Christmas in Southern Seas
The _Quest_ was subjected to a very thorough overhaul during her stay
in Rio. Judging by the opinions of the experts Sir Ernest called into
consultation, she needed it—she seemed to be wrong everywhere; and to
venture down into the icebound South with her in her then condition
was practically suicide.
First of all, her engines were surveyed, and the crank-shaft, which was
the cause of most of our troubles, was properly aligned. The marvel
seemed to be that we’d managed to come as far as we had done without
meeting disaster. We’d met with a certain amount of it, anyhow—and
we’d treated that impostor, as Kipling calls it, contemptuously.
How we should treat triumph when that appeared we hardly knew. Did
I mention that what are, in my opinion, the most stirring lines in
English poetry, Kipling’s “If,” were posted up aboard us conspicuously
as a sort of chart by which to steer our daily course?
Then, too, it was discovered that the propeller, which had churned
astern so uncertainly, was far too heavy for the ship and her shaft;
she was being racked to pieces by the violent vibration; and so a
smaller, more complaisant propeller was shipped in place of our old
friendly enemy. The scarfed topmast, that had caused more bad language
than I like to remember, was condemned, and a new one furnished by
the Brazilian Admiralty, who offered us every courtesy throughout, was
shipped in its place. I should like to give a detailed description of
these operations, but must leave the task to one better equipped with
nautical knowledge than myself. But, as well as repairs, we recaulked
and tarred the hull, which, like all wooden hulls, was disposed to
leak consumedly. When a wooden ship is sailing on a wind, her weather
side heaves out of the water a good deal, and, in tropical seas, the
sun scorches down on the exposed timber with such merciless effect
that, as soon as the vessel is put about and the once-high side is
below the water-line, her open seams permit the water literally to pour
in, and this keeps all hands busy at the pumps. Moreover, it makes
the bilges extraordinarily unpleasant, for the stench of putrefying
sea water is about the most stomach-turning odour I know.
We also enlarged our existing accommodation to the extent of erecting
a new deck-house forrard of the old one, to serve as a dining-room,
as the after mess-room was far too small to accommodate all hands.
Since the _Quest_ was to be our home for an indefinite period, we
thought we deserved room in which to stretch ourselves.
Naturally enough, whilst these alterations were in progress, the
ship became too small by far for us to live aboard; too, she was so
uncomfortable when careened for caulking that we thought it no shame
to live ashore, and accepted the ready hospitality that was offered
to us on every hand. Slight changes were made, too, in our personnel;
Mr. Eriksen returned home, and three new hands were shipped, one of
them to carry on my old job of cook’s mate.
We explored Rio pretty thoroughly during the month we were there.
For it demanded a whole month to effect sufficient repairs to make
us weatherly, in spite of the Boss’s growing impatience. No wonder he
was impatient: the odds had been against us from the beginning. Here,
and simply on account of defects, we were fully six weeks behind our
programme, and that programme promised to need considerable amendment.
We marvelled at the beauty of Rio itself: a city of really stately
buildings, broad boulevards, and thoroughly up-to-date improvements.
We admired the very wonderful mosaic pavements, which are everywhere,
a tribute to the patience of those who had laid them in this age when
beauty has so constantly to give place to utility, and the labour of
love seems to be becoming a thing of the past.
Furthermore, we climbed the famous Sugar Loaf, Vao d’Assucar being
its Brazilian title. As I mentioned, this curious peak, ridiculously
like one of the old sugar loaves that I understand used to decorate
grocers’ windows, dominates the entrance to Rio Harbour on the southern
side, and towers vertically out of a placid sea a sheer two thousand
feet into a cloudless sky. At one time its ascent was considered a
feat second only to the conquest of the Matterhorn; and I remember
reading a breathless story dealing with a young midshipman’s conquest
of the problem; but now modern ingenuity has effected a solution,
and we modern adventurers ascended by means of a cable-car running
to the summit. I suppose that if Julius Cæsar suddenly came back to
life and decided to invade Britain again he would do it by aeroplane!
Even if we had been required to make the ascent in the primitive
manner, our trouble would have been well rewarded, for, at night,
staring out towards the city from the ultimate summit, seeing the
countless lights reflected gloriously on the bay, I viewed what I
consider to be the most enchanting scene I have ever clapped eyes
on: a very City Beautiful, unreal and mystical, as it were a vision
of Fairyland itself.
Rio heat can be very trying; but Nature has provided a remedy.
Punctually at four o’clock in the afternoon, just when the soggy
heat is becoming absolutely unbearable, when even to think requires
impossible exertion, and to stir one’s littlest finger calls for
lengthy meditation and preparation, there suddenly comes a refreshing
coolness in the air, pleasant wind-currents stir, the oppression
lifts as if by magic and a tingling suggestion of well-being fills
the veins. This wind is known as the “Rio Doctor,” and its qualities
are undoubtedly medicinal. But for that “Doctor,” I fancy prolonged
existence there for a white man would be unbearable.
Amongst other diversions, I visited a small troop of British and
American Scouts, and amongst them spent a memorable evening. It is
very gratifying to an enthusiastic Scout to see with his own eyes
how far-flung is our movement, and what benefits it confers on those
who are in it. Apart from the white Scouts there are many troops
amongst the Brazilians; but, unfortunately, the movement amongst them,
as in Germany, is, to my way of thinking, too much imbued with the
military spirit, which in these days is being revealed as a worthless
anachronism.
Owing to our long delay it was not until December 17 that we left
Wilson’s Island, where we had lain throughout the period of our
overhaul, and dropped anchor again on the city side of the harbour
in order to take aboard stores, water, and the other necessary
impedimenta. Not that our alterations were by any means complete;
but the Boss’s impatience was growing to such an extent that he was
firmly resolved to make shift with what was already done and chance
his luck. Once the stores were aboard, we moved off again and dropped
anchor in a lovely little bay on the Nictheroy side, not far from the
harbour entrance; and here we found ourselves with as much work to
tackle as was convenient. During refit all our past careful stowage
had been necessarily disturbed, and as we had to prepare ourselves
to face any kind of weather that might come along, we were as busy
as bees, lashing, stowing, jamming, wedging, contriving innumerable
ingenuities, and trimming the ship into a weatherly condition. A
bathe was very welcome when daylight died.
Next morning work continued. We got something of a scare when an urgent
message was received aboard, requiring Dr. Macklin to go ashore at
once to see Sir Ernest, who had been taken suddenly ill. Off went the
doctor, post-haste, but on arriving at the house where the Boss was
staying as the guest of hospitable friends, he found him completely
recovered and apt to make light of his temporary affliction. Sir
Ernest was always the sort of man who made light of trouble: he merely
stated that he had been troubled by a slight faintness and that he
had actually sent for the doctor to make inquiry about stores; but
afterwards we knew that this attack was an advance messenger to our
gallant leader, warning him that the sands were running low in the
glass of his life.
The shipping of a new cook’s mate left me free for deck duties, and
I saw an excellent chance of qualifying myself as a seaman. I started
this Sunday morning by keeping an hour’s anchor-watch: 2-3 a.m. Very
quiet and wonderful the ship was during that hour of darkness, with
those unforgettable stars blazing nobly in a sky that was for all the
world like velvet. Then, during the forenoon, I helped Mr. Dell to
set up a stay and rig halliards for the jib; proper sailorizing work
this, and enjoyable. For, however enthusiastic a man may be, peeling
potatoes can lose its interest and fail to convince the peeler that
his labour is an essential aid to Polar exploration work! Whereas,
when you’re working with the gear that actually means the ship’s
safety and progress, you feel you’re something that definitely counts
in the scheme of things, and your pride swells enormously.
What with stowing and restowing, trimming and retrimming, it was
four in the afternoon before we finally got under way and, under easy
steam, proceeded towards the entrance. A most invigorating “send-off”
was ours as we departed; our Brazilian friends seemed determined
to “do us proud”; they accompanied us in boats for a considerable
distance, cheering themselves hoarse, firing salutes from guns they
had thoughtfully brought with them. We answered with high-soaring
rockets and our famous “Tally ho!” war-cry, and the scene was a very
pandemonium of enthusiasm, invigorating to a degree. But we left the
clamour behind, and, quickening speed, steamed out past the Sugar
Loaf and the forts, down through the chain of islands, and so to open
sea once more; and glad enough we were to feel the swing and lift
of the gliding keel beneath us; for though our stay in Rio had been
memorable, chockful of pleasure, and revealing the jovial thoroughness
of Under the Line hospitality and encouragement, when you’re embarked
on a definite quest you want to get on with the business in hand, and
lying tugging at your anchors won’t help you to overcome the troubles
of open sea.
I had the wheel during the second dog-watch, and the Boss was on the
bridge. Knowing how terribly he had worried throughout our stay in the
Brazilian port, it was invigorating to discover him so cheerful and
enthusiastic; he had shed the burden of his woe, and talked to Wild
and Worsley very animatedly about his experiences ashore. An accident
to Jeffrey—his leg was injured—promised to keep him more or less
_hors-de-combat_ for a considerable time; Macklin said three weeks in
bed was absolutely necessary. Jeffrey, a man of action and the exact
opposite of a shirker, grumbled ferociously at this sentence; but
the doctor knew best, and instead of three weeks it was six before he
was fit for the fighting line again. Sir Ernest volunteered to stand
his watch for him. Here, again, he gave evidence of his thought for
others and his unwillingness to add to their burdens, no matter how
weighty those he took upon his own shoulders might be. Had he done
as some men would have done, and required his officers to share sick
Jeffrey’s work between them, he could have given himself greater
easement; maybe averted the tragedy that was already touching him with
the shadow of its wings; but no, he acted up to his motto throughout
and played the man to the very end.
During the night the sea began to get up more than a bit, and
tested our recent stowage work to the full. The decks became almost
impassable by reason of the confusion. Drums of oil, crates of fruit,
heavy packing-cases, everything that was not actually bolted to the
ship’s framework seemed on the run. It was like chasing excited pigs
to secure many of the loose articles, for the oil splashed about in
earnest fashion, and even when you got a grip on a wallowing cask
your fingers would slide off its chines, and away would go the cask,
as the ship saucily hove herself up on end, for all the world like
that runaway gun in Victor Hugo’s book. So that, what with one thing
and another, it took us all day to get things set to rights and the
decks squared up.
One part of my work consisted in clearing the chart-room for action.
The Boss summoned me at 7 a.m. to do this, and seemed peeved about
the prevalent disorder. No wonder; his orderly soul must have been
in utter revolt against the chaos that reigned. Everything that had
been overlooked, everything that had come aboard at the last minute
seemed to have been heaved into the chart-room. There were bundles
of clean washing on top of the chronometer lockers, oddments of all
kinds littered the place. Most of these belonged to Mr. Wilkins and
Mr. Douglas, who had started off three weeks before for South Georgia
to make scientific observations. Owing to our long delay in Rio our
meditated call at Cape Town was ruled out, and it was necessary to
alter the original plan of campaign. It should be remembered that
much of our gear had been sent on in advance to Cape Town, which was
to be our base. Shackleton, accordingly, made up his mind to wash out
Cape Town, and avail himself of the resources of South Georgia, where
dogs and impedimenta might be obtained, thanks to an ill-fated German
expedition that had left much of its equipment there in pre-war days.
“Carry that gear down below into the fo’c’sle, and treat it kindly,”
said the Boss. “Always remember that you think twice for an absent
shipmate where you’d think once for yourself.” So I gradually
brought order out of chaos, thereby easing Shackleton’s not unnatural
peevishness, and then got out on deck to make myself generally useful.
We were carrying a full press of canvas, but as the wind was falling
light, notwithstanding the boisterousness of the sea, it was decided
to shorten sail, and the topsail was accordingly clewed up. Dr.
Macklin and myself went up aloft to make it fast; and this was my
first experience on a topsail yard. It was rather like being tied
to the end of a piece of elastic. You’d never think one small ship
could be so vigorous in her motions as was the _Quest_. One minute
I was sliding down an apparently unfathomable chasm, the next I was
perched high aloft, staring down with mingled scorn and apprehension
on my opposite number who was busily engaged in furling the other
side of the sail. “One hand for yourself and one for the expedition,”
was the maxim that had long ago been instilled into me, so you may
believe me when I say that the hand for myself was busily employed!
It was a nightmarish experience, but the topsail was ultimately made
fast, and the ship’s liveliness seemed to diminish as a result.
It was a relief to turn in after all these adventures and win some
sleep; but at midnight I was out again, to find the engines stopped
and the ship rolling as if she intended to have the masts out of
herself, for her headway was stopped and she had fallen off into
the trough of the sea. Once again our engines were causing trouble:
the circulating pump had gone “phutt,” and it was necessary for all
hands to turn out and pump the bilges clear. A lovely job, there
in the darkness, with the ship trying to tie knots in herself! And
bilge water is so pleasant! Pumping is a back-aching job at best,
but when you’re performing nautical gymnastics throughout your spell
it exercises every muscle in your body, and you marvel at the number
of muscles you possess, when they’re all aching at once! Still, the
engine-room staff quitted themselves like men, repaired the damage,
and got us under way once more; and the day broke fine with a calming
sea and enough of a breeze to warrant the setting of all plain sail.
This eased matters considerably, the erratic motion subsided, and
all was well. In the afternoon, by way of variety, I was instructed
to trim coal for the stokehold. Rio was hot; we are led to believe
that there is even a hotter place, but if it is no worse than in the
_Quest’s_ bunkers down here in the tropics, I have no fear of the
future. The particular bunker selected for my attention was situated
quite close to the boiler. It left a baker’s oven ridiculously behind,
so far as heat was concerned, and the coal-dust—phew! Not that I’m
grumbling, mark you, the job had to be done, and there was no reason
why I should have been excused; but it is my way to relate impressions.
I found out a way to make even this existence tolerable—man, especially
a Scout man, being an adaptable animal. I threw down exactly sixty
shovelfuls of coal, that being my extreme limit; then I dived for
the stokehold, with the enthusiastic eagerness of a Bromley-kite
after a dead Malay, and emerged into that comparative ice-chest in
an avalanche of dust, small coal, and bigger lumps, with the shovel
clattering triumphantly between my legs. In the stokehold I got a
breath of air that was not entirely solid, remembered that mine it
was to do or die, and got back to the bunker just in time to satisfy
the demands of the stoker on duty. A great game!
Evidently my success at this ploy was so conspicuous that I was
employed throughout the following day in the bunkers as a reward of
zeal. But the weather was cooling somewhat now, and the conditions
were not so irksome; yet sleeping on deck was becoming more of a pain
than a pleasure, and I found my bunk in the wardroom quite inviting.
Then, on the next day, I completed my bunker work, to my great
satisfaction, and resumed duty on deck. The weather overhead was fine,
the sea was growingly vigorous. On this day I saw my first albatross.
It was sitting on the water, and at first sight looked to be nothing
more important than a large gull; but when it took wing and skimmed
away, I got an impression of perfect and amazing flight. It took
things in most leisurely fashion, obtaining the greatest amount of
result with the least expenditure of energy—circling our mastheads
with supreme insolence, without so much as the quiver of a wing. It
was one of the Wanderer class, I was told; but its wanderings ceased
when it came upon us, for it accompanied us south with the greatest
pertinacity, living on the scraps thrown overboard from the cook’s
galley.
Also, we saw a “Portuguese man-o’-war”—a nautilus; a flimsy,
bewildering, beautiful sea-curiosity, with its sails that looked
like mother-o’-pearl all fairly set to the breeze. Albatrosses
and nautiluses are seldom seen in company—but we were favoured by
witnessing this remarkable combination.
It was amusing to watch the envy and admiration with which our two
flying men—Carr and Wilkins—studied the manœuvres of the albatross.
Both of them, apparently, thought that if they possessed ingenuity
sufficient to enable them to construct a heavier-than-air machine
that would duplicate that effortless motion, their fortunes would be
made and their undying fame assured. They talked throughout the day
in a jargon that was entirely unintelligible to me about vol-planing,
and stalling, and banking, and at the end resolved that Nature was
a greater inventor than mere man.
Just about now, too, there was a certain amount of merriment in the
ship owing to Carr being required to improve the accommodation below.
It takes very little to arouse a laugh on shipboard, where stern hard
work is the prevailing note; and we were grateful to our amateur
carpenter for permitting us to laugh at his well-meant efforts,
which, though rough and crude, suited the conditions. Despite the
alterations that had been made at Rio, the down-below accommodation
was still limited, and every man had to stow himself away in as small
a space as was compatible with continued existence. If in a future
state I am ever destined to become a sardine, I shall know that I’ve
had good training in the art of close stowage!
As the wind was coming away fair and with a force that promised added
speed, the foresail and staysail were taken in and the square-sail set.
The promise was fulfilled, and now we romped along in an inspiring
manner through a quickening sea that slapped happy little wavelets
against our quarter and threw occasional wisps of spindrift aboard.
In the main the day was somewhat misty, and there was a heavy swell
running as though promising an increase of the wind—what Kipling
calls “The high-running swell before storm, grey, formless, enormous,
and growing.” It’s astonishing to me how Kipling, himself no sailor,
understands the sea so well! He seems to have got right down to the
very inwardness of open water, and if he’d been a trained sailor he
couldn’t understand the sea’s mysteries and wonderments better than
he does.
The day of Christmas Eve broke to show us a moderate sea and a
refreshing west-south-west wind. During the entire day this breeze
increased, with frequent squalls and a gloomy, lowering sky, and
the wiseacres amongst us prognosticated bad weather. Of course it is
always safest to prophesy bad weather at sea, because you naturally
make up your mind that it is coming and prepare yourself for any
emergency; and then, if it doesn’t eventuate, you thank your lucky
stars for continued good times. But on this occasion the portents
proved correct: before night a big sea was running, and the wind, from
menacing whistle, increased to that deep thunderous note of striving
which indicates the nearness of a pukka storm. We began to ship
water—nothing to worry about, but still enough to drown out the dynamo,
as a result of which catastrophe our lights were extinguished and we
were compelled to resort to the oil-lamps by way of illumination.
While shortening sail one of the clews of the squaresail, carrying
heavy block and shackle, whipped sharply across the deck and caught
Carr a sickening blow in the face. He was literally clean knocked out,
but contrived to come back to time, and with his hands to his face,
and the blood flowing all too freely through his fingers, tried to
carry on. But this wasn’t to be permitted; he was sent below for the
attentions of the doctor, who diagnosed a broken nose. The doctor and
his assistant worked assiduously to restore the unfortunate’s nasal
organ to its pristine beauty, but though they satisfied themselves
they failed to satisfy the sufferer, who did his best, in front of a
mirror, to flatter his own mild vanity. He made such a poor attempt
that the work had all to be done over again, and during the operation
Hussey consoled him with impertinent remarks concerning the effect
his face would have upon the women of England if he tampered with it
any further.
This was a funny Christmas Eve, however, far different from those
of the past. To palliate our present uncomfortable conditions, we
endeavoured to create a vicarious atmosphere by remembering previous
Christmases. Here were we, a congregation of desperate adventurers,
collected from all the corners of the world, isolated for our sins
in a little, tossing ship that seemed pitifully small to engage with
the massed forces of the southern seas; all of us separate entities,
dependent upon our imaginations for recreation. We talked about
Christmases past, and groaned in spirit when we reflected upon their
glories; and then, as nothing was to be gained thereby, we went on to
picture the ideal Christmas we would wish to spend. Opinions varied
very considerably. Sentimentally, we mostly drew passionate sketches
of snow-covered fields and church spires pointing upwards, and waits
and skating and honest Christmas fare, carefully omitting, needless
to say, the consequent, inevitable indigestion! It is rather queer how
the exile invariably pictures Christmas as a snow-smothered festival,
whereas the average Christmas, according to my experience, is chiefly
remarkable for its entire lack of snow!
Anyhow, we all decided unanimously that the Christmas dinners of
the past were to be mere shadows as compared with the Christmas
dinners of to-morrow; for Mr. Rowett and his considerate wife had
made their arrangements well in advance, and the ship was excellently
well supplied with rich and luscious fare. Certain cases, carefully
stowed and treated with exaggerated respect, were rumoured to contain
turkeys, hams, puddings, and all those ameliorations which go to make
Christmas what it is; and on this note of gastronomical anticipation
we welcomed the Day.
Alas! alas! we builded our hopes on foundations of shifting sand!
Christmas Day, down there in southern latitudes—where it was officially
midsummer—dawned bleak and grey and threatening. The wind during the
night had increased to a very good imitation of a real gale, and the
ship was showing precisely what she could do in the way of uneasy
motion. A cork could not have been more lively in the sea that was
kicked up by the droning velocity of the unleashed winds. So far as
I myself was concerned, a happening occurred that threatened to make
me entirely indifferent to this Christmas Day, or indeed any others
that might gladden the world. My job was to maintain a look-out on
the bridge—the forecastle by this time being so constantly washed by
whole water that the normal look-out position had become untenable. The
officer of the watch sent me below for a tin of milk wherewith to make
more palatable his morning coffee, and off I started, full of zeal.
Crossing the poop I felt the _Quest_ poise and quiver preparatory to
taking one of her solar-plexus-disturbing pitches. A big, formidable
grey-bearded comber swung up out of the obscurity, gathering weight
as it came; it towered high, growing—always growing. Then it fell,
right atop of me, washed me clean off my feet and promised to wash
me overboard; but with a natural desire for a long life as well as a
merry one, I clung to what came handiest, a bit of the covering-board,
and held on. Noisy water covered me, I felt myself drowning; but the
ship kicked up her stern with a saucy irresponsibility, the water
receded, to the accompaniment of thunderous growls, and I continued
to exist. But I was as nearly overboard as a toucher; and considering
the sea that was running it is doubtful if a boat could have been
launched to the rescue. However, all’s well that ends well, and the
watch-officer got his tin of milk in the long run.
Let it be recorded here and now, how wonderful a sea-boat the _Quest_
is. I have probably mentioned the fact before, but it cannot be too
strongly emphasized. She seems designed to stand weather that would
make the biggest Atlantic liner quail. Small and light, she rises
triumphantly to the noisy crest of the biggest waves, and stares down
in supreme scorn at the welter of disturbed water beneath her. Always
she seems to be laughing in her sleeve at the clamorous immensity
of the combers, as though deriding their efforts to overwhelm her.
She is wonderful, a ship to be proud of, a ship to trust! She seems
to look on the whole business as something of a game; and, instead
of shipping vast masses of destructive water as a bigger vessel
would, dodges the big fellows, kicks them under her keel, and roars
up splendidly to the foamy summits to twiddle her fingers at the
Atlantic’s worst. Of course, even the _Quest_ shipped water, but not
in sufficient quantities to tear away her bulwarks, stave in her
hatches, and generally tear her timbers apart, as might well have
happened in the case of a bigger ship.
But what she gained in seaworthiness she atoned for in her liveliness.
By breakfast-time she was heaving herself about in an unimaginable
fashion, so much so that it was impossible to keep anything on the
table. Everything was thrown about, and the fiddles proved worthless as
a safeguard; and, for this reason, the actual ceremonial of Christmas
was wisely postponed. To cook a satisfactory meal was a problem beyond
even the cook’s skill and resourcefulness, though there is no doubt
that Green was the hero of the day. He did his best; but when the
kettle hits a man in the eye, and the soup-pot empties itself into his
waistcoat, and the stove thoughtfully discharges its hissing embers
on his feet, and every now and then a wave slaps in and extinguishes
the newly-kindled fire, and the floor is swimming knee-deep in greasy
brine, what can a man do that would not cause derision in the mind
of a Parisian chef? The Boss gave orders that the impossible was not
to be attempted, and lacking turkeys and the kindred delights of
Christmas, we satisfied ourselves with heroic sandwiches of bully
beef and bread, eating them as best we could manage, stowed away
in the alleyways for the most part, with our feet and bodies well
braced for steadiness against the soul-stirring rolls of the ship
to which we had entrusted our fortunes. Green, like the hero he was,
unexpectedly provided us with piping hot cocoa, and considering how
thoroughly drenched and chilled we were—for there was no shelter worth
the name to be found—the steaming beverage was better to be desired
than nectar and ambrosia and all the fabulous delights of the gods.
What though its flavour was reminiscent of the bilges! It heartened
us and stimulated us to a nicety, and we asked for nothing better—at
least, we might have asked, but with scant prospect of receiving.
Notwithstanding all seafaring difficulties, Green, determined that we
should have some sort of a hot meal for dinner. A thick stew resulted,
which we did not attempt to analyse too closely, but ate and were
thankful for. Such as wished it were also served with a tot of grog,
wherewith to drink the healths of the promoter of the expedition
and his wife; and then we compared notes of Christmases past again,
and discovered what a queerly assorted company we were. From Central
Africa, Iceland and Singapore, from New York, Harburg and Lithuania,
from Mauritius, Rio and Cape Town, from London and Aberdeen, and,
seemingly, all the cities of the world, we’d drifted towards this
restless speck now wallowing in the run of a South Atlantic sea, as
a witness that the call of adventure can never overpass the widest
limits of the world.
And that all things might be finished in real slapdash style, a big
sea lolloped aboard, insinuated itself down the after-companion and
saturated my bunk. Truly a merry, merry Christmas; but what of it!
And this Christmas Day brought us many greetings, if not from absent
friends, at least from the birds of the air, which were about us in
great numbers: albatross, mollymauks, whale-birds, Cape pigeons—their
name was legion.
Boxing Day brought an improvement in our conditions; the wind
was lessening, although the sea still ran high, and with only our
fore-and-afters set, we logged an even six knots, which was to us
almost a racing pace. As an offset to improved circumstances outboard
we developed inboard defects again—and the chief of these promised
to be really serious, for our main fresh-water tank sprang a leak,
and before it was discovered the tank was dry and our precious store
of drinking water was washing nastily about the odoriferous bilges.
The Boss took this accident very much to heart; it seemed as though
ill-fortune had dogged him throughout the voyage; but all the worrying
in the world could not mend matters, and the only thing to do was to
practise the most rigid economy in using what little fresh water still
remained, reserving it for drinking and cooking only, endeavouring to
satisfy all our other needs with sea-water pure and simple, though a
little oily water was being distilled from the engine-room exhaust
tank. Fortunately the weather was growing considerably cooler, and
our thirsts were slaked automatically.
Next day, though the wind was still blowing fairly hard, it was fair,
and we set the squaresail to take full advantage of it. No luck!
Hardly was it set than the out-haul carried away, and down came the
canvas for repair, which was effected with commendable swiftness, so
that by breakfast-time the sail was again set, and in obedience to
the weight of wind in it the _Quest_ began to romp along like a cup
winner. The number of albatrosses accompanying us now was growing;
they are wonderful birds, and well worth watching. Gigantic, too, some
of them are, with a stretch of wing somewhere about fourteen feet,
and an ability to fly untiringly without any perceptible exertion.
As the day progressed the wind freshened, and by four bells in the
middle watch a full gale from the W.N.W. was rioting about us. Coming
on deck at this time I was greeted with the awe-inspiring sight of
a favouring gale, with big seas galloping in our wake like hungry
monsters eager to overtake and devour us. Dark though the night was,
the phosphorescent gleam of the foam was so vivid as to give one a
fine impression of the elemental tumult that raged outboard. The seas
were being kicked up with truly astonishing velocity, and the hissing
rumble of them as they piled along our rails was a sound to remember
for many a long day.
As the wind was well away on the quarter the engines were unnecessary,
so under squaresail and topsail alone the _Quest_ flashed merrily
southward. We were logging a steady nine knots by this time—better
than we’d ever done before, even with engines working and all sail
set; a mightily invigorating sensation it was, I must admit.
At four o’clock I went to the wheel, not without a certain amount
of trepidation, for the ship appeared a lively problem to tackle,
rioting about as she was. This was by far the most strenuous trick I’d
experienced, for the following sea played the mischief with her stern
and threw it so recklessly about that only by dint of constant twirling
of the spokes was it possible to steer even an approximate course.
The helm was hard a-port or hard a-starboard all the trick—there
was none of that old easeful turning of a spoke either way. The ship
seemed to go mad; she took the bit in her teeth, and fretting at the
control, simply reared, and capered, and plunged, and bucketed until
you’d think she was incapable of further exertion; but just as you
satisfied yourself that she was quietening down, away she went again,
taking the whole circle of the compass to play with, so that my heart
was in my mouth most of the time for fear she might broach to and,
coming broadside on to the threshing combers, capsize and finish the
matter once and for all.
Yet it was thrilling, magnificently so, to realize that I’d got this
boisterous vessel between my hands and was master of her destinies.
The clamour of the gale was nothing, the level drive of spindrift as
the roaring wind clipped off the wave-crests and hurled them aboard
was but a challenge to war. Mr. Wild, who had the watch, was not at
all anxious to rid us of the benefit of this good fair wind; and he
cracked on for all he was worth, in regular, old-fashioned clipper
style, and imagined he was back in his younger days when steam
seemed a poor servant and spray-washed canvas the one great thing
that counted, and when he was relieved at four o’clock he passed the
word to keep on carrying on. This we did until six, when the Boss
decided that we’d run quite far enough, and that now was the time to
heave-to, since a ship making no headway at all is better than a ship
plunging to the bottom of the sea. I, being off duty, had just turned
in and was dropping off into that sleep which comes as a reward for
much honest toil, when I was rudely awakened by a sanakatowzer of a
sea that, obeying a purposeful weather-roll of the ship, had boarded
us and was flooding down the companionway towards my berth, which,
unfortunately for me, lay right in its track. I got out on deck as
nimbly as I’ve ever done it, and there was compelled to sheer awe
by the affrighting majesty of the waves, which were towering now to
our very trucks, so far as my impression went, though I’m told the
biggest was not more than forty feet in height from trough to crest.
I wish I had the pen of a writer to do justice to the majesty of
the gale as it now was. The wind had increased to hurricane force;
and the purposeful intent of the white-bearded combers as they piled
and grew and added others and yet others to themselves and then bore
down upon us, must have been seen to be understood. All hands were
summoned to shorten sail and get the ship ready for heaving-to, and
with the utmost difficulty the big squaresail was mastered, by the
process of running the _Quest_ directly away before the gale, and
letting the big canvas down by the run, with all hands leaping like
furies to throw themselves upon its slatting, cracking, thunderous
mass, to quieten it on the foredeck. Dell injured himself pretty
severely in this operation; he paid the price of his own activity,
for he fouled his foot in a rope when jumping to help another man
who’d got too much to tackle single-handed, and came such a smasher
to the deck that it was many a month before he was himself again.
Once the squaresail was mastered the topsail was clewed up, and Worsley
and Macklin went aloft to stow it, which they did in seamanlike
fashion, despite the trying conditions under which they laboured.
Then, under a reefed staysail, we hove-to, to wait for better times.
Heaving-to was a ticklish task, but thanks to the prime seamanship of
our officers it was effected without disaster, and although all hands
were ordered into the rigging when the _Quest_ was eased up to the
wind, in case big water should drench her; and although whole seas
had thundered over our bows whilst running, never a drop of water
worth the mentioning was shipped as the helm was put down and the bow
came gentle creeping up towards the run of the seas. In order to give
us greater easement the wheel was lashed down and oil-bags were put
over the bows, where they trailed ahead, and, leaking oil steadily,
created an almost miraculous effect on the turbulent seas. It was
most curious to watch a towering, foamy crest come hurtling towards
us, growing as it came, as though intent on our instant overwhelming;
but when within about fifteen yards of the bow it would suddenly
loose its viciousness, flatten out, and slink as though ashamed of
its previous bullying uproar, smoothly under our bows. It took in
all some sixty gallons of oil to master that broken water, but it
was worth it! Not that the ship’s motion was eased much thereby, she
still rolled and pitched consumedly, but the savage assault of the
greybeards was lessened, and, although uncomfortable, we realized
that we were no longer in actual danger.
A little water certainly lopped on board, quite enough to fill the
waist and wash out the galley fire; but when our delayed breakfast-time
came round Green, whom nothing could daunt on shipboard, served out
substantial sandwiches to the satisfaction of all hands, and these we
ate whilst collected round the lee door of the galley, washing them
down with some hot decoction of mingled flavours which our cook had
apparently managed to create out of nothing.
By three o’clock in the afternoon the back of the gale was broken,
and by seven it was deemed safe to get under way again, with the
engines moving easily.
It was necessary to pump continuously now, however, because the ship
was taking a good deal of water, but gradually, through the hours
of night, wind and sea abated. After breakfast we took in our storm
staysail and set the jib, topsail and squaresail, and proceeded upon
our lawful occasions. There was no little stowing and securing to
be done, as was only natural; for such a blowing as we had passed
through was enough to test the stoutest lashings; particularly was
the surf boat in danger; but all was made Bristol fashion again, and
as the sprays were no longer breaking inboard I took advantage of
the betterment to dry my blankets and clothes, which sorely needed it.
And now, once more, our ill-luck waited on us; again it was the
engine-room. The engineer had discovered a serious leak into the
furnaces from the boiler, and it was a leak that could not be repaired
at sea. The Boss had serious thoughts that it might mean the total
relinquishment of the adventure, and this worried him enormously.
All through, from the very commencement—long before the _Quest_ left
London indeed—worry had piled on worry, and Sir Ernest had overcome
difficulties that must certainly have daunted a man of much less stout
fibre than his. But he gave instructions that if the leak developed
steam pressure must be reduced, and so we carried limpingly along,
making the best of it, since this wasn’t precisely the yachting trip
it had appeared to be in more genial waters.