processes had been made out for the County of New York. The late comers, observing this, had libeled the ship as in Richmond County; the first were last, the last first. After lying two or three days at anchor, the impatient officers who had domiciled themselves on board, and the more impatient counsel whom they represented, inquired of the captain why he delayed and when he proposed to weigh anchor. The captain replied: “The laws secure every man, except the master, the payment of his just dues. I am not secured, but I am very comfortable here, and expect to remain quite a while.” “Well, then, captain, we shall have to try to make you take the ship up,” they rejoined. “That is just what I would like to see tried,” was the captain’s reply. “My voyage is not up; not only marshals and judges are powerless, but if the President of the United States were to presume to come on board and give orders, he would be passed swiftly over the ship’s side.” As interest, costs, and expenses were running rapidly, the captain was invited to make out his account, and was paid in gold. The voyage was resumed, and in a few hours the Nightingale was alongside her pier in New York city.

The Nightingale, so famous for speed, was purchased by parties who engaged in the slave trade. When the civil war broke out, she was taken by the navy for government use. I wonder where she is now, if still afloat, and what she is doing.

The career of her commander was renowned. When the civil war broke out in ’61, the Union Defense Committee, consisting of the leading merchants, capitalists, and other eminent citizens in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, and organized as auxiliary to the navy in its then helpless condition, concerned themselves with selecting and suggesting to the government the ablest men as commanders, and the most desirable craft available. The first name sent up by the committee was that of Captain Mather, then in his thirty-sixth year, and he was the first man commissioned by the Department. The first vessel, the steamship Quaker City, noted for speed and strength, was taken from the Havana line, and included in Commodore Stringham’s squadron blockading Chesapeake Bay. Captain Mather was placed in command of her, and in spite of much jealousy, retained it for about one year, in which time the number of captures of the Quaker City, I am informed, exceeded those of any other vessel. The captain was transferred at his request to active service, under Commodore Dupont. While under detail to the coast of Florida — landing with a party of marines — he was shot with three balls, and instantly killed, in March, ’62, before one of the Confederate forts near Fernandina. He was reported to have slain many men before he fell, and the traditions of his courage remain to this day. His body and accoutrements were returned by the Confederates under a flag of truce, with honor, as they said, because he had fought them so bravely. Commodore Dupont wrote me a long personal letter of eulogy of him and affection for him. Secretary Welles, in his general orders, among other strong expressions of commendation, said, “Captain Mather had no superior among those patriotic commanders who have been transferred to the Navy from the Mercantile Marine.”