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 			<p>Bill had been standing at the galley door, with the kid of beef in his hand for the forecastle mess, when, away he went, kid, beef, and all. He held on to the kid till the last, like a good fellow, but the beef was gone, and when the water had run off, we saw it lying high and dry, like a rock at low tide⁠—nothing could hurt <em>that</em>. We took the loss of our beef very easily, consoling ourselves with the recollection that the cabin had more to lose than we; and chuckled not a little at seeing the remains of the chicken pie and pancakes floating in the scuppers. “This will never do!” was what some said, and everyone felt. Here we were, not yet within a thousand miles of the latitude of Cape Horn, and our decks swept by a sea not one half so high as we must expect to find there. Some blamed the captain for loading his ship so deep, when he knew what he must expect; while others said that the wind was always southwest, off the Cape, in the winter; and that, running before it, we should not mind the seas so much. When we got down into the forecastle, Old Bill, who was somewhat of a croaker⁠—having met with a great many accidents at sea⁠—said that if that was the way she was going to act, we might as well make our wills, and balance the books at once, and put on a clean shirt. “ ’Vast there, you bloody old owl! You’re always hanging out blue lights! You’re frightened by the ducking you got in the scuppers, and can’t take a joke! What’s the use in being always on the lookout for Davy Jones?”<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-252" id="noteref-252" epub:type="noteref">252</a> “Stand by!” says another, “and we’ll get an afternoon watch below, by this scrape;” but in this they were disappointed, for at two bells, all hands were called and set to work, getting lashings upon everything on deck; and the captain talked of sending down the long topgallant masts; but, as the sea went down toward night, and the wind hauled abeam, we left them standing, and set the studding sails.</p>
 			<p>The next day, all hands were turned to upon unbending the old sails, and getting up the new ones; for a ship, unlike people on shore, puts on her best suit in bad weather. The old sails were sent down, and three new topsails, and new fore and main courses, jib, and fore-topmast staysail, which were made on the coast, and never had been used, were bent, with a complete set of new earings, robands and reef points; and reef tackles were rove to the courses, and spilling lines to the topsails. These, with new braces and clew lines, fore and aft, gave us a good suit of running rigging.</p>
 			<p>The wind continued westerly, and the weather and sea less rough since the day on which we shipped the heavy sea, and we were making great progress under studding sails, with our light sails all set, keeping a little to the eastward of south; for the captain, depending upon westerly winds off the Cape, had kept so far to the westward, that though we were within about five hundred miles of the latitude of Cape Horn, we were nearly seventeen hundred miles to the westward of it. Through the rest of the week, we continued on with a fair wind, gradually, as we got more to the southward, keeping a more easterly course, and bringing the wind on our larboard quarter, until⁠—</p>
-			<p><i>Sunday, June 26th</i>, when, having a fine, clear day, the captain got a lunar observation, as well as his meridian altitude, which made us in lat. 47° 50′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 113° 49′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr>; Cape Horn bearing, according to my calculation, <abbr epub:type="se:compass">E. S. E. ½ E.</abbr>, and distant eighteen hundred miles.</p>
+			<p><i>Sunday, June 26th</i>, when, having a fine, clear day, the captain got a lunar observation, as well as his meridian altitude, which made us in lat. 47° 50′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 113° 49′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr>; Cape Horn bearing, according to my calculation, <abbr epub:type="se:compass">E. S. E. ½ E.</abbr>, and distant eighteen hundred miles.</p>
 			<p><i>Monday, June 27th.</i> During the first part of this day, the wind continued fair, and, as we were going before it, it did not feel very cold, so that we kept at work on deck, in our common clothes and round jackets. Our watch had an afternoon watch below, for the first time since leaving San Diego, and having inquired of the third mate what the latitude was at noon, and made our usual guesses as to the time she would need, to be up with the Horn, we turned in, for a nap. We were sleeping away “at the rates of knots,” when three knocks on the scuttle, and “All hands ahoy!” started us from our berths. What could be the matter? It did not appear to be blowing hard, and looking up through the scuttle, we could see that it was a clear day, overhead; yet the watch were taking in sail.</p>
 			<p>We thought there must be a sail in sight, and that we were about to heave to and speak her; and were just congratulating ourselves upon it⁠—for we had seen neither sail nor land since we had left port⁠—when we heard the mate’s voice on deck (he turned in “all standing,” and was always on deck the moment he was called), singing out to the men who were taking in the studding sails, and asking where his watch were. We did not wait for a second call, but tumbled up the ladder; and there, on the starboard bow, was a bank of mist, covering sea and sky, and driving directly for us. I had seen the same before, in my passage round in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Pilgrim</i>, and knew what it meant, and that there was no time to be lost. We had nothing on but thin clothes, yet there was not a moment to spare, and at it we went.</p>
 			<p>The boys of the other watch were in the tops, taking in the topgallant studding sails, and the lower and topmast studding sails were coming down by the run. It was nothing but “haul down and clew up,” until we got all the studding sails in, and the royals, flying jib, and mizen topgallant sail furled, and the ship kept off a little, to take the squall. The fore and main topgallant sails were still on her, for the “old man” did not mean to be frightened in broad daylight, and was determined to carry sail till the last minute.</p>

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 			<p>The same day, I met with one of those narrow escapes, which are so often happening in a sailor’s life. I had been aloft nearly all the afternoon, at work, standing for as much as an hour on the fore topgallant yard, which was hoisted up, and hung only by the tie; when, having got through my work, I balled up my yarns, took my serving board in my hand, laid hold deliberately of the topgallant rigging, took one foot from the yard, and was just lifting the other, when the tie parted, and down the yard fell. I was safe, by my hold upon the rigging, but it made my heart beat quick. Had the tie parted one instant sooner, or had I stood an instant longer on the yard, I should inevitably have been thrown violently from the height of ninety or a hundred feet, overboard; or, what is worse, upon the deck. However, “a miss is as good as a mile”; a saying which sailors very often have occasion to use. An escape is always a joke on board ship. A man would be ridiculed who should make a serious matter of it. A sailor knows too well that his life hangs upon a thread, to wish to be always reminded of it; so, if a man has an escape, he keeps it to himself, or makes a joke of it. I have often known a man’s life to be saved by an instant of time, or by the merest chance⁠—the swinging of a rope⁠—and no notice taken of it. One of our boys, when off Cape Horn, reefing topsails of a dark night, and when there were no boats to be lowered away, and where, if a man fell overboard he must be left behind⁠—lost his hold of the reef point, slipped from the footrope, and would have been in the water in a moment, when the man who was next to him on the yard caught him by the collar of his jacket, and hauled him up upon the yard, with⁠—“Hold on, another time, you young monkey, and be d⁠⸺⁠d to you!”⁠—and that was all that was heard about it.</p>
 			<p><i>Sunday, August 7th.</i> Lat. 25° 59′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 27° 0′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W</abbr> Spoke the English bark <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Mary-Catherine</i>, from Bahia, bound to Calcutta. This was the first sail we had fallen in with, and the first time we had seen a human form or heard the human voice, except of our own number, for nearly a hundred days. The very yo-ho-ing of the sailors at the ropes sounded sociably upon the ear. She was an old, damaged-looking craft, with a high poop and topgallant forecastle, and sawed off square, stem and stern, like a true English “tea wagon,” and with a run like a sugar box. She had studding sails out alow and aloft, with a light but steady breeze, and her captain said he could not get more than four knots out of her and thought he should have a long passage. We were going six on an easy bowline.</p>
 			<p>The next day, about three <abbr>p.m.</abbr>, passed a large corvette-built ship, close upon the wind, with royals and skysails set fore and aft, under English colors. She was standing south-by-east, probably bound round Cape Horn. She had men in her tops, and black mastheads; heavily sparred, with sails cut to a T, and other marks of a man-of-war. She sailed well, and presented a fine appearance; the proud, aristocratic-looking banner of <abbr>St.</abbr> George, the cross in a blood-red field, waving from the mizen. We probably were as fine a sight, with our studding sails spread far out beyond the ship on either side, and rising in a pyramid to royal studding sails and skysails, burying the hull in canvas, and looking like what the whalemen on the Banks, under their stump topgallant masts, call “a Cape Horner under a cloud of sail.”</p>
-			<p><i>Friday, August 12th.</i> At daylight made the island of Trinidad, situated in lat. 20° 28′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 29° 08′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr> At twelve <abbr>p.m.</abbr>, it bore <abbr epub:type="se:compass">N. W. ½ N.</abbr>, distant twenty-seven miles. It was a beautiful day, the sea hardly ruffled by the light trades, and the island looking like a small blue mound rising from a field of glass.</p>
+			<p><i>Friday, August 12th.</i> At daylight made the island of Trinidad, situated in lat. 20° 28′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 29° 08′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr> At twelve <abbr>p.m.</abbr>, it bore <abbr epub:type="se:compass">N. W. ½ N.</abbr>, distant twenty-seven miles. It was a beautiful day, the sea hardly ruffled by the light trades, and the island looking like a small blue mound rising from a field of glass.</p>
 			<p>Such a fair and peaceful-looking spot is said to have been, for a long time, the resort of a band of pirates, who ravaged the tropical seas.</p>
 			<p><i>Thursday, August 18th.</i> At three <abbr>p.m.</abbr>, made the island of Fernando Naronha, lying in lat. 3° 55′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">S.</abbr>, long. 32° 35′ <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr>; and between twelve o’clock Friday night and one o’clock Saturday morning, crossed the equator, for the fourth time since leaving Boston, in long. 35° <abbr epub:type="se:compass">W.</abbr>; having been twenty-seven days from Staten Land⁠—a distance, by the courses we had made, of more than four thousand miles.</p>
 			<p>We were now to the northward of the line, and every day added to our latitude. The Magellan Clouds, the last sign of South latitude, were sunk in the horizon, and the north star, the Great Bear,<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-266" id="noteref-266" epub:type="noteref">266</a> and the familiar signs of northern latitudes, were rising in the heavens.</p>

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 			<p><i>Saturday, 17th.</i> The wind was light all day, which kept us back somewhat; but a fine breeze springing up at nightfall, we were running fast in toward the land. At six o’clock we expected to have the ship hove to for soundings, as a thick fog, coming up showed we were near them; but no order was given, and we kept on our way. Eight o’clock came, and the watch went below, and, for the whole of the first hour, the ship was tearing on, with studding sails out, alow and aloft, and the night as dark as a pocket. At two bells the captain came on deck, and said a word to the mate, when the studding sails were hauled into the tops, or boom-ended, the after yards backed, the deep-sea lead carried forward, and everything got ready for sounding. A man on the spritsail yard with the lead, another on the cathead with a handful of the line coiled up, another in the fore chains, another in the waist, and another in the main chains, each with a quantity of the line coiled away in his hand. “All ready there, forward?”⁠—“Aye, aye, sir!”⁠—“He-e-e-ave!”⁠—“Watch! ho! watch!” sings out the man on the spritsail yard, and the heavy lead drops into the water. “Watch! ho! watch!” bawls the man on the cathead, as the last fake of the coil drops from his hand, and “Watch! ho! watch!” is shouted by each one as the line falls from his hold; until it comes to the mate, who tends the lead, and has the line in coils on the quarterdeck. Eighty fathoms, and no bottom! A depth as great as the height of <abbr>St.</abbr> Peter’s!<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-273" id="noteref-273" epub:type="noteref">273</a> The line is snatched in a block upon the swifter,<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-274" id="noteref-274" epub:type="noteref">274</a> and three or four men haul it in and coil it away. The after yards are braced full, the studding sails hauled out again, and in a few minutes more the ship had her whole way upon her. At four bells, backed again, hove the lead, and⁠—soundings! at sixty fathoms! Hurrah for Yankee land! Hand over hand, we hauled the lead in, and the captain, taking it to the light, found black mud on the bottom.</p>
 			<p>Studding-sails taken in; after yards filled, and ship kept on under easy sail all night; the wind dying away.</p>
 			<p>The soundings on the American coast are so regular that a navigator knows as well where he has made land, by the soundings, as he would by seeing the land. Black mud is the soundings of Block Island. As you go toward Nantucket, it changes to a dark sand; then, sand and white shells; and on George’s Banks, white sand; and so on. Being off Block Island, our course was due east, to Nantucket Shoals, and the South Channel; but the wind died away and left us becalmed in a thick fog, in which we lay the whole of Sunday. At noon of</p>
-			<p><i>Sunday, 18th</i>, Block Island bore, by calculation, <abbr epub:type="se:compass">N. W. ¼ W.</abbr> fifteen miles; but the fog was so thick all day that we could see nothing.</p>
+			<p><i>Sunday, 18th</i>, Block Island bore, by calculation, <abbr epub:type="se:compass">N. W. ¼ W.</abbr> fifteen miles; but the fog was so thick all day that we could see nothing.</p>
 			<p>Having got through the ship’s duty, and washed and shaved, we went below, and had a fine time overhauling our chests, laying aside the clothes we meant to go ashore in and throwing overboard all that were worn out and good for nothing. Away went the woollen caps in which we had carried hides upon our heads, for sixteen months, on the coast of California; the duck frocks, for tarring down rigging; and the worn-out and darned mittens and patched woollen trousers which had stood the tug of Cape Horn.</p>
 			<p>We hove them overboard with a good will; for there is nothing like being quit of the very last appendages and remnants of our evil fortune. We got our chests all ready for going ashore, ate the last “duff” we expected to have on board the ship <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Alert</i>; and talked as confidently about matters on shore as though our anchor were on the bottom.</p>
 			<p>“Who’ll go to church with me a week from today?”</p>

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 					<p><dfn>Upon a taut bowline.</dfn> Sailing close to the wind; that is, with the wind blowing toward the side of the ship instead of toward the stern. <cite>—⁠Keyes</cite> <a href="chapter-10.xhtml#noteref-106" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
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-					<p><dfn>Royal George.</dfn> A famous English man-of-war, carrying 108 guns. In 1792, while undergoing refitting, the vessel suddenly capsized and went down with her commander, Admiral Kempenfelt, and nearly 1000 men. <cite>—⁠Keyes</cite> <a href="chapter-10.xhtml#noteref-107" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
+					<p><dfn>Royal George.</dfn> A famous English man-of-war, carrying 108 guns. In 1792, while undergoing refitting, the vessel suddenly capsized and went down with her commander, Admiral Kempenfelt, and nearly 1,000 men. <cite>—⁠Keyes</cite> <a href="chapter-10.xhtml#noteref-107" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>
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 					<p><dfn>Señora.</dfn> Spanish for “lady.” <cite>—⁠Keyes</cite> <a href="chapter-10.xhtml#noteref-108" epub:type="backlink">↩</a></p>