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.
Disappointed as he was, Porter pressed on to make more westing, worrying all the time about the crew’s spirits. They seemed to be holding up, however. They still had fresh water, but food grew so scarce they were forced to eat their pet parrots and monkeys. They had not been long in these terrible seas, but the crew’s desire for fresh food was so strong that a rat was esteemed a delicacy.
Fortunately, the Essex continued to perform better than expected. On February 24 Porter, to his immense delight, found that they had reached longitude 80° west, and as the wind shifted to the southwest, he thought their sufferings were now truly over. He began to develop schemes for annoying the enemy, and at the same time, returning home with immense wealth.
For four days, the weather remained benign—sunny skies and a relatively calm sea. The wind continued to blow hard from the southwest, and on the last day of February the Essex had reached latitude 50° south.
Their fortunes soon changed, however. During the morning of February 28, the wind increased to such velocity that a full gale was blowing, and by noon Porter reduced the ship to a storm staysail and close-reefed main topsail. The wind blew from the west during the afternoon “and blew with a fury far exceeding anything we had yet experienced,” he recorded, “bringing with it such a tremendous sea as to threaten us at every moment with destruction and appalled the stoutest heart on board.”
The terrifying gale persisted. “The ship [was making] a great deal of water,” he wrote, “and the sea [increasing] to such a height as to threaten to swallow us each instance; the whole ocean was a continuous foam of breakers. The heaviest squall I have ever before experienced, has not equaled in violence the most moderate intervals of this hurricane,” he declared.
Birds, kelp, and whales appeared in sufficient quantities to make Porter fearful that they were near the coast of Patagonia. He was forced to keep as heavy a press of sail as he could in order to stay off the rock-encrusted shore, which he felt in his bones was near.
The explosive storm continued through March 1 and 2—horrifying days. The ship’s violent jerking caused many to fall and bruise themselves. Porter had three severe falls that hurt him badly. “The oldest seaman in the ship,” he recalled, “had never experienced anything equal to the gale.”
By March 3, the crew was exhausted. Many were ready to give up and submit to fate. Yet the worst was not over. At three o’clock that morning, with only the watch on deck, an enormous sea broke over the ship, greater than any they had experienced before, deluging her. Huge quantities of water smashed in the gun deck ports, flooding the area where the men were sleeping, washing them out of their hammocks. A boat was driven into the wheel, but did not smash it. Another boat was swept off its davits. Spare spars were washed from the chains and the headrails. The crew was in shock; it seemed certain that the ship would founder. One of the prisoners, the boatswain from the Nocton, shouted that the ship was sinking. And it seemed for all the world that it was. David Farragut remembered that “this was the only instance in which I ever saw a real good seaman paralyzed by fear at the dangers of the sea. Several of the sailors were seen on their knees at prayer.”
Miraculously, the men at the wheel stood firm, and others held their stations as well. The crew, it seemed, was not ready to give up. “Most were found ready to do their duty,” Farragut observed. They were called on deck, and they came promptly, led by William Kingsbury, the boatswain’s mate who had earlier played King Neptune. Farragut wrote that he would long remember “the cheering sound of [Kingsbury’s] stentorian voice, which resembled the roaring of a lion rather than that of a human being, when he told them: ‘Damn [your] eyes, . . . put [your] best foot forward, as there [is a] side of the ship left yet.’”
Porter, though severely bruised, led the fight back. Downes, Kingsbury, and other courageous spirits assisted him, and they managed to get the Essex before the wind and save her. As they did, the storm began to weaken, and in the morning Porter was able to set a reefed foresail. He was enormously grateful to the stout-hearted who had done their duty and behaved so bravely in the most extreme circumstances. He rewarded them by advancing each one grade, filling up the vacancies opened by those sent in prizes and the two men who had been left behind at St. Catharine’s. At the same time, Porter rebuked others for their timidity.
Porter was more than a little gratified that the Essex had held up so well. After three days of incessant pounding and some truly frightening moments—water pouring in and floating nearly everything—she remained sound, and still a potent man-of-war. Even though she had shipped several heavy seas that would have proved destructive to almost any other ship, she was still in working order. And Porter had been able to avoid throwing any big guns overboard, which was the last extremity he would have resorted to.
Repairs went ahead rapidly. There were remarkably few. The Essex had gone through all this torment, and she had lost only the spritsail and the bees of the bowsprit. These were fixed quickly, and in a short time the frigate was shipshape and ready to fight again.
The men were another matter. Totally drained, they had reached their limit. Another onslaught would have sent them to Davy Jones. Mercifully, none came. The weather was actually pleasant on March 5—better, in fact, than any they had experienced since passing the Falkland Islands. At meridian the Essex was in latitude 39° 20’ south. The day was clear, and the men had an excellent view of the spectacular, snow-covered Andes in the distance. Albatrosses were about the ship, and what a wonderful sight they were. As they moved north, parallel to the Chilean coast, squalls and cold rain tormented them from time to time, but for the most part, they experienced temperate weather and fine breezes, allowing the Essex to travel at an excellent rate of speed.
Porter was in an exuberant mood, reflecting on what the Essex had accomplished—doubling the infamous Horn in record time. Only thirteen days had elapsed since she passed Le Maire Strait on February 13, and reached the Pacific in the latitude of the Strait of Magellan. Perhaps as remarkable as anything else, through all of these trials, the crew’s health remained excellent. Scurvy had not made an appearance—not a single case.