My Voyage to the West Indies 1898
By Percy W. Perkins
As a boy of nineteen from South Penobscot, Maine, I made a voyage to the West Indies on the three nested (sic) schooner Lillian Woodruff, captained by my brother Ernest, twelve years my senior. It is strange how great an influence a brother can have on ones whole life. To make that one trip I had to promise Ernest I would not make another. I am eighty- two years old now, and I have kept that promise.
On the morning of the 26th of Nov. 1898 just before my nineteenth birthday, I left Penobscot by horse and wagon for Bucksport, where I boarded the steamer Penobscot for Boston. From Boston I went by rail to Fall River and took the boat for New York City. On Saturday Nov. 28th at about 7 o'clock in the morning, we docked at a Hudson River pier. The first person to greet me was my brother Ern, and what a relief to see him on my first trip from home.
We went directly by trolley to 59th St. Pier where the Lillian Woodruff was docked. This vessel of 350 tons was twelve years old and hailed from Lamoine, Maine-Capt. Chas. Hodgkins owner, she had just returned from Turks Island loaded with salt for a big beef company located at 59th Street.
In spite of the fact that the weather looked threatening, with the barometer dropping rapidly, brother Ern and I decided to take in a play at a theatre about 4 blocks away, and traveled there by electric cars. When we came out after the play was over, so much snow had fallen that we had to make our way back to the ship on foot. About midnight we reached the pier, only to find that the lines holding the ship had stretched so much with the gale blowing against the schooner that she was eight feet away from the dock, making it impossible for us to get aboard. Our cook, the only man left on board was sleeping soundly in the cabin, and thus could not hear our shouts. Finally after losing my hat and rubbers, I managed to make my way to the deck, precariously walking tight rope fashion over the two ropes nearest together. I awakened the cook, who helped me find a suitable plank, which we placed on the lines so my brother could get aboard.
We secured the vessel with more lines and tried to get some sleep, but in vain because of the howling of the wind. It blew all night, and well into the morning the snow was still pelting down. During the night and in the midst of the noise, we heard a boat whistle which turned out to be from a steamer with cattle wanting to tie up at our dock. But under the gale conditions, Ern did not dare to move. The steamer was forced to dock at the outside end of the pier, and the cattle were hauled onto the wharf one by one, each lifted by a rope tied to its horns.
The next morning we learned from the papers that a great many vessels had been lost, as Ern had forseen. In Provincetown Harbor alone there was the loss of a great many men and 57 vessels. In fact, that was the night when the steamer Portland went down with all hands, numbering 208 souls. This storm considered one of the worst on record was thereafter referred to as "The November Gale."
After The Lillian Woodruff had been reloaded, she had to be taken into dry dock for repairs. She needed to be supplied with a new yawl boat, to have her decks pitched and caulked, and to undergo other minor repairs. This necessitated being towed under Brooklyn Bridge to another pier. The trip under the bridge was of special interest to me for I had heard that the top mast would hit the bridge, and I too, had the same idea but the tug took us through safely, with room to spare. I had the wheel on the schooner and experienced some difficulty in keeping her in line behind the tug. However, all went well. After a few days undergoing repairs, we were towed to south Peabody. We arrived just at dusk, but began immediately taking on soft coal, which was poured into the hold through metal troughs. At daylight the next morning, loaded with 450 tons, we were ready to leave on our long voyage to the West Indies. My brother had been successful in rounding up three deck hands, a mate and a cook, giving us a crew of seven in all, including the captain and myself. Ern had said that if the wind were "to the Nor'east," we would set sail in the morning, Sunday Dec. 10th, 1898. Fortunately the wind came just as wanted. We set sail, upped the anchor and left without the benefit of a tug, accompanied by a sparkling breeze, with me at the wheel, steering along the buoyed channel, we made excellent time, unhindered by the drift ice around us.
By Monday night we had passed Sandy Hook lightship and had entered the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. Here we saw many flying fish, several of which washed aboard from the crest of the waves. The wind dropped and for one whole day and night we made no progress, then the breeze freshened and we again made good time. By some strange coincidence during theses days, we were in company with a two-masted schooner, the Cameo, also bound for the West Indies. She never did reach port, and was never heard from again after she parted company with us. On the morning of the 10th day out from N.Y. Ern took the field glasses and climbed the rigging halfway to the crosstrees, as we should be nearing land. Pointing ahead he indicated that the island of St. Thomas was in sight. St. Thomas was some twenty miles from our destination St. Crouix, a small island about twenty miles long, containing two villages, Christiansted and Fredricksted, still so named to this day. After lying in a flat calm that night, we got on our way the next morning with the help of a light breeze, and passed along the beautiful tree covered island to Christiansted where we anchored. We had made 1600 miles in the ten days out of Sandy Hook, a very quick trip for the wintertime. My brother was known for making fast passages, having earlier set a record of 39 days from the West coast of Africa to Boston.
As there was no harbor, we were advised by the crew of the pilot boat, which came to greet us to anchor about a mile from shore in seven fathoms of water, or 42 feet. Here the water was so clear we could see our anchor on bottom, fishes of different kinds and plenty of sharks. The doctor who had come out in the pilot boat declared us free from diseases, so we proceeded to unload our cargo of soft coal. Since we had no dock to tie to, we stretched 3 lines tied together from the ship to the shore, and pulled back and forth small scows holding about 8 tons of coal each.
Why coal in a warm climate? It was used to manufacture rum. There was always such liquor available among our crew the mate was apt to indulge too freely, with the result that at a most crucial time he didn't know just what he was doing. Unloading the coal took about 4 days, after which we had to clean out the coal dust and dirt from the ships hold.
While these preparations were going on, Ern had gone ashore to get clearance papers for our next move to Santo Domingo on the island of Haiti, where we were to load mahogany logs. Before he left the ship, he gave orders to set all sails except the jib and to heave short on the anchor chain. With the exception of the cook and mate, the crew were all in the hold cleaning up. Consequently nobody noticed that the anchor had been raised clear off the bottom and the ship was drifting out to sea. As the mate was incapacitated the cook was the first to see what was wrong. He called us and told us to pay out more chain to stop the ship. When brother Ern returned, he was much put out and ordered the mate to go below and stay there until he sobered up. This led to very hard talk but the mate followed orders. Having secured the vessel by letting out all ninety fathoms of chain, we ate a hurried supper. Then all hands manned the windlass to raise the anchor. Because of its great weight, this proved a most exhausting task. The anchor came up so slowly that it was nearly midnight before we had finished.
The next day with the wind and weather favorable, we sailed to Monte Cristo on the island of Haiti to take aboard our return load of mahogany logs. Here the water was muddy and shallow, and the people not so clean and prosperous looking as at St. Croix. Again the doctor pronounced us in good health and once more we anchored well off shore, about 1 1/2 miles from land. The mahogany logs were cut square at the end and were mixed with red cedars to keep them afloat. Varying in size up to one that was four feet square and twenty-one feet long, they were arranged into rafts of from fifty to seventy-five logs each. These rafts were towed to the ship behind dugout canoes paddled by husky natives. After the logs reached the side of the ship, they became our responsibility. We figured we could finish loading them in 15 days, but when the 15th day came, we were only half loaded.
The labor was strenuous, and because of this and the hot climate we found it difficult to get adequate drinking water. Every Sunday we went up a small river for our weekly supply. At the mouth of the river a sandy bar which we had to cross before we got to the water that was suitable to drink. We would run the boat up on the sandy shore as far as it would go. Then all hands would pump out, and with the help of a large wave, would push the boat over the bar into the river. We all got wet but no one minded because we wore little clothing and it didn't take long to dry out.
Along the river bank we saw various colored birds and also alligators and crocodiles. One of these an especially large old fellow, loved to come out to sleep on a log, where I thought I would get him with my rifle, which I had brought along for that purpose. But he heard us coming even though we stopped rowing and paddled quietly. We heard a splash, and knew our quarry had escaped. This was a great disappointment to me, but more of a disappointment to the natives, six of whose children had been caught and eaten by the crocodile.
One day, on the invitation of a native boy, I took an interesting excursion two miles inland to an orange plantation. My guide, the native boy, told me to wear a rubber, hat and boots through the snake- infested woods. He showed me many things of interest, which did not grow in the north. This guide was also our "boat boy" hired to ferry us from the vessel to shore and back. He used one of our small rowboats and was paid the munificent salary of 15 cents a week. Like most of the natives he was black and spoke Spanish, with an occasional word of English. He wore only the slightest of clothing. Although his food consisted simply of plantain and rice, he was muscular and athletic.
Night and morning it was my task to transport 6 or 7 of these Spanish-speaking natives to and from the ship. They helped us load the mahogany logs aboard. The trip in the morning was not difficult as it was usually calm, but at night the wind would blow, making going much harder. However, I contrived a small sail which facilitated my return, bringing me back in plenty of time for supper. One night my brother offered to take the men ashore saying he'd be back aboard by suppertime. By dark, however, he had failed to appear, and a strong wind had come up blowing offshore. I became worried and walked to the deck even though the others said Ern would be all right. Finally, I heard or thought I heard, someone hollering and the sound kept getting farther away all the time. I told the mate, but he said I was hearing the sound of merry-making from the shore. Then I asked the cook to listen, and we got the mate to listen again. This time he too thought he heard a cry. So he took the yawl boat and two men and set out, telling me to have a good light to aid in keeping the ship in view. After about 20 minutes, I saw the men returning. They were towing a boat, and had my brother in the yawl with them.
Ern told us the squall had hit while he was trying to rig a sail and the boat upset. He was a good swimmer, but he did not dare to swim in the shark-infested waters. So he climbed on the overturned boat and was drifting out to sea when the men rescued him. It was his voice I had heard. He always said I saved his life and I am sure I did. He never ferried the men back to shore again.
Another episode, which might have been disastrous, occurred when the natives were stowing the mahogany logs in the hold. They were quarreling in a language, which of course we could not understand, and all carried wicked looking knives. One night as I was about to take them ashore, one of the men asked Ern if he could sleep on board. He indicated that the others were going to kill him when they got him ashore. To hide him Ern told him to roll up in a sail, which he did and went to sleep. About midnight we heard a sound as if someone was boarding the ship. By the light of the moon, Ern saw two tall, sinewy black fellows about to step over the rail in search of their intended victim. My brother discharged his revolver through the cabin window, and at the noise they jumped overboard and swam ashore in spite of the sharks. They returned to work the next day with the others, and nothing more was heard about killing anyone.
While waiting for the logs to come down the river Ern thought it would be a good time to paint the ship before our return trip. It was not a task to be taken lightly, for we had to lower planks twelve feet long and 10 inches wide with a line tied to each end to make a stage on which to stand. On the narrow staging we wielded our brushes with the sharks under us, waiting for something, or someone to fall in the water for a tasty tidbit. A man would suit them fine. But we finished without mishap.
We had been at anchor for 3 weeks in hot weather, with little rain and showers only at night. When we finally finished loading, it was not a full cargo. We had wanted 2500 mahogany logs but had obtained only 1800, plus some logwood fustic and lignum vitae.
At last the morning came for us to start our homeward journey- Jan. 28th, 1899, the wind was right. How happy we were. With good luck we expected to drive in N.Y. by the middle of Feb. We had favorable winds we were abreast of Cape Hatteras, and then the wind failed. Soon the barometer began to fall and the wind began to blow increasingly harder from the Northeast. It looked as though we were in for another storm such as that of late November.
Brother Ern tried to make land, but was forced to head south again. As the gale increased sails were ripped off, some even tore to shreds. The new yawl boat was washed overboard, leaving the small 15 foot boat, which would not have been large enough to hold the crew in case of shipwreck. The wheel had to be tended day and night, and a lookout posted all the time to watch out for steamers that might run us down. It was impossible for a man to go form one end of the ship to the other. Life lines were rigged in case we should need them. The seas were the roughest the mate had ever experienced. As if it weren't enough, the vessel started leaking, and the deck load broke away. Two large barrels of water were swept overboard, leaving us with only one small barrel for drinking. Food began to get short. Our situation was serious. But then the wind dropped, the sun came out, and our clothes started to dry out.
Naturally, we had no idea where the storm had blown us. As soon as we could Ern took a sight with his sextant and found our bearings. We had run back 700 miles! With great effort we got things shipshape again. The weather stayed fair, and nine days later we made port with not much food left, very little water and the ship almost a wreck.
In no time at all I was on my way home to Maine and my folks again. I often think of this wonderful voyage, enjoying thoughts of both the pleasant happenings and the hard times. I feel sure it does one good to have taken such a trip on a three-masted schooner. I would like to sail to the West Indies again, but of course, I never shall.
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