Captain Waterman and the first voyage of the Challenge

The Flying Cloud had departed New York the previous year on 2 June1851, five-and-a-half weeks ahead of her rival, the Challenge. On 13 July 1851, Robert Waterman was making his final preparations to depart. He had already sent the Challenge down river from the South Street pier to Battery Point off the tip of Manhattan where she now lay anchored, her bowsprit pointing into the east wind, waiting for him to arrive on board that morning. Last minute provisions were rowed out to the ship in Whitehall boats, which also brought out her four passengers as the Challenge's pennant rippled in the wind.

Robert Waterman had dropped by the Griswold brother's counting house at 71-72 South Street, picked up the ship manifest along with his two chronometers, and left by carriage. Soon, the carriage horses were trotting down along the Battery promenade as boys ran along side waving their caps. At the landing stage, the carriage came to a halt and Waterman, dressed in his best frock coat, trousers, and beaver hat, left the coach. He nodded to the crowds that were surging around him and strutted down the steps to the Whitehall boat that awaited him, which immediately pushed off. The crowds along the promenade cheered with applause as Waterman, standing at the stern, doffed his top hat to acknowledge them as he made his dramatic departure.

Waterman climbed aboard the Challenge and immediately changed clothes in his cabin. Soon, it was anchors away and the waiting tug took hold of the Challenge's bow hawser and pulled the Challenge slowly down the harbor as longshoremen who had come aboard with the pilot climbed the rigging to loose the topsails. After a few more yells and cheers, the crowds of water-gazers along the Battery began to depart, as the Challenge sailed off in tow toward the eastern horizon until only her topsails could be seen.

Waterman recognized the men scurrying about the deck as longshoremen assigned to special duty in getting the Challenge out of the harbor. All of his actual crewmembers were still below deck in their bunks drunk and drugged beyond sensibility. The longshoremen would soon depart with the pilot, leaving these dregs of humanity aboard to work his ship.

After a closer look at the ship's roster, Waterman began to realize the situation was far worse than he had ever imagined. He knew all about the critical shortage of competent experienced seamen in New York, but he had expected that at least a dozen able-bodied seamen would show up on the roster. All he saw on the list were three. The dozens of ships that had sailed before the Challenge that summer, including the Telegraph that had sailed earlier that morning, had scooped up and taken every competent sailor away with them leaving only the dregs and jailbirds that had been unceremoniously dumped aboard his ship by the crimps.

There were, of course, a few landlubbers, "Blacklegs of the vilest type," trying to get out to the gold fields and would jump ship upon arrival at the first chance, as well as half a dozen derelicts from European ports who didn't understand English commands.

Waterman was appalled and enraged at the situation that he now found himself in. He had certainly expected that more of an effort would have been made by the Griswold brothers and he berated himself for not having taken a greater part in the recruitment of the Challenge's crew.

Before long, Waterman got angry at his first mate for accepting such a derelict crew. The first mate talked back and Waterman fired him on the spot, ordering him to leave the ship with the longshoremen and the pilot. Soon, they were gone and Waterman was left to ponder his predicament as the Challenge anchored inside Sandy Hook.

He thought long and hard about returning to port to try to pick up a more competent crew, but the advanced crew wages had already been paid out and the crimps had already taken their share. The Griswold's expected him to get to San Francisco as soon as possible while the freight rates were still high and had placed him in charge of the largest merchant ship in the world with $60,000 worth of New York cargo aboard.

There was also that matter of the $10,000 bonus to consider and to collect his bonus he had to bring the Challenge through the Golden Gate by October 11, 1851.

In all his years at sea he had never lost a spar or made an insurance claim. He had whipped derelict and landlubber crews into shape in the past and had sailed on to record passages. To return slinking into port was something Robert Waterman was loath to do for if he did he would surely forfeit his bonus.

There was little chance of catching up with the Flying Cloud, but Waterman still hoped to better her time and thought that the only ship capable of beating her was the Challenge. Waterman's pride dictated that there would be no turning back.

Slowly, the men staggered up on deck gradually coming back to life from their stupor. The winds still blew in from the east making it difficult to tack, even with a competent crew, so the Challenge stayed at anchor for the time being as Waterman watched the schooners beating along the coast while brooding on deck over his predicament. The thought of promoting his second mate Alexander Coghill to first ran through his mind.

The transatlantic packet Guy Mannering had recently arrived from Liverpool and lay at anchor inside Sandy Hook, waiting for the flood tide and a tug to take her into the harbor. Waterman noticed a ship's boat putting out from the Guy Mannering in the Challenge's direction and once along side, a man seated in the stern hailed the quarterdeck of the Challenge.

The man was James Douglass and soon he climbed over the rail of the Challenge. Waterman immediately recognized him for he was known as "Black Douglass," and in every Liverpool and New York bar he was known as one of the toughest first mates in the packet fleet.

He got right to the point with Waterman, explaining that their recent crossing had been difficult aboard the Guy Mannering. And that out of necessity, he had knocked his crew about some, as they were an unruly bunch of packet rats, and that they were planning their revenge as soon as the ship made port. Douglass has swiftly deduced that he would be safer at sea and asked Waterman if he could use a first mate. Faced with his dire predicament, Waterman replied that yes, he could.

Waterman must have certainly known that he was taking on a man known for his brutality, but he also knew that he needed an experienced ship's officer able to enforce discipline among an unruly derelict crew and get them into shape for the rigors to come off Cape Horn.

Near dusk, Waterman ordered that the anchor be raised and a half-dozen men were sent climbing through the rigging and loosed the Challenge's sails and soon the ship edged out past Sandy Hook into the Atlantic to begin her journey to the Horn.

The sun was setting on the horizon on that first day at sea as Waterman summoned his crew to the rear deck of the ship to hear the speech that he always gave at the beginning of each voyage. To let them know exactly what he expected from each and every one of them.

Some of the men were stumbling about on deck still groggy from the alcohol and laudanum that the crimps had spiked their drinks with. Many were realizing for the first time that they were aboard a ship and did not yet understand how they got there.

The Blacklegs were more aware of their surroundings, but were sullen and wary. Some of the crew were still in no condition to face the world and were left in their bunks. Only a few were dressed in the proper clothes and boots needed to work the rigging and many went barefoot. A half-dozen young boys though were eager and attentive and listened avidly to Waterman.

The gist of the message was the same with each voyage that he made. That every man who did his work promptly and exactly as ordered would be treated fairly and fed well. He said that the Challenge was a good, comfortable ship with little work to do, but the safety of the ship came first and immediate obedience was expected of all hands and anyone who shirked his duty would regret it. Waterman did his best under the circumstances to give his message the air of a camp meeting discourse that went on for about twenty minutes.

While Waterman was giving his talk to the crew, Douglass and Coghill, along with the carpenter, sail maker, and boatswain, were below deck searching through seabags and chests in the forecastle. As expected, they soon found hidden stores of rum, slingshots, daggers, bowie knives, and knuckle-dusters, along with a few pistols, which were all tossed over the rail. At the completion of Waterman's talk, the men were herded into a line that filed past the main hatch, where the ship's carpenter, Michael Gallagher, took every man's sheath or pocketknife and nicked the tip off, thus making them less of a weapon.

Next, the crew was divided up into watches where the first and second mates chose up sides with the first choice going to Douglass' larboard (port) watch, the second to Coghill's starboard watch, until most of the 56 men were chosen. Only three members of the crew were Americans. A few Britons, a Frenchman, and a Swede had been to sea before. Six of the men had helm experience and they were all promoted to quartermaster and only used for that and excused from the watches. Others with specific jobs such as that of cook, sail maker, third mate, and carpenter were also excused. Out of those that were left "We had not more than eight or ten good men," said Charles Pearson, one of the experienced sailors, "Most were miserable trash." Many of them were malingerers and shirkers and half a dozen others were very ill with tuberculosis, dysentery, and venereal disease and should never have come aboard in the first place.

The most useless malingerer was George Lessing who before long earned the nickname "The Dancing Master." Several of the Europeans were totally illiterate and spoke no English. These included a Frenchman, John Nistop, an Italian who signed the roster as "Pawpaw," and a Finn known as Smiti, who was a notorious shirker.

With so many ill men aboard, Waterman turned the sail room into a sick bay to prevent infection from spreading.

The day was divided up into watches, a long standing tradition of the sea, four hours on, four hours off, with two two-hour dog watches thrown in to break the monotony of the day. A typical schedule looked like this:

8 P.M. to midnight First watch

Midnight to 4 A. M. Middle watch

4 A.M. to 8 P.M. Morning watch

8 A.M. to noon Forenoon watch

Noon to 4 P.M. Afternoon watch

4 P.M. to 6 P.M. First dog watch

6 P.M. to 8 P.M. Second dog watch

While perhaps democratic and necessary, the alternating watches had a way of interrupting the circadian rhythms and sleep patterns of everyone aboard ship. The effect was that an incompetent crew was soon made more incompetent.

The light winds that the Challenge encountered on the voyage to the equator were maddening for Waterman and he was desperate to get more speed from her, but the winds just were not there.

Every day, Douglass and two of the experienced mates would stand at the quarterdeck rail and "cast the log" to measure the ship's speed. The ship's speedometer was an ingenious device, nothing more than a pie-shaped wood chip weighted down at the round edge with a long line attached and wound onto a reel. Two shorter lines were also attached to the curved bottom of pie-shaped wood chip. The lines ran to a weighted-down plug attached to the long line, which rolled onto the reel. The chip would be tossed overboard and the weighted-down plug drew the chip down below the surface of the water. The line was let out freely until the chip was out of the wake at which point a knotted piece of cloth on the line flew past from the reel and the lineman would call out "Turn!" The man with an hourglass would flip it over and let the sand run out for twenty-eight seconds and call out "Stop!" At that point the lineman would snub the line and the resistance of the wood chip would break the plug that had held the line vertical in the water. Free of the plug, the wood chip would come bobbing up to the surface and the long line could then be hauled in and each half-knot counted.

Over the course of the first few weeks of the voyage, the Challenge's speed was never more than six knots, which added greatly to Waterman's frustration. With each passing day of fickle winds, he saw his chances for making a record setting passage fade away and along with it the $10,000 bonus that he had hoped to earn. This annoyance soon began to eat away at him and he began to take his frustrations out on those around him.

Crew conditions aboard the Challenge were far better and less crowded than those of other sailing vessels and each man had his own bunk in the forward deck cabin. The food was good and plentiful. The special rigging designed by Waterman was a marvel of efficiency, designed for easy handling in stormy seas, and all of her stays, shrouds, bitts, and belaying pins were of the latest and sturdiest design and construction. No expense had been spared in making the Challenge the most efficient ship in the world, but all these amenities were lost on this derelict crew who had never been to sea before.

On her maiden run to the Horn, the Challenge did not experience the stormy gales that the Flying Cloud had experienced and thus was not given the opportunity to stretch out and fine-tune her rigging or stretch out her stiff new sails. Still, her masts had to be greased regularly and her neophyte mates had to be sent up the rigging to accomplish the task. Any reluctance to do so by the crew was met by Douglas with belaying pin in hand and the sailor's only escape was to climb aloft.

Frustrated by the light winds, Waterman called for studdingsails that were hauled aloft and extended out from the tips of the yards over the sea. This was dangerous work for an inexperienced crew to accomplish on a rolling ship as the Challenge's main yardarm was extended from 90 feet to 160 feet from port to starboard leach.

Bringing in the studdingsails was even more dangerous because the extra sails were not hauled in until the heavy weather deemed it necessary. Robert Waterman had built his reputation over the years as being the last one to haul in sails, even when members of his past crews aboard the Natchez and the Sea Witch had deemed it necessary. Waterman had even gone so far as to place padlocks in the rigging to prevent others from taking in sail contrary to his orders.

To work in the yards trying to haul in sail aboard a rolling ship in stormy seas was absolutely terrifying and the teamwork involved aloft and on deck had to be tight and efficient. The braces could only be loosed in stages allowing just a little slack at a time. Too much slack and the flapping sail could yank a man from his perch aloft. The men aloft had to fist in the loose canvas and bunch it along the yard and tie the gaskets, strips of canvas, with three or four turns over the sail around the yard to hold it in place.

The big clipper sailed on south through the North Atlantic over the summer days through the unusually mild weather with no hurricanes coming their way as the Challenge's new masts creaked and groaned under the weight of her sails and spars on her southern journey.

Flying fish led the way as they sailed on past Bermuda. Passing clippers, packets, and steamers chugging toward New Grenada and the Isthmus saw the towering Challenge glide on by with her black hull glistening in the sun and every sail aloft like an eerie ghost ship.

On the quarter-deck of the Challenge, things were not going well at all as Waterman cursed the fickle winds, and Douglass on the main deck cursed the derelict crew, who were not at all shaping up to the captain's expectations. Few were showing any inclination to learn the ways of the ship and many were feigning illness to avoid their responsibilities. There was nothing Douglass hated more than a malingerer and he soon showed little hesitation in going after anyone who he thought was trying to dodge his duties with a belaying pin, a rope's end, a heaver, or his large fists.

Waterman had always been a believer in enforcing strict discipline aboard his ship and showed no hesitation in applying force when he deemed it necessary, but whether he was concerned about Douglass' brutality up to that point is not known. The crew was by far the worst that he had ever seen, often squabbling and skirmishing amongst themselves. Waterman later recalled "They would fight among themselves, cut, gouge, bite and kept in a continual row."

Upon entering the horse latitudes, the Challenge slowed to a crawl for they were even calmer than the doldrums. The heat on deck was sweltering. Belowdecks the air was stifling. The men poured buckets of seawater over their heads to try and cool themselves off as the giant clipper lay dead in a glassy sea. The unbearable heat brought out boils on the men's skin that chafed under their clothing and made them more irritable. Crewmen shirked their duties and tempers flared. Then, a sick man died. Eventually, the Challenge drifted out of the horse latitudes and doldrums crossing the equator and slowly headed for the Cape de São Roque, but she had become a hell ship ripe for mutiny and a spark would soon set it off.

The Challenge soon rounded the Cape de São Roque, and on August 17th was sailing down the Brazilian coast close to the area where two members of the Flying Cloud's crew had committed their act of sabotage. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon and the trade winds blew at a steady pace and the Challenge was moving right along at a good clip. All seemed well, but that was about to change abruptly.

"Big Jerry," the quartermaster, was at the wheel keeping an eye on the compass binnacle and the set of the canvas that Waterman deemed adequate to catch the prevailing winds. It was Sunday, and there was some free time to relax and enjoy the day. Two of the passengers, William Masten and Cornelius Sterling, were lounging with two of the ship's boys atop the main cabin in the longboat enchanted by the sea breezes and the clouds in the sky. Aft on the quarterdeck, Waterman and Douglass were engaged in conversation.

After a while, Douglass walked down the main deck to the Forecastle and roared down the companionway for all hands to bring their chests and seabags on deck where they were to be searched. A seaman was missing some of his gear and had complained about it. Pilfering had become a common occurrence on this voyage, even though the Challenge had a well supplied slop chest. Still, the stealing had gone on over the entire voyage, as the men preferred to steal from one another.

Waterman was angry now and determined to put a stop to it and ordered Douglass to search the men's chests and seabags, find the guilty culprit, and make an example of him.

Fred Birkenshaw and some of the other men were slow with hauling their sea chests and bags up on deck and Douglass tried to hurry the process along by laying into them with his heaver. Soon, all the bags and chests were laid out and at Douglass' command the contents were dumped out on deck. Douglass started sifting through one man's gear.

Before Douglass had a chance to ask if any of the men could identify any of their missing gear from another man's pile on deck, he was jumped from behind by Fred Birkenshaw, as half a dozen men rushed in to join the melee. George Smith quickly grabbed Douglass by the throat, forcing him to drop his heaver, and toppled him to the deck, where one of the other men slashed him in the thigh.

Waterman was at the weather rail about to take a sextant reading when he heard the cry of "Murder." Waterman quickly ran down the steps, sextant in hand, and plunged into the melee and smashed Smith over the head with the sextant, forcing him to let go of Douglass' throat as Douglass roared with rage, kicking and lashing out at his other attackers. Blood gushed out of his wound and stained his pants. Smith then turned on Waterman who clobbered him again and dragged him to the rail and tied him up there with a piece of rope.

Some of the men scattered now for their lives as Douglass wrestled himself free from his attackers long enough to rip off his coat and pick up his heaver. He immediately charged back at his attackers swinging his heaver, taking them out one by one forcing them to scramble and run for their lives. Waterman and Douglas then took the six injured men that Douglass had dropped on the deck and tied them to the rail.

Waterman was examining Douglass' wound when Coghill, who had been at his bunk off watch, arrived late on the scene. An irate Douglass shouted at Coghill to search for Fred Birkenshaw "and be damned quick about it."

Coghill was off to begin his search for Birkenshaw about the ship as Waterman helped Douglass down the companionway to the cabin to dress his wound, a deep nasty gash in his thigh that would have been much deeper if the knife had had a point.

Soon, Douglas was limping around back on deck along with Waterman when Coghill returned to tell them that he could not find Birkenshaw. One of the sailors claimed he saw him jump over the side rather than face Douglass' rage. Douglas didn't believe it and made a determined search of the ship himself and was unsuccessful. In his eyes, the crew had attempted mutiny, an unassailable offense, and now he could do anything he wanted to them without having to worry about the sea lawyers whose careers were made by taking captains and mates to court for mistreating their crews.

George Smith was placed in irons and the other men tied to the rail were untied and escorted to the forecastle to await their punishment. Coghill's men took the starboard watch as Douglass convalesced at his bunk.

The main cabin of the Challenge was most luxurious. Rosewood paneling ran throughout, along with enameled cornices and gilt-carved moldings. Large windows let in the light and offered a splendid view of the sea. A large mirror covered one wall. There were rich upholstered sofas about and the stewards served a large table, where Waterman and his guests took their meals.

The dinner conversation that evening between Waterman and his passenger guests naturally turned to the events of the morning. Waterman, in a reflective mood, wondered aloud as to whether the incident had been a provoked isolated incident or a planned mutiny. His conclusion was for the latter.

Later on in the evening, a steward came and knocked at William Masten's cabin door and requested him to come to the captain's cabin. Cornelius Sterling and Richard Morse also came. Waterman wanted them there to witnesses while he put Douglass' attackers to interrogation. George Smith was the first to be brought forth in manacles. The back of his head was shaven with a plaster on his wound.

Waterman calmly started his interrogation hinting that his punishment was apt to be most severe, but it might be lessened if he would confess and name the other attackers. Above all, Waterman wanted to know if the attack had been planned.

At first, Smith denied that there had been any conspiracy and had just been a spontaneous reaction to Douglass' abuse of the crew. Waterman didn't buy this and threatened Smith that his punishment would be far worse if he continued to lie to him about the incident. Under this building pressure, Smith's resistance crumbled and he admitted that yes, a mutiny had been planned by some of the men, and that the plotting had begun just a few days after the Challenge had left New York.

They were going to kill both Waterman and Douglass and take the ship into Rio. They had actually planned to do the deed the night before but the captain and first mate had failed to show up on deck at the same time. Smith was hasty to add that he had only heard about the plot and had not actually been a member.

After marching Smith off to the brig, eight other mutineers were brought before Waterman and confronted with Smith's confession. Seven of them confessed to the deed, all except a defiant Ralph Smith who claimed only to have heard of the mutiny and had only reacted spontaneously to Douglass' brutality.

Upon completion of the interrogation, Waterman decided that George Smith and seven of the eight men were guilty. Birkenshaw still could not be found and would be dealt with at a later time if found. George Smith and seven of the other men were to be flogged.

Flogging had been outlawed aboard merchant ships in 1850, but many merchant captains ignored the new law, among them Robert Waterman, who soon marched the eight men out to the waist of the ship where their shirts were stripped off and their wrists then tied to the rigging. The remainder of the crew was then summoned on deck to witness the flogging.

Douglass came forth with a heavy whip in hand of knotted ropes and sadistically went about laying on a dozen lashes to each man reducing each man's back to a bloody pulp. Men screamed out in pain before fainting, screaming out again when a bucket of seawater was splashed over each of their bloodied backs. They were then cut down from the rigging and released to stagger off to their bunks. Some had to be carried off as the rest of the crew watched the grim spectacle in silence.

For the rest of the voyage, Douglass was never to walk the deck without his sheath knife, and his still had a point. Coghill was advised to do the same. Waterman declined to do so on the quarterdeck, but for the rest of the voyage he kept a gun in his cabin close by his bunk.

The Challenge was now approaching Cape Horn, where they would soon encounter the screaming westerlies and mountainous seas with a sullen derelict crew that had yet to shape up to meet the trials to come.

Along the coast of Argentina, the Challenge at last caught some fairly strong trade winds out of the southeast which moved the Challenge right along at a good clip. The ship began to show the speed that she was capable of as her vast array of sails pulled her on through the "Roaring Forties" under a clear blue sky on the last stretch of South Atlantic sea before coming up on "Cape Stiff."

But the mood on board ship was not one of exaltation. A silent rebellion still seethed below the surface of the crew and all looked for ways to avoid duty on deck. Many feigned illness and filled up the sick bay. Fewer men reported on watch. One night, Douglas went looking for malingerers in the forecastle and as he entered the room someone blew out the lamp and Douglas quickly retreated.

All the constant malingering enraged Waterman, and soon he, too, was enforcing his commands with a belaying pin or heaver in hand. Some of the crew were legitimately ill with dysentery or bruised and crippled after having been battered about by the mates and Waterman. Still, the operation of the ship required crewman to man the yards and there was little choice in the matter. They were coming on Cape Horn and Waterman knew from past experiences aboard the Natchez and the Sea Witch rounding the Horn, just what to expect when they got there.

All kinds of attention now had to be paid to the rigging by a competent crew, of which few were aboard his ship. Storm canvas had to replace the lighter canvas. They had to wrap chafing gear around the rigging. Every moving thing had to be battened down. The ship's boats had to be lashed firmly to the cabintops. Across the bulwark openings netting had to be strung to prevent the boarding seas from washing sailors overboard.

Albatrosses and petrels greeted the Challenge at Cape Horn and the cook baited hooks to catch a few of the plump "'cape pigeons" as they darted past the masts while the larger albatrosses hovered over the stern. Pigeon pie was a rare delicacy aboard ship that most sailors preferred to chicken.

Next: Mutiny off Cape Horn

The Era of the Clipper Ships
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