So we left our wreck, meditating on the ways of a wicked world, and went
on our own business to hunt round the south coast of San Miguel or St
Michael (we call the island) to the eastwards.
Parts of the coast we pass are very like Madeira, which is said to be
like a crumpled piece of paper lying on the sea. You calculate how many
hours it would take to ride a mile as the crow flies, round the bays,
over the tops and down the sides of the glens or ribieras.
[Illustration]
What lovely places there are to ride or drive to on the island, between
pine-trees, heath and hedges of hydrangea. There is one road where you
can drive continuously for twenty-one miles, with hedges of hydrangeas in
full bloom on either side.
Whilst we go whaling, keeping a bright look-out for sperm, I must try to
remember some of the inland charms and the show places of the island,
such as the Seven Cities, an inexplicable name for two lakes and woods in
a crater’s valley, and the Hot Volcanic Springs in another valley which
cure all ills. I would like to remember the low two-storeyed houses and
narrow sheets of Delgada pink and white or pale blue, and the green
balconies and red-tiled eaves showing against a narrow belt of blue
sky. The rooms or cellars of the ground floor are arched and the narrow
footway is made of a mosaic of round pebbles and quartz. There is a quiet
mystery in these narrow lanes in the hot midday, when the green shutters
are closed, and more mystery again at night when all the blinds are open
and there is lamplight and faint music from mandoline and guitar.
[Illustration]
The shops of Ponta Delgada are in these arched caves which support the
dwelling-houses and balconies, and they have no signboards! If you wish
to find a shoemaker you must walk looking into these caves. Ah yes!
I’ve seen one signboard, a scarlet swinging hand representing a lady’s
glove—now that’s worth remembering. Find that and keep it to starboard,
till right abeam, then swing to port and you will find on your left a
cave-topped restaurant, the Atlantico, clean and cool it is, with walls
painted delicate green. There are six little tables in the front part, a
desk and an arched hatch behind, at which lolls the cook, a jovial sort
of unshaved burly pirate, with, of course, a cigarette, but veritably a
_chef_. And behind the desk, sometimes for a moment or two, is your host,
a highly polished Sancho Panza; here is a jotting of him. He speaks a
little French and gives you provender fit for the gods. I mention this
place as cafés are rare things here, for the people as a rule feed at
home.
[Illustration]
Into this haven I came one night after the spell at sea of salt beef and
margarine, and who can tell the contrasting charm of the crisp rolls and
real butter and vino tinto! And as I rested and made furtive notes of the
patron there came music from above or some room near—a piano of early
nineteenth century—or was it a spinet or guitar playing the air of one of
Moore’s melodies.
“All that’s bright must fade, the brightest still the fleetest,
All that’s sweet was made but to be lost when sweetest.”
It is used in Indian as a bearer’s tune, and these are what I can recall
of the words from the long ago. It’s a sweet air and surely the words
are distressful enough to make a young man sad, and an old man smile.
I wonder what Portuguese words the fair (I mean dark) beauty next the
Atlantico put to the air—I must call again. Some of these native women
are very pretty, but they are much more guarded in the use of their
eyes than are their Spanish cousins. There’s a queer dress some of
them, mostly the seniors, wear out-of-doors; when they come out, which
is very seldom. Here is a jotting of it on the next page—it is of dark
blue cloth. The younger generation wear rather neat up-to-date French
dresses, but you see very few townswomen, they stay indoors, but many
countrywomen come into the town in the daytime and a group of them
sitting with baskets and fruit, with their vivid kerchiefs and shawls,
make a colour, light, and shade, enough to make a painter’s heart leap
with joy.
[Illustration]
We hunted round the east end of San Miguel and saw dolphins and some very
small whales.
Then we went north and chased some small whales, one, the biggest, almost
white. It was getting late, the sun setting behind the cloud-capped
island, still we stood by the guns—skipper, first mate and the writer
each at his gun, ready for a chance shot. These little whales move too
quickly out and into the water to give a fair shot.
The little excitement helped to raise our spirits from the damping
disappointment of the wreck. We now drift, and expect the light wind
to take us down to some shallower soundings which we see on the chart
several miles south and east of San Miguel, where we hope to find whales;
for they are in the habit of frequenting the edges of “banks,” when say
two or three hundred fathoms change into a thousand fathoms.
The way of a man with a maid is perhaps a simple problem compared to the
ways of whales. Who can tell how they guide their course, year after
year, past the same points, travelling, for instance, off the Shetlands
always N.E. along, you may say, a definite line.
Our plan for next week or so is to beat up the seas north of San Miguel,
going about twelve miles, spying six miles on either side, then taking a
right-angle course for other twelve or twenty-four miles, and so spying
a large tract of sea, and by this simple means we can keep our position
easily; and we keep the ordinary four hours’ watch; later, when we get
whales, “if” I should say, we will have all hands on deck all day, and
only a watchman on deck at night to attend to the steam cookers—but when
will that be? There is a new moon to-night and I turned some silver
leiras and a sixpence in my pocket, and will play the pipes—they may
bring us whales—bagpipes make both salmon and pike take vigorously; I can
bring witnesses to this! and they have, beyond doubt, an effect on the
wind.
... An exquisite morning; at eight o’clock comfortably hot—wind westerly
and we paddle away east from San Miguel. The island is getting low now
on the horizon, but we still see a glimpse of sun on its highest land
beneath the shadow of the great cloud cap—a glimpse of fields and faint
white specks for cottages. Yes, my first impression seems still to hold—a
land you could live and love in, with such exquisite sunny soothing fresh
air; from the little glimpse we had of its people such ideas seem tenable.
We drifted all night, with riding light, taking things easy. Our busy
time is still to come, perhaps that bank we are drifting towards, out
of reach of shore whaling-boats, may show us some plunder or profit
per cent., and if it doesn’t, well, we have other islands to discover
and circumnavigate. “Discover” is the word I want. Once, long ago,
the writer, with others, discovered new vistas of land and mountain,
uninhabited grand mountains and glaciers in seas of table-topped bergs of
huge proportions, and undoubtedly the sensation was not to be forgotten;
but praise be, a new land to the writer, with new people to him, and new
habits and customs, is still of the greatest fascination, even though it
has been known, like these Azores, for six centuries.
I question if Columbus enjoyed the first sight of the Norse Vinland any
more than we shall enjoy the sight of the next island we come to of this
archipelago of nine islands.
Fayal, for instance, and Pico—we have seen post cards of both, and each
looks perfectly charmingly fascinating. Pico must be like Fusian, the
Japanese peak.
* * * * *
Truly this sea, between the Azores and Africa, is well called, by old
shell-backs and South Spainers, the Ladies’ Gulf—most days fine, and
blue, and then a tempest. The rocks Formigas we aim at lie between San
Miguel and Santa Maria to the south-east. But the wind now blows hard and
the sea runs too high, so we turn and pound back to patrol the north side
of San Miguel, where we will get a little slant of shelter from the land.
As the wind is westerly we cannot help recalling what we call “our wreck”
the B—enido, on the rocks of the breakwater, for a south-westerly wind is
just what is needed to pound her into scrap iron; whereas she might have
been floating to-day in port if she had accepted our polite offer of a
tow.
A turtle is all we have seen this morning, and we have been looking out
hard—one man in the crow’s nest on the foremast, and two on the bridge,
and the writer in main rigging. The turtle was a browny yellow patch near
the surface of the deep blue sea. We turned back to try and harpoon it,
but it had gone down.
Though there is little life to see in ocean to-day it is pleasant enough
sitting up in the shrouds watching the horizon, or sometimes casting an
eye down to see St Ebba dip her bows under, and the burst of white spray
that have made us again put covers over our three guns. The movement,
sitting on the shrouds as we buck into the short sea, is rather like a
side-saddle canter on a beamy carriage horse.
Before sundown, the wind keeping hard, we close in with the land, getting
into smoother water. As we go some small whales appear, about fifteen or
twenty feet long, and keep under our bows, and nearly give us a chance of
putting in a small harpoon. They were whitish on back, with under side
dark, marked along the sides with criss-cross pattern, as if slashes of a
knife had been made through the dark skin.
There is a South Atlantic whale with its back marked in somewhat similar
manner. I have seen a few in the Weddell Sea, amongst the Antarctic ice.
_Ziphius novæ Zealandicæ_,—possibly this is the same, which would give a
wide distribution.
I think this is as elaborate an impression as I dare to make without
drawing on what I think it _might_ be like, or _faking_, to use the
artist’s term. But they kept so much under water, and only came to the
top for such a rapid breathing-space, and it was so rough that we did
not blow any powder—better luck next time.
Two and a half miles off shore we heave to, lash the wheel, and drift
slowly out to sea and close our eyes for a little, they are sore with
gazing across the blue in salt spray, wind and glare of sun.
Three little white and pink towns above a coast of cliff are to windward,
and a little more to the south-west there is the volcanic mountain of
the Seven Cities, with the lakes in its crater, a place of great beauty
but suggestive of Martinique, especially so to-night, as there is an
off-shore wind blowing from the south and an immense pall of cloud
flowing over it and us, shadowing the little towns at its base, Ribiera
Grande, Calhetas Morro des Capellas, and our little selves out at sea.
[Illustration]