Mark Twain, A Biography 1866-1875 | Page 9

It began with a tempest a
little way out of San Francisco--a storm terrible but brief, that brought
the passengers from their berths to the deck, and for a time set them
praying. Then there was Captain Ned Wakeman, a big, burly, fearless
sailor, who had visited the edges of all continents and archipelagos;
who had been born at sea, and never had a day's schooling in his life,
but knew the Bible by heart; who was full of human nature and
profanity, and believed he was the only man on the globe who knew the
secret of the Bible miracles. He became a distinct personality in Mark
Twain's work-- the memory of him was an unfailing delight. Captain
"Ned Blakely," in 'Roughing It', who with his own hands hanged Bill
Noakes, after reading him promiscuous chapters from the Bible, was

Captain Wakeman. Captain "Stormfield," who had the marvelous visit
to heaven, was likewise Captain Wakeman; and he appears in the "Idle
Excursion" and elsewhere.
Another event of the voyage was crossing the Nicaragua Isthmus--the
trip across the lake and down the San Juan River--a, brand-new
experience, between shores of splendid tropic tangle, gleaming with
vivid life. The luxuriance got into his note-book.
Dark grottos, fairy festoons, tunnels, temples, columns, pillars, towers,
pilasters, terraces, pyramids, mounds, domes, walls, in endless
confusion of vine-work--no shape known to architecture
unimitated--and all so webbed together that short distances within are
only gained by glimpses. Monkeys here and there; birds warbling;
gorgeous plumaged birds on the wing; Paradise itself, the imperial
realm of beauty-nothing to wish for to make it perfect.
But it was beyond the isthmus that the voyage loomed into proportions
somber and terrible. The vessel they took there, the San Francisco,
sailed from Greytown January 1, 1867, the beginning of a memorable
year in Mark Twain's life. Next day two cases of Asiatic cholera were
reported in the steerage. There had been a rumor of it in Nicaragua, but
no one expected it on the ship.
The nature of the disease was not hinted at until evening, when one of
the men died. Soon after midnight, the other followed. A minister
making the voyage home, Rev. J. G. Fackler, read the burial service.
The gaiety of the passengers, who had become well acquainted during
the Pacific voyage, was subdued. When the word "cholera" went
among them, faces grew grave and frightened. On the morning of
January 4th Reverend Fackler's services were again required. The dead
man was put overboard within half an hour after he had ceased to
breathe.
Gloom settled upon the ship. All steam was made to put into Key West.
Then some of the machinery gave way and the ship lay rolling,
helplessly becalmed in the fierce heat of the Gulf, while repairs were
being made. The work was done at a disadvantage, and the parts did not
hold. Time and again they were obliged to lie to, in the deadly tropic
heat, listening to the hopeless hammering, wondering who would be the
next to be sewed up hastily in a blanket and slipped over the ship's side.
On the 5th seven new cases of illness were reported. One of the crew, a

man called "Shape," was said to be dying. A few hours later he was
dead. By this time the Reverend Fackler himself had been taken.
"So they are burying poor 'Shape' without benefit of clergy," says the
note-book.
General consternation now began to prevail. Then it was learned that
the ship's doctor had run out of medicines. The passengers became
demoralized. They believed their vessel was to become a charnel ship.
Strict sanitary orders were issued, and a hospital was improvised.
Verily the ship is becoming a floating hospital herself--not an hour
passes but brings its fresh sensation, its new disaster, its melancholy
tidings. When I think of poor "Shape" and the preacher, both so well
when I saw them yesterday evening, I realize that I myself may be dead
to-morrow.
Since the last two hours all laughter, all levity, has ceased on the
ship--a settled gloom is upon the faces of the passengers.
By noon it was evident that the minister could not survive. He died at
two o'clock next morning; the fifth victim in less than five days. The
machinery continued to break and the vessel to drag. The ship's doctor
confessed to Clemens that he was helpless. There were eight patients in
the hospital.
But on January 6th they managed to make Key West, and for some
reason were not quarantined. Twenty-one passengers immediately
deserted the ship and were heard of no more.
"I am glad they are gone. D--n them," says the notebook. Apparently he
had never considered leaving, and a number of others remained. The
doctor restocked his medicine-locker, and the next