A journal kept off Cape Horn, by Jessie Rowan
An original journal written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.
In this journal, kept in 1866, the wife of a ship’s captain records a storm as their sailing ship rounds Cape Horn, at the southern tip of South America, on a voyage to Chile.
July 4th. We are off the Horn, or so William tells me, though for three days we have seen nothing but grey water standing up in hills and grey sky lying down upon them. It is the middle of winter here. The cold is of a kind I did not know existed: it comes through two flannel petticoats, a shawl and William’s old pilot coat as if they were muslin. Little Kester has been put into his cot with the sides lashed up, and he thinks it a fine game.
July 6th. I write this wedged into the corner of the cabin with my feet against the table leg, for the ship has not been still for one moment in forty hours. Last night a sea came over the stern and burst open the skylight, and in an instant the saloon was a foot deep in water, with the chairs and my workbasket and a tin of biscuits all sailing about together. I did not scream. I wish to set that down because it is the only thing I did well. I stood upon the sofa holding Kester and shaking so that my teeth knocked, and I could not have said a word if the Queen had asked me one.
William came below for ten minutes at four this morning, his beard white with frozen spray. He said she was a good ship and would do it, and kissed us both, and went back up. I do not think he has slept since Sunday. I heard him on deck afterwards, shouting orders that the wind tore to pieces before they reached the men.
July 7th. One of the apprentices, a boy named Hughes, no older than fifteen, was flung against the capstan and has broken his arm. There is no surgeon aboard. The steward held the lamp and I set the bone as well as I could, with two strips of a packing case and my second-best petticoat torn for bandages. The boy did not cry out. I did, afterwards, in the pantry, where nobody could see me.
July 9th. It is over. This morning the wind went round to the west and the sea fell, and for the first time in a week the sun came out and lay upon the water like spilt gold. An albatross has followed us since noon, never once moving its wings. Hughes is sitting up and eating, and Kester has been on deck in William’s arms. I find that my hands still tremble when I hold the pen. William says I behaved like a sailor. I have not told him about the pantry.
“The writer shows great courage throughout the voyage round Cape Horn.”
To what extent do you agree with this statement?
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120 exam-style questions on Eduqas GCSE English Language 2.1.1 Two unseen non-fiction texts, 19th and 21st century. Each one has a worked solution and a mark scheme showing where the marks go.