My Dear Sister: The wind is now so strong and fair that we have hopes of reaching Valparaiso in about ten days, and, as our stay there will be too short to gratify curiosity and write letters too, I must prepare them beforehand. We sailed from Rio on the evening of the 21st of September, and ran down the coast of South America with nothing to disturb the usual monotony of a sea life till, on the twenty-first day out, we made Statenland, an island to the north and east of Cape Horn. It had become cold, and the bleak mountains, covered with snow, looked desolate enough. Soon they were sunken beneath the horizon, and our vessel felt the majestic swell of the Pacific. We were then in the sea so much dreaded by sailors, but a bright sun made us for the day think the dangers like most others, more imaginary than real. We were soon undeceived, for the southwest wind arose, driving us to the eastward amidst a conflict of waves such as I had never seen before. For twelve days we struggled with the storm, snow, ice, and cold, and when the wind lulled, we found that no progress had been made. A favoring breeze then enabled us to reach Cape Horn, with its snow-capped rocks, and we passed quite near it, with a clear sky and bright sun overhead. We began to flatter ourselves that it was done with us, but we were again mistaken; for a northwester began and served us more rudely than its predecessor. For another twelve days it was one continued struggle for mastery, and really it seemed more than once as though the ship must be swamped. All hands were completely exhausted; our Captain Baily of the navy has made the passage some ten or twelve times, and the purser still oftener, and each say they never encountered so heavy a sea or such persevering head gales. Often our decks were covered with ice and snow, the rigging dangling with icicles, whilst the wind moaned and whistled as in our western woods. I will not attempt to give you an idea of the height or force of the waves, — words are inadequate to convey a true idea, and one must expеrience them to feel their full force. I trust, however, you may never have to seek such experience. Yesterday, however, the observation of the sun placed us in 54° 40' or north of Cape Horn, whose latitude is 55° 59', or we had been twenty-six days south of the Cape passing through a distance we might return in less than two. Our course on the chart is jagged and crooked enough; the farthest south latitude we made was 59°. Here it is now spring and the days very long. I have seen the sun rise before four in the morning and set after eight, with twilight extending nearly the whole night. Were we to remain here a month longer, we might see the sun throughout twenty hours out of twenty-four. Travellers always allude to the strangeness of seeing the sun to the north, new constellations in the sky, etc., but education explains causes, removes mystery, and strips travelling of nearly all its ancient zest. The constellation of the Southern Cross is composed of four stars that are not very conspicuous. You may look up any night and see the same in any latitude. The Magellan clouds are three small patches of nebulæ like the Milky Way. They are near the South Pole, and cannot, of course, be seen in the northern hemisphere. In no other respect does this part of the world differ from any other, for the sea, monotonous sea, is the same everywhere, differing only according to the freshness of the breeze. The little world, bounded by the walls of our ship, continues the same limited monarchy, with its grades and distinctions. The captain in his cabin, the officers in the wardrooms, and sailors and soldiers forward. Of the three, ours, being the middle rank, is doubtless the most pleasant, for it embraces eleven in number, with books, cards, and music. We are thrown into the most intimate contact, and thus far have not suffered from a feeling of jealousy that is very apt to arise among officers of different services. Strange, too, for it is an imperium in imperio. We are passengers, having our soldiers under one species of command—the naval officers are on duty with the sailors. We are bound to do nothing, but still do make one-fourth of our men stay on deck all the time to assist in working the ship, for the crew is very short. Such a mixture of duties seldom prospers, but here, by a good understanding on the part of the officers, we have had no trouble at all, all feeling our mutual dependence. Since we have been off the Cape it has been so cold that we have been compelled to wrap up and keep more to ourselves in our staterooms, sleeping or reading, the former having the preference — the better the sleeper, the happier the man. Never was time more perfectly sacrificed, for we have been afloat near four months, and now, for the first time, we head towards our destination, after having sailed about nine thousand or ten thousand miles. If you hear about a subscription opening to dig a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, you may put me down any amount, for really I do not fancy a voyage of twenty-four thousand miles to accomplish a distance of less than two thousand. However, I do not permit myself to dream of a return to the United States for five or six years, when I hope to pass through Mexico. We are all most anxious to hear the state of the war. How many fights have been had, how the volunteers act, how General Kearny progresses, for we expect him to be in California this winter; yea, and a thousand other things that will be old before they reach our ears, for our own slow progress teaches us how slow and uncertain is communication by sea, to which we shall have mainly to rely for news and letters. The long, tedious time on board ship has given us ample time to reflect upon the past and make me feel a little astonished at my rapid movement from Pittsburgh. There I was well off, but, impelled by a feeling of shame at leading so quiet a life when my comrades were at war, I wrote to the Adjutant-General, requesting him to order me upon any expedition, — the more hazardous, the more it would be to my liking. This letter was before him when Captain Tompkins, without my knowledge, made application for me. The coincidence produced the result, and I was ordered. My order reached Pittsburgh when I was absent of my own accord, so that when I reached Pittsburgh I found that the expedition would sail immediately; I started without regard to private risk or interest lest I should be too late and lose a reputation for prompt and willing obedience of dangerous orders. I wish now I had been more slow and made better preparations for so long an absence, but it is now too late and I must trust to fortune. I repeat these things that they may be known in case of accident to me. I cannot imagine now how I was so hasty at Pittsburgh, except that then I had an idea that we were to land in California to act offensively with a battery instead of being planted to grow rusty and old in one place till Government be good enough to recall us. The only objects of life and curiosity in this region of earth are the whales and birds; the former do not show themselves often, but are known by the peculiar misty spout of water made as they rise to the surface for breath; but the birds are seen in a clearer element; they crowd in flocks all around the ship, following it for days and weeks, pouncing upon every piece of pork or bread that is thrown overboard. This greediness makes them an easy prey, for, with a baited hook and line, they are easily caught, and I don't know when I have had a more hearty laugh than at the simple idea of fishing for birds; but the idea is now a fact, having myself caught of all kinds. The most peculiar of them is the Cape pigeon, a beautiful, innocent bird exactly like a tame pigeon, except that it sits the water like a duck, and has webbed feet; but the albatross, the huge bird of the Cape, is more to my liking, and seems so perfectly indignant at being caught by stratagem. There are of these several varieties, the gray, the quaker (color) and white; the latter is the largest, measuring as much as twelve feet from wing to wing; their bodies are white and as large as a swan, and the spread of their wings great indeed. They soar about, scarcely moving a feather, just above the surface of the water, and, let the sea be as agitated as possible, they rise and fall with the huge waves, moving along them like a spirit upon the face of the waters. To the soldier officers catching these birds, the sailors, ever superstitious, attribute our hard luck in passing the Cape.
SOURCE: Rachel Sherman Thorndike, Editor, The Sherman Letters: Correspondence Between General and Senator Sherman from 1837 to 1891, pp. 31-6
