In Lloyds Register is recorded:—"Rocket, Bk. 384, 135, 25, 16.5, 1851, Medford, W.O., icf.," which being interpreted means, Bark Rocket, 384 tons, 135 feet long, 25 feet beam, 16½ feet depth of hold, built in 1851, at Medford, of white oak, with iron and copper fastenings. To which may be added, that she was a well known trader to the East Indies, being called in those ports "the green bark," on account of being painted a dark green, or what the painters style tea color. She was a good looking vessel, neatly finished about the decks, and the masts and yards were all scraped bright. The chief peculiarity was that she was narrow in proportion to her length, being compared by an old sailor to "a plank set on edge." This caused her to be reputed, and not undeservedly, a crank vessel, and many a gloomy croaker has uttered the foreboding that like her sister ship, the "Dauntless," she would go to sea sometime—never to return. Yet for many years she had gone and come, and though occasionally threatening to capsize, she had never really performed this undesirable manoeuvre. The builder and the subsequent owner were two of the most practical merchants of Boston. She must therefore have been well put together and properly cared for, as there was truth in the remark made, that "what Nat G——, and Dick B—— didn't know about a ship wasn't worth knowing."

The Rocket was lying at Central Wharf in Boston, loading a cargo for the East Indies. Barrels of beef, pork, tar and pitch were stowed in the bottom; then followed in miscellaneous order, lumber, sewing machines, kerosene oil, flour, biscuits, preserves, ice pitchers, carriages, oars and many other articles.

As the sailing day drew near, the important matter of choosing officers and crew had to be considered. The first person who applied was an aspirant to the mate's berth.

"How long have you been to sea?" was asked.

"Thirty years."

"Why! how old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"How do you make that out?"

"Oh, I was born and bred at sea."

He was thought to be too old a sailor for a young captain to manage, and was not engaged. Soon a young man applied, with more modest demeanor, and he was secured. The rest of the crew were soon picked out. Wishing to choose for myself who should sail with me for so many months, the shipping master was told to send on board any good men who applied to him, giving the preference to Norwegians and Swedes, these being, in my opinion, both in seamanship and docility, the best class of sailors that man our vessels. Germans and Scotchmen he was told to favor next, then Englishmen, and lastly Irishmen, for these, though often capital seamen, do not as readily as some others endure privations without grumbling, and are too strong republicans to be always submissive subjects of a despotic government such as that of shipboard. American sailors unfortunately are not often in the choice. They are soon promoted from the forecastle, if they enter it, or else after short service find they can do better on shore, than by leading a dog's life at sea.

One afternoon in September all the crew were mustered on board. Captain Jack Frost came alongside with his tug boat, and his cheery voice hailed, "Are you all ready, Cap.? Pass out your lines!" The owner said, "Good-by," and moving towards his yacht, added, "I'm going to give you a race down the harbor." The fasts were cast off, the bark was tugged out into the stream; then with topsails set before a strong nor'wester she showed the towboat the advisability of getting out of her way. We should have thought she was sailing fast, had not the yacht "Vesta" overtaken us, crossed our bow, and boomed away down Broad Sound, under jib and mainsail. Just inside of Boston light we rounded to and let the pilot get into the canoe from the station pilot boat; then, filling away, the course was shaped for Cape Cod and the voyage had begun. The anchors being secured, the top-gallantsails were loosed, and leaving all the accompanying fleet astern, away we sped, ten knots an hour, and in four hours passed the Race Light.

The crew numbered eight men and two boys before the mast, a cook, cabin boy, two mates and captain, fifteen all told, besides one passenger, a young gentleman travelling for health. Owing to the late hour in the day at which we sailed, the men had taken several parting glasses with their friends, and some were inclined to be troublesome. The officers managed judiciously and kept them quiet, but the mate remarked, he thought we had "a pretty hard crew." The watches were chosen and the port watch sent below at eight o'clock, in accordance with the old maxim "the master takes her out and the mate brings her home." By this rule the watch variously known as the second mate's, starboard, or captain's watch, takes eight hours on deck the first night outward bound, and the mate's, or port watch, does the same the first night of the homeward bound passage.

The wind had drawn more northerly, becoming rather "scant" for a course north of George's Shoal, so we squared away down South Channel. Being right before wind and sea, the bark, having a large proportion of her heavy cargo in the lower hold, began to roll most distressingly. She seemed to nearly dip each rail alternately in quick succession. As the night wore on it grew worse and worse, every drawer slid out in the state-rooms, the doors of lockers swung open, their contents got adrift, kegs of paint took to rolling, the turpentine-can upset, scenting the air, and the pantry floor showed a medley of tin ware, crockery, brooms, edibles and sundry "small stores" engaged in kaleidoscopic performances. After getting some of these things secured more firmly than had been possible in the haste of their reception, the weary skipper went to his bed, but not to sleep. The berth was fore-and-aft and he rolled from side to side with every motion. Then, in distraction, he removed to the transom sofa running 'thwartships across the cabin, and here he slipped up and down, standing now on his feet and then on his head. O, the miseries of that night! The close cabin, the smoky oil-lamp, the smell of turpentine and the quick, incessant motion created suggestions of sea sickness, even to a veteran mariner. The mind sympathized with the body, and thus the captain reflected:—"O, what a fool I am to go to sea, there are the beautiful home, the spacious rooms, the comfortable and steady bed, the beloved family circle. What have I done? Renounced them all for a year. For what? To be shut up in this dismal den, with a crowd of rude vagabonds, deprived of everything that makes life enjoyable, and visited with everything to make it miserable. Only let me set foot on shore again and you'll never catch me on board of a ship."

The morning light was welcome and George's Shoals being well cleared, the vessel's course was altered to the eastward, bringing the wind more on the side and steadying her movements. This is one of the pleasures of sea life, the cessation of motion. "Then are they glad because they be quiet." But as sea-life originates the evil, it deserves no credit for the temporary relief. The breeze moderated and we made easy progress, while the crew were busily at work stowing anchors and chains, putting on chafing gear, and making the various preparations for a long voyage. A pilot boat came under our stern to satisfy her curiosity as to our identity. As she disappeared, we felt that our last friend on American shores had left us, and we set our faces resolutely towards the regions beyond. The next day the weather became threatening. Though October had set in, no gale had yet occurred fit to be named "the equinoctial storm," therefore, one was considered due by all who believed in that old-fashioned institution. A gale did come, but its connection with the equinox was not clearly established. It blew fiercely enough, however, to deserve that respectable title, and forced the vessel to lie to under a close-reefed main-topsail, which finally had to be "goose-winged" (one side of it furled.) The mate went aloft himself to encourage the crew in braving the storm. For two hours it blew with almost hurricane violence, or as the mate expressed it, "a perfect screamer," and we began to fear we should not escape unharmed, as the seas were getting very "ugly." But the Rocket lay to safely and behaved splendidly. All night the wind held on with violence, but at day-break it began to moderate and we escaped with no other damage than splitting a jib and foretopmast staysail.

A gale of wind at night is a sublime, though fearful, scene. The ship plunges wildly in the darkness, and skies and waters are equally black, only relieved by the foaming crests of the mountain waves. But perhaps the most impressive feature is the music of the gale, nature's grand organ, or, if any prefer the simile, its bagpipe. The sub-bass of the storm, as it sweeps over the waves against the hull and through the lower rigging of the ship, forms the great volume of sound, and above, in constantly changing variety, come shrieks, screams, wailings and whistlings of every pitch and intensity, sounding from aloft as the wind drives through sheave-holes, against the small rigging, and into cracks in the spars. Few listen to these sounds without an impression of awe or even dread, and many a brave heart, which scarcely knows the meaning of the word fear, has felt a thrill and shudder as the discordant screams and howlings of the midnight gale unite with the roaring and dashing of the breaking waves.

For the next three days we tumbled about in the subsiding waves, and experienced the most unpleasant part of a storm, which is not positively dangerous. The excitement and touch of romance pertaining to the gale have gone. The disagreeable motion, as the ship, not steadied by the force of the wind, is tossed to and fro on the waves, which the gale leaves to testify of its vehemence, causes much discomfort. Then we "reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man and are at our wits end" how to maintain composure of mind, amidst so much bodily disquietude.

At the commencement of the voyage, I took the first opportunity to call the officers together on the poop-deck, and privately instruct them in my ideas of discipline.

This was the drift of my remarks:

For some years past I have made it a rule that there shall be no cursing or blows used or given on board of my ship. In saying this, I do not mean that I wish sailors to be allowed to do as they like, or that I do not wish good discipline maintained. I have sometimes had to reprove officers for cursing the men and throwing belaying pins at them, and they seemed to feel that I had curtailed their rights. With a vindictive spirit, disguised by an air of injured innocence, they then neglected their duty and made no effort to keep the crew in proper order, saying, "If the old man doesn't care, I'm sure I don't." Let me tell you my plan of keeping discipline.

When we start on a voyage the crew generally come on board more or less under the influence of liquor. Some of them are all ready for a fight and do their best to bring it on. If you choose to have a row, it is the easiest thing in the world to find opportunity for it, and you know how frequently the occasion is seized, and the ship's deck is stained with blood before she is clear of the land. Now at the start, I say, Shut your eyes and ears to instances of personal disrespect, and do not use force to exact the performance of duty, unless as a last resort when the interests of the ship positively require it. As soon as you can spare men from work, get into their bunks those who are so drunk as to be troublesome and let them sleep themselves sober. You will often, or indeed generally, find that these are the best "sailor men" in the ship. It was the rum that made the trouble, and I believe the only successful way of fighting rum is to attack it before it gets inside of men. Drunken men are more easily controlled than we think, but it requires tact to deal with them, and, above all, kindness. I had a sailor last voyage who was roaring about the deck, brimful of fight, using his insolence to gain a chance to work it off. I stepped up to him, and he straightened back to return the expected blow. To his evident surprise I just laid my hand upon his shoulder, and in a kind but decided tone said, "My man, you go to your bunk." He fired up, and said in a saucy way, "Do you mean to say I can't do my duty?" I replied, "We don't need you just now, you'll feel better after you've had a nap, and we will call you to turn to just as soon as we want you." "All right, sir," he growled, in a disappointed sort of way, and tumbled into the forecastle. The next morning he appeared on deck as quiet and civil as any body, and during the voyage, after he got over a touch of the horrors, he proved to be the best sailor-man on board, and was always as respectful as I could wish. There are many vessels where he would have been off duty a week with a broken head, and then have needed a second thrashing to take the ugliness out of him.

After we are fairly at sea things generally go on smoothly for about a fortnight and then the sailors begin to try experiments, to feel their officers' disposition, test their strictness, and decide how much liberty they can take. The first sign of this is the neglect to give an answer to orders, or omitting the word "Sir" from their reply. They watch to see if this is noticed, and if it is not, they advance to other liberties, and the inch being granted they very soon take the ell.

When you find this state of things beginning, and a man ceases to give a respectful answer, check him for it in a manly way, and give him to understand that such things will not be allowed on board of this vessel. Do not curse him, nor strike him, nor threaten him in a way to make him ugly, but rather seek while maintaining your authority to give an impression of its justice. If he continues to repeat his offence after this, then punish him for it, by keeping him up in his watch below, by giving him disagreeable work, by stationing him aloft in the night, or by any little requirement, which will make him feel that he is controlled and compelled to do something against his will. If this fails to subdue him, after a patient trial of it, (for it is not to be supposed that every unruly spirit is to be conquered in a moment,) the thing to be done next is to report him to the captain. He is the only one to whom the law gives power to inflict punishment. If you undertake to use force you are in danger of prosecution when you arrive in port, and you are well aware that our courts are very jealous for the sailor's rights. The captain should then take the matter up and adopt such measures of correction as, in his judgment, the case requires. Very often a simple reproof from him will be all that is necessary, as showing his decided espousal of his officers' cause, and determination to stand by them. When this is proved, Jack will be apt to give in, but in an obstinate case irons may be the necessary resort.

Of course I don't wish to be annoyed with the report of every little misdemeanor or sign of insubordination; but when you fail to suppress them by the means I have referred to, then let me know about it. If you will adopt this course, although at first it may be too slow a method for you, I will promise you that when we reach home you will say you never got more work out of a crew, and never made a passage in which you took so much comfort, or which you remembered with so great satisfaction.

We gave the crew watch and watch, and Saturday afternoon was allowed them for mending and washing clothes. Sunday at 9 A.M. services were held in the cabin. Attendance was not compulsory, but as a rule all hands were present, except the man at the wheel and the officer of the deck. We made tolerable runs down to lat. 30° N., which we crossed in lon. 40° W., eleven days out; but here for a few days the "horse latitudes" assailed us with their calms. We whistled for the wind, wondered how Job would have acted if he had ever been becalmed, tried hard to be patient, and thought we were at the threshold of success, when at last the wind settled at the eastward. A steady freshening breeze proved we had got the north-east trades, and the log line, as it marked nine knots over the taffrail, enabled us to be patient without further effort.

Running along by the wind at the rate of eight and nine knots an hour, with a regular sea that gave only a pleasing motion to the vessel, and a blue sky enlivened by the swiftly flying, fleecy trade-wind clouds, we understood the reality of "the romance of the sea." Flying-fish continually darted out from under the ship's bow, the beautiful fleet dolphins ran races, constantly beating us and coming back to try it again, the fat, puffing porpoises occasionally tumbled across our hawse and went snorting off to windward; the sea was strewn with patches of gulf-weed, and Mother Carey's chickens tripped about amongst it as though afraid of wetting their feet while searching for food. There was always something to see, and life was never monotonous.

About this time I noticed that the first signs of the relaxing of discipline were beginning to appear, in the occasional neglect of the sailors to answer when spoken to. I watched to see if the mates attempted to correct it, as I desired they should control the men in minor matters, and I was relieved soon by hearing the mate call out, "Why don't you answer when I speak to you?" A brief "growl" followed, but the sailor, a Swede named Peterson gave in, declared he meant no disrespect and intended to do his duty.

The next thing that occurred in the matter of discipline was, that one night I heard "Old Brown" reply, "Aye! aye!" to an order from the second mate, omitting the word "Sir." This is considered a great breach of ship etiquette; trivial as it seems, I was annoyed that the second mate took no notice of it. The next day I spoke to both parties separately about it, and the sailor professed to be utterly unconscious of his omission. He received a brief lecture and gave all desirable promises of respectful behavior, and "Sirs" were very clear and distinct for a while. The sailors seeing that they were kept up to the mark in these little matters, naturally concluded that they would not be allowed to do as they liked in greater concerns, and the routine of watch and watch went on harmoniously and efficiently.

When twenty days out we found ourselves within seven degrees of the line, but here the trades left us, and for nearly a fortnight the "doldrums" raged. The bark drifted about with light airs from the southward, dead ahead, or else lay like a log on the glassy sea, rolling lazily with the swell, her sails slatting and spars creaking at every roll.

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Calm continues! Utter disgust!! Captain's growl:—"A sea life should be avoided and execrated by all sensible men. It is an utter stagnation of intellect and heart, and only develops hatred towards our fellow men and murmuring at God's Providence. I have tried it from beginning to end, and I solemnly and deliberately pronounce it—a dog's life."

An officer of a ship must have good nerves to be able to endure with patience that dreadful slatting and creaking, even had he no interest in the progress of the vessel; but to one earnestly desirous of making a quick passage, as is usually the case with the captain, the doldrums are the severest test of disposition that can be applied. As he walks the quarter-deck, whistling through his teeth, searching in all corners of the horizon for signs of a breeze, he discovers in the distance a rippling of the water. It gradually comes nearer the vessel and greets her with a gentle air. The captain orders all sail to be set, and the canvas swells out to the wind; the rudder stops its thumping, the water begins to gurgle in the wake, and the captain, watching the rate of speed as he leans over the lee-quarter, exclaims, "That's the breeze! go it, old boat! good-by to the doldrums!" But the wind lessens; there comes an ominous slat of the spanker, and a jingling of the sheet blocks that strikes dismay to the "old man's" heart. He starts up to windward, looks for the breeze and finds it to be but a catspaw. After the sails have flapped about for a few minutes, if belonging to a certain class of men, the captain in savage tones orders the courses hauled up, the spanker lowered and jibs and staysails hauled down. Then he throws his hat on deck and jumps on top of it, cursing everything "from an inch high and a year old upwards." He now casts his eye aloft and snarls out at the mate, "Why don't you keep those gaskets made up; nobody seems to care anything for the ship, she would go to destruction if it wasn't for me." The mate gives an order to a sailor, and as in the heat and dullness of the time he is not disposed to move very briskly, the angered mate vents his spleen by a curse or opprobrious epithet. Perhaps a fight follows, or merely a war of words; the rest of the crew become disaffected; at dinnertime they go to the galley and growl at the cook for not giving them more or better grub; and so from stem to stern of the ship, bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, evil speaking, with all malice abound.

In the centre of this doldrum region clouds and heavy rains prevail. Torrents sometimes fall so continuously that the surface water becomes sensibly freshened. The great "cloud belt" overhangs this region of gloom. The air is sultry and oppressive, making the body weary and the spirit depressed. I believe no region on the surface of the globe sends to the Ear above such a volume of murmurings, blasphemies and strife.

Concerning this place Lieut. Maury quotes from the journal of Commodore Sinclair: "This is certainly one of the most unpleasant regions in our globe. A dense, close atmosphere, except for a few hours after a thunder-storm, during which time torrents of rain fall, when the air becomes a little refreshed; but a hot, glowing sun heats it again, and but for your awning and the little air put in circulation by the continual flapping of the ship's sails it would be almost insufferable. No person who has not crossed this region can form an adequate idea of its unpleasant effects. You feel a degree of lassitude unconquerable, which not even the sea-bathing which everywhere else proved so salutary and renovating can dispel. Except when in actual danger of shipwreck I never spent twelve more disagreeable days.

"I crossed the line and soon found I had surmounted all the difficulties consequent to that event; that the breeze continued to freshen and draw round to the south south-east, bringing with it a clear sky and most heavenly temperature, renovating and refreshing beyond description. Nothing was now to be seen but cheerful countenances, exchanged as by enchantment from that sleepy sluggishness which had borne us all down for the last two weeks." Maury himself says of it: "Besides being a region of calms and baffling winds it is a region noted for its rains and clouds which make it one of the most oppressive and disagreeable places at sea. The emigrant ships from Europe to Australia have to cross it. They are often baffled in it for two or three weeks; then the children and the passengers who are of delicate health suffer most. It is a frightful graveyard on the wayside to that golden land."

The memory of days, nights and weeks repeated at intervals through many years, when disappointment, depression, vexation and sadness have been my companions, impel me to heap up testimony against this dreadful place, the dark valley of the waters. Far more cheerful to the sailor are the roaring gales of Cape Horn than the sluggish, damp, provoking airs of the Doldrums.

But there is sometimes mirth in the Doldrums, and one afternoon the capture of a shark gave us diversion and amusement. A dead calm prevailed; not a ripple stirred the water, and the dull, sluggish swells of the sea looked like furrows of polished steel. A sailor aloft spying a shark alongside gave the information to the deck. The shark moved slowly around the vessel, and as he passed under the stern, the second mate threw the harpoon from the taffrail and drove it right through his body. A vast amount of splashing ensued, and it was with great difficulty a slip-noose was thrown over his tail. This being jammed tight he was drawn on board, tail first, by the rope. His motions on deck were very violent, but a vigorous application of handspikes quieted him somewhat, and he was drawn forward to the main hatch and butchered. It seemed impossible to kill him. After his head and tail were cut off and all his entrails extracted, the body still thrashed about so as to make the sailors jump clear of it. I took his back bone for a cane, the carpenter appropriated the skin for sand paper, and the cook begged for a little ball in his head that he could "sell to the doctors on shore for a quarter, it being fust rate for medicine." Many were the theories, abusive remarks and jokes indulged in around this fallen enemy of the sailors. His long life was said to be owing to the fact that sharks never died till sunset. The best joke was Murphy's, who had been in the army, who said "He'd make a good Northern soldier, he's so long dying." The common theory, that a breeze always follows the killing of a shark, made everybody more light-hearted, and the expectation was fulfilled after awhile.

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A rain squall in the Doldrums.

That evening the usual yarn-spinning went on around the booby-hatch, and among the shark-stories that were related was the following by the mate, given in his words as nearly as they can be remembered. It was intended especially for the passenger's enlightenment, but I overheard it:

"I once made a voyage in the ship "Laguna" from Boston to Cadiz and back with a cargo of salt. Coming home we had a Cuban planter and his son, a boy of nineteen, as passengers. The boy was always whistling, and our mate, who was a regular old sea-dog, who hated to hear whistling, except in a calm when it would help to raise the wind, kept prophesying that the nightingale, as he called the boy, would be sure to bring some bad luck. One day, when a heavy swell was running, but the wind had nearly died away, a large shark came up in our wake and followed the ship. The boy was leaning over the taffrail watching the shark, and his father was walking up and down the poop deck with his pocket-knife in his hand, whittling a stick. The ship suddenly gave a heavy pitch and the boy lost his balance and tumbled overboard. He screamed as he fell, and the father gave another yell and jumped overboard after him. There was a pretty kettle of fish then. The main yard was thrown aback, though the ship wasn't making much headway, and everything handy about decks was tossed overboard—gratings, life-buoys, and planks. Most everybody threw something, and the carpenter, who was a stupid muff of a fellow, wanted to do his share towards the rescue, so he picked up his grindstone and threw that overboard. The passengers disappeared immediately, and as nothing could be seen of them from aloft it was useless to get out a boat. We filled away again with sad feelings, and the old mate said Nightingale might whistle the whole passage if he would only come back. In a little while the captain spied a shark under the stern. He got the shark-hook and put a big junk of salt pork on it, and soon the shark took hold. We slipped a running bow-line around his tail and hauled him on deck. After we had smashed his head with handspikes we cut him open, and there we found the man, the boy and the grindstone. The boy was turning the grindstone and his father was sharpening his knife in order to cut a hole in the shark to get out of. They were greatly astonished to find themselves on our deck again, and the father said it was little short of a miracle."

It is hard to tell how a vessel ever escapes from this doldrum region; but by using her chances, constantly spreading her wings to every fitful breath and gaining a little day by day, she at last strikes an air that is not a catspaw. It gradually increases, and soon is pronounced to be the S.E. trades. Such was our lot when we reached lat. 3° N., and the day after, we sailed swiftly across the line in lon. 31° 30´, thirty-four days out. Passing to windward of the Island of Fernando Noronha, we sped along through the most charming region of the sea, that of the south-east trades in the South Atlantic.