“Yes, Alice, I believe him. Abel Richardson is a fine captain. Perhaps not quite as competent as the man I first sailed under, but I have full confidence in him.”
“Good. We are in desperate need of replenishing our supplies.”
“I won’t argue with that,” he muttered. “One more drink of that slime they call water and I’ll consider swimming to Valparaíso.”
She pulled a face and shuddered. Before departing New York, the ship’s crew had filled huge hogsheads with fresh water from Croton Lake. Most of that was gone now. They were being held to one pint of water per person per day—half that for a child. Not that that was all bad. The thirst could be terrible, but it had to be before you could work up enough courage to drink something that was so thick and ropy that it had to be strained between your teeth. “The taste is horrid!” she exclaimed. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get that terrible taste out of my mouth.”
He nodded. The water was only the half of it. Rats now infested the ship everywhere, and the people slept with blankets stretched tightly in front of their bunks to keep anything from crawling over them. The remaining food stores were infested with cockroaches, weevil, and half a dozen other species of small vermin. Eternal vigilance was the cost of eating a meal without unexpectedly crunching into something.
He reached down and lifted her chin. “They say that Valparaíso is beautiful. In Spanish its name means Valley of Paradise.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Paradise is something I could use a touch of right now. Did you ever stop there, Will?”
“No. When we went to China, we went around Africa because we were leaving from Europe. But all sailors talk about their favorite ports, and Valparaíso is one of them. They say that the city sits at the base of the Andes Mountains and that the mountains rise straight up out of the plains. They’re high enough to make you dizzy.” He touched her face. “Beautiful or not, it will give us a chance to be on land again. There’ll be fresh water, plenty of grain, good meat, fruits, vegetables.”
“Mmm,” she murmured. “How about a pile of mashed potatoes and thick gravy, with a bowl of green peas on the side?”
“Now, is this a meal for a boy or for a girl?” he asked soberly.
She laughed and poked him in the stomach. “Maybe I’ll just have one of each to spite you.”
“Spite me?” he said in surprise. “How about delight me.”
She went up on tiptoes and kissed him. “Would you be delighted if it was twins, Will?”
He leaned in closer, his eyes eager. “I would. Do you think it is?”
Laughing merrily, she shook her head. “No, I don’t. Come on, Will. We’d better go below and get some sleep.”
“Will! Will!”
He opened one eye, peering at the dark shape that loomed above him in the dim light. Only gradually did he realize it was his wife and that she was already dressed. Both eyes fluttered open and he sat up, careful not to hit his head on the bunk above him. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She took his hand. “Captain Richardson wants everyone up on deck.”
He swung his feet around and hopped down onto the cold planking. “What’s the matter?” He could see light streaming down from the hatch above. “What time is it?”
“Half past seven. You were a sleepyhead this morning. Come on. A lot of the people are up there already.”
He pulled his pants on quickly, then shrugged into his shirt. “What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. He just sent word that he wants everyone up on deck.”
Will finished dressing, then slipped on his boots. They went to the ladder that led up out of the hold and he let Alice go first. It was steep and often wet, and he wanted to be behind her in case she slipped. When they came through the hatchway and onto the deck, they had to squint against the brightness of the light. Though the sun was not quite up yet, it was a clear day and the sky was bright. A crowd was already gathered near the front of the ship. Will saw that Captain Richardson was up at the point of the bow, watching the people in front of him. They were talking excitedly and some were pointing. Will stopped and grabbed Alice’s arm. “Look!” he said.
There it was. The ship was still running in a northerly direction, but something had dramatically changed since yesterday. There was no longer an endless flat horizon of sea to the east. In its place, about fifteen or twenty miles away, Will guessed, was a solid black wall of mountains, stretching north and south as far as one could see in either direction. The sun had not cleared its dark mass as yet, but some of the higher peaks were catching its rays and the whole range was backlit dramatically.
“Oh!” Alice said, stopping at the sight.
“Well, well,” Will breathed.
“What is it?”
“The Andes Mountains.”
Before she could respond to that, Captain Richardson called out. “All right, folks. Gather in close.” The crowd quieted immediately as Will and Alice pushed in to one side. The captain did not look pleased, though he smiled briefly at Will. “It’s been brought to my attention”—he gave a sharp look in the direction of Samuel Brannan—“that some on board are of the notion that I have lost my way, that I have no idea where Valparaíso is, or Chile itself, for that matter.”
Several heads dropped and eyes turned away from his accusing glance. He turned and looked eastward. “Well, yesterday afternoon we made a minor course change so that you can see for yourselves whether there is any truth to that rumor.”
One arm came up now, taking in the whole range of the Andes in one sweeping gesture. “Does this answer your questions? You know what they are, don’t you?”
“The Andes,” someone cried out.
“Yes. And below them is the coast of Chile.” His arm came up again, this time to point to a spot to the northeast. “See that one massive peak there? The one that has the sun full on it?”
People leaned forward, peering eagerly. Will saw it immediately. It stood alone and majestic, surrounded by lower massifs but solitary in its towering height. It was like a great, jagged pyramid of stone. The sun was fully on it and the snow-covered ramparts were dazzling to the eye. It was an awesome, spectacular sight.
“Know what that is?” the captain asked, not trying to hide his irritation now. “That, my friends, is Aconcagua!”
There was a moment of silence; then the voices began to murmur. “Acon-what?” “What is that?” “Which one is it?” “I can’t see it, Mama.”
Alice looked at her husband, who was nodding slowly. “What is it, Will?”
“Aconcagua is the highest peak in South America. In fact, some say it is the highest spot in all of the Americas.”
“It’s beautiful!” she whispered.
Captain Richardson heard her comment and turned to them. “Twenty-three thousand feet high,” he cried, “or nearly so. The snow never leaves its summit.” Now he spoke to the rest of the crowd. “And do you want to know what is most important about Aconcagua?”
Every head turned to him.
He smiled thinly. “The port of Valparaíso lies at the foot of that mighty mountain.”
There was another moment of silence; then several clapped their hands together and there were cries of excitement.
He raised his hands, shouting over their noise. “We should be in port by this time tomorrow morning.”
This time it was in total unison. One great, mighty cheer rose from the decks of the ship Brooklyn and filled the morning air.
It turned out that Captain Richardson was wrong, not as to their location, but as to their projected landing time. It had nothing to do with his abilities as a sailor or with his knowledge of the sea. It was just part of life for a seaman.
Will should have known it. He grabbed at a line as the bow of the ship dipped sharply and plunged into the angry sea. It shuddered from stem to stern as tons of water crashed over the decks, slapping at Will’s body like an angry animal. He turned his head and shut his eyes against the stinging, salty water. By noon yesterday, while everyone was still charged with excitement at the sight of land, one of the brethren, a man in his fifties, had started complaining about how his lumbago was aching. Will had thought nothing of it at first. He too was filled with excitement at the thought of finally making landfall. But he should have known better. You could feel it in the air—that heaviness, that almost oppressive feeling which signaled a coming storm.
By suppertime, the ship’s barometer was dropping like a rock and confirming the man’s complaints. The tops of the Andes had disappeared beneath an ominous mass of clouds which extended across the whole northern sky as well. Spots of light rippled here and there. That and the distant rumble of thunder gave one the feeling that some far-off armies were having a mighty artillery duel. By nightfall, the south wind had shifted almost one hundred eighty degrees and was blowing stiffly out of the northeast. That was the worst possible news. The captain had tried tacking for a time, using the wind to zigzag back and forth, inching forward a little with each turn, but soon the wind was too strong. The passengers were sent below and the hatches battened down. Will had volunteered his help, which Richardson gladly accepted.
By midnight, they were in a howling gale and were being driven south again, back down the coast toward the Cape. All night they fought the battle, pulling in the canvas, working in the rigging, so that the storm didn’t tear the sails apart, and yet keeping enough canvas up to control the ship. Dawn had come three hours ago, though it was hard to tell. The sky overhead was almost black, and the light was muted and dim, more like twilight than daylight. The captain had finally given up and was letting the ship run before the wind, even though it was driving them farther and farther from Valparaíso.
There was a shout and Will turned his head. Back on the fo’c’sle, standing at the great wheel, the bosun was waving at him to come over.
Will raised a hand in acknowledgment, braced himself for the next crashing wash of water, then darted across the deck as the ship pulled itself up the next mountainous wave. When he reached the ship’s officer, the man merely pointed. “Captain Richardson would like you in his cabin.”
“Thank you.” Letting his body follow the rolling motion of the ship, Will made his way to the passageway that led to the captain’s cabin. He knocked, and the door was immediately opened.
There were four men inside in addition to the captain. Richardson was seated at his desk with a large chart in front of him. The first mate was standing beside the door and it was he who had let Will in. The other three men were Samuel Brannan and his two counselors in the presidency of the company of Saints. Brannan was standing beside the captain, leaning over and peering at the chart. The other two men stood back, one holding on to a chair that was fastened to the deck, the other grasping a beam in the overhead bulkhead trying to steady himself. They both looked a little green and totally miserable.
“Come in, Steed,” the captain said.
Will stepped inside and the first mate shut the door behind him.
“We’re having a conference,” Brannan said, lifting his head. “We could use another sailor’s expert opinion.”
Will moved over to the desk and the first mate followed him. The two counselors did not move from where they were, obviously willing to just listen rather than to give themselves over to the rolling of the ship. Will’s practiced eye ran over the chart, immediately identifying what was shown. It was a large chart, two feet by three feet, with north being on the top of the narrow width. The whole right side of the chart showed the coastline of South America. He leaned closer and saw dots marking the sites of Santiago and Valparaíso.
Richardson looked up at Will and Brannan to see if they were watching, then jabbed a finger at the map. “I figure that we were to here yesterday.” He was tapping a spot less than half an inch below Valparaíso. “Now”—he tapped a spot almost two inches below it—“I figure we’re somewhere about here.”
Will shook his head. It was discouraging but the captain was probably right. They were running before the wind now, probably making five or six knots, and had been doing so for almost eighteen hours. So a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles below Valparaíso was probably right. He felt a great wave of discouragement. The storm was bad enough for morale, but to know they wouldn’t be making landfall immediately would be devastating to Alice and all the rest.
“So what does that mean?” Brannan asked quietly. He too was subdued by the news.
“It means,” Richardson said bluntly, “that we are in a crisis. There’s no way we can make Valparaíso now with this wind against us. Judging from the nature of the storm, I’d say we’ve got another two or three days before it blows itself out.” He stopped and looked at Will and the first mate. “Would you agree?”
“Yes,” said the officer.
Will nodded. “At least.”
“By then we’ll be a week or more out of port, and that’s assuming the winds turn favorable. As you know, our water and food stores have reached critical levels. We don’t have enough to see us through another week or ten days.”
There was silence in the room. The situation was grim and everyone knew it.
“I have a possible solution,” the captain said finally.
“What?” Brannan demanded, eager for any sliver of hope.
The seaman bent over the chart. His finger still touched the spot which marked their present position. “We have a northeasterly wind, which is contrary to where we need to go. But . . .” He paused for effect. “But what if we let it drive us in a southwestward direction”—his finger moved across the chart and stopped where there were three small, irregularly shaped circles in the vast expanse of ocean—“to here?”
Will leaned forward, peering carefully. In small letters above the three circles were the words Islas Juan Fernández.
“Where is that?” Brannan asked, leaning over and touching shoulders with Will.
“The Juan Fernández Islands,” the captain said with satisfaction.
“What are they,” Will asked, “about three or four hundred miles off the coast?”
“Closer to four hundred,” the first mate replied.
“What’s there?” Brannan asked. “Can we make it?”