CHAPTER XVIII
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
