CHAPTER IV.
Nothing of importance occurred during our passage of fifteen days, when we dropped anchor close in under the island of San Lorenzo, Bay of Callao. Here we found all the missing squadron, except the Sea Gull. The island of San Lorenzo is of volcanic origin. There is a legend that an old Peruvian was fishing in his boat, when suddenly he missed the weight of his sinker. Thinking some ravenous sea monster had stolen both his bait and sinker, he commenced hauling in his line. On looking over the gunwale of his boat into the water, he saw the bottom of the sea coming up. The island is said to have sprung forth at this time, and was named for him, San Lorenzo. This happened in the year 1740, and was caused by an earthquake which destroyed the whole city of old Callao. San Lorenzo is nothing but a range of tremendously high sand-hills. Nigh abreast of where our ship lay is a small valley between two mountains, where poor Jack finds a resting-place after the toils and troubles of this life are o’er. Many a sailor, cut off in the bloom of youth and prime of life, has been laid to rest here peacefully and undisturbed; and many a rough board, ay, and rougher inscription, testifies to the kind regard of their former shipmates, and to the good character of those who sleep beneath the drifting sands of this dreary-looking spot. I have often wished that, if I were sick unto death, some kind
ISLAND OF SAN LORENZO — THE SAILORS' BURYING-GROUND.
friend or shipmate would see that I was laid in my last hammock in some peaceful vale like this. A few of the inscriptions are as follows:
In memory of William Pearce,
A sailor boy on board the U. S. brig Boxer,
Who died September the 25th, 1838,
Aged 16 years.
A mother’s eye will look, but look in vain,
For her loved son, returning from the main.
He left his home to tempt the fickle wave,
And now reposes in a foreign grave.
Peace to his soul, ay, everlasting peace,
Where tortures come not, — pleasures never cease.
In memory of Jon. M. Dublois,
Seaman of the U. S. ship North Carolina,
Who died August, 1837,
Aged 40 years.
In memory of James Taylor,
Seaman on board the U. S. ship Peacock,
Who departed this life June 19, 1832,
Aged 51 years.
Sacred to the memory of James Laurence,
Late seaman on H. M. S. President,
Who departed this life Sept. 1, 1836,
Aged 33 years.
A worthy shipmate and a friend sincere,
In the cold, silent grave now sleeps he here.
His warning was but short, — think of his fate,
And prepare for death before it is too late.
Sacred to the memory of William Edwards,
Late Royal Marine of H. M. S. Harris,
Who departed this life Nov. 29, 1837,
Aged 26 years.
I am here at rest from busy scenes,
I once belonged to the Royal Marines.
I am now confined within these borders,
Remaining here for further orders.
Ci Git Meace Francois Marie-Nele,
April, 1810, a etables mort le Sept., 1833;
Ci Git Guine Joseph Marie-Nele,
20 Sept., 1814, a plein mort a board de la
Frigate Andromede le 2 Juin, 1828.
Sacred to the memory of three seamen,
Who departed this life on board of H. B. M. S. Blond,
In the month of May, 1835:
John Bowdon, aged 26 years;
Edwin Pean, aged 23 years;
James Oldridge, aged 29 years.
Also Benj. Beecroft, who died in June, aged 15 years.
Tremendous God! Thy sovereign power
Has severed from us like a flower
These seamen in their bloom.
In tribute to their memory dear
Their shipmates have interred them here,
And reared this humble tomb.
Daniel Dickson, landsman,
of the U. S. ship North Carolina,
Died in June, 1837,
Aged 19 years.
In memory of Blyth Gayle,
Who departed this life July 28, 1838,
Aged 20 years.
Swift was the summons to the dreary tomb
To him who lies beneath this sod.
The friend he trusted crushed his early bloom,
And sent him unprepared to meet his God.
No kindred weep above his youthful bier,
And stranger hands, his shipmates, placed this tribute here.
In memory of Thomas Hendrick,
Late seaman of the U. S. ship North Carolina,
Who departed this life May 31, 1838,
Aged 16 years.
In vain had youth his flight impeded,
And hope his passage had delayed;
Death’s mandate all has superseded,
His final order Tom’s obeyed.
In memory of Hugh McKenzie,
Who was drowned on the 25th of Dec., 1838,
Aged 27 years.
Weep not for me, my shipmates kind,
Nor mourn at my untimely end:
In heaven I trust we all shall find
A kind Redeemer, still our friend.
Jack’s signal of distress is a red flannel shirt tied in the fore rigging. Two of these signals of distress were made here in this port from two American whalers, both full of oil, and homeward bound. Our commodore answered the signals in person, and made the two captains promise that they would treat the men better and give them better rations. While lying here the U. S. ship Falmouth, Captain M. Keever, arrived from Valparaiso. She had on board three deserters from our ship. The ship Relief was discharged of all her cargo, for she was just alive with big rats and swarming with cockroaches. I should think the latter must have been from two to three inches long. There was a lot of whisky on board of her for the squadron, on which most of the crew and the marines got drunk. Next morning at sunrise all hands were called to witness punishment. Every man who had been intoxicated received one dozen lashes on the bare back with the cats, with the exception of the deserters, who received, one thirty-six lashes, the others forty-one each.
The commodore was very busy at this place. Among other things he overhauled the officers and crews of the squadron, and sent all invalids and idlers on board the Relief, which ship was ordered to the Sandwich Islands, and thence to Sydney, New South Wales, to land stores for the squadron, thence to sail for the United States by the way of Cape Horn. All hands wanted to go in her. We had a fine view of the famous Andes Mountains, which tower in lofty grandeur above the surrounding country. When the sun sets, and sheds his golden rays upon their numerous summits, they seem to move, as though they were having a frolic, and look like the waves of the ocean running after one another. We lay here until our repairs were nearly completed, when we up anchor one fine afternoon and ran over to the port. We came to in the evening, outside of the rest of the shipping, by the starboard anchor. Callao presents a poor appearance from the bay. The fort and castles on the right are by no means handsome, and in front of them is a dirty, sandy beach. To the left is the dirtiest of all dirty places, Callao. When you land, the first discomforts you feel are the fleas making acquaintance with your dainty flesh, — and the Lord help a greenhorn on his first landing, for there is no peace for him! I have seen the officers go ashore in white trousers, and in less than thirty minutes after landing they were black with fleas and spotted nearly all over with blood.
As a general thing the houses are eighteen or twenty feet high, built of mud and reeds, some of sun-dried bricks, and usually have but one room, with a veranda in front. The yard and cellar are on the roof, where you will find all the cooking utensils, rubbish, etc. There is always a large guyaquil, or hammock, swung from one corner of the room to the other.
The dress of the Peruvian ladies is the tapada saya, or petticoat, made in plaits, containing thirty yards of costly silk. It is drawn very close at the bottom, so that the wearer cannot take a step of more than eight or ten inches. A costly mantilla, or cloak, — and for the poorer women one of cheaper material, — is drawn over the head, concealing all the face but one eye. The dress of the men is the poncho, some of which are very costly and richly trimmed. The poorer ones are like a blanket with a slit in the middle, through which the wearer thrusts his head, and the garment falls on all sides. The ladies are very fond of sitting in the veranda to see and be seen, and, if pretty, to be admired. They walk very prettily and gracefully, and have very small hands and feet. The color of their hair is black, and it is very soft. They wash it in water in which Peruvian bark has been steeped. They seem to look through you with their piercing black eyes.
The tide at Callao is small, at three feet only. The situation of old Callao, which was destroyed by an earthquake in 1687, can be seen under water, and at times, when fishing, you may haul up the skull of some old Peruvian patriot. It is said that it never rains in Peru, and it is true, I think; for it is full of dust, dirt, and fleas. The shops are very poor. As for the inhabitants, they are a miserable set, a dirty, lazy gang of loafers. The country is full of soldiers, badly clad and worse fed, and dirty, wretched looking objects, but with their old cry of "Vive la Perarano!" still in their mouths. Conquered as they are, they still have thoughts of liberty and freedom. May they never forget them! The fort and castle here are strong enough to resist almost any force, if properly handled; but treachery was at work, and the Peruvians lost the day.
Lima, the capital of Peru, is some six or seven miles from here. It is situated in a valley of the Andes. While we were here the Chilian troops were in possession of the country and Lima was garrisoned by them. There was a big celebration while we were here. It was held in the valley of the Amancaes, two miles from the town. Several nationalities were present — Peruvians, Chilians, Indians, Negroes, half-breeds, and others of both sexes. They danced the fandango to the tunes played on the guitar, while others were drinking their orgedent, singing, gambling, swearing, laughing, fighting, and begging. It was the 24th of June, the celebration of St. John’s day by the Peruvians. It carried me back to the days of my youth, in those good old times when Boston Common was inclosed by a wooden fence, and the cows grazed thereon, and Independence Day was celebrated in the good, old-fashioned way. Even the Glorious Fourth is not forgotten here, for our ship was dressed in many and gay colors, from stem to stern, and from the main truck to the water’s edge. At twelve o’clock, noon, a national salute was fired from the sloop- of-war Falmouth and immediately answered by H. B. M. ship Samorang. Such exchanges of international courtesy do much to keep up the kindly feeling between the two countries.
THE SOUTHERN CROSS.
On the 8th Benjamin Olden, a marine who had died the day before on board the ship Peacock, was laid at rest in the quiet graveyard on the little island of San Lorenzo. His body was escorted to the grave by a corps of marines. The "Southern Cross" was directly over our heads, and when on shore we could hear the gendarmes cry out, "Midnight is past; the cross begins to bend."
"While overhead the holy sign,
The Southern Cross, is in the sky:
Assurance that an eye Divine
Watches the exile from on high."
The cross consists of four large, bright stars, two perpendicular and two horizontal, to which fancy gives a cruciform shape. The two perpendicular are the lode or magnet, and point us to the south pole. They are the emblem of peace to the sailor. Humboldt refers to his first view of this constellation with much emotion, and Mrs. Hemans gives vent to her feelings in the following verses:
"But to thee, as thy lodestars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.
"Thou recallest the ages when first o’er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.
"Shine on — my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes that I love, though e’en now they may be
O’er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!
"But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o’er the Andes to mingle with thee."