At nine o’clock we made fast to a buoy, about which the muddy waters of the Tagus swirled greedily, whilst a suitable berth was found for us. Lying there, bathed in sunshine, almost oppressed by the warmth, we indulged in the glory of a bathe, a privilege which, after long abstinence, must be experienced to be appreciated. All the caked salt of our voyaging was washed away, our pores were given a chance; and the ensuing sensation of vigour and well-being was almost too delightful for description. In the late afternoon we were taken in hand by fussy tugs and punted and hauled and wedged into our berth. During all the working hours of this day I was on duty with Green, the cook, an enterprising man who thoroughly revelled in his job. His ability to contrive and make shift was remarkable; and there were those aboard the Quest who solemnly vowed their belief that, given an ancient pair of sea-boots, Green could serve up a dinner that would leave the Ritz or the Carlton amongst the “also rans.”
On this night we began to understand wherein we differed from the Elizabethan voyagers. Times have altered since Francis Drake set forth from England with a high heart and an abounding ignorance, intent on discovering a short cut to India. Such entertainment as his ships were provided with was meagre; musical instruments for the most part. This, our first night in Lisbon, was enlivened by a remarkable cinema exhibition in the ward-room. Not that we were given hectic Wild West pictures; we were shown our own hazards during the gale of October 1—realistic pictures enough, taken on the spot without any suggestion of faking, and developed and completed aboard. Not a few of us, seeing how the Quest looked to the camera, came to the conclusion that we were bigger heroes than we really were, for the seas appeared so enormous that it was a miracle to us to know how our ship remained afloat. One thing is certain: had I seen those pictures before sending in my application to join the expedition, that application would never have been written. Even the blood of an enthusiastic Scout turned cold at thought of the dangers he had passed! But it all gave us confidence in our floating home when we saw how doggedly she met the big grey seas and trudged resolutely forward on her southward way.
Amongst white seafarers the word Dago stands for mild dishonesty. With a genuine thrill, as one tasting the real salt of adventure, I heard the order given for the night-watchman to arm himself in order that the countless valuables aboard the Quest might be properly safeguarded; and with a big revolver bulging his pocket the selected man took up his duties, whilst we, more fortunate, went below and coiled down for the sweet delight of an all-night-in.
CHAPTER IV
Lisbon to Madeira
Our stay in Lisbon was prolonged by reason of the engine-room defects. No wonder the engines had knocked; the shaft was found to be badly out of alignment. As a natural consequence the bearings heated, and this, coupled with the fact that the high-pressure connecting-rod was bent, accounted for all our woes. The work of repair was set in hand at once, and our people began to readjust the ship’s stores in order to make her more weatherly, having learnt much during the passage out across the Bay.
Certain alterations in the ship’s rig were also put in hand; but as all work and no play makes Jack but a dull boy, in the afternoon of this first real day in Lisbon certain of us went ashore to see the sights, including a bull-fight. We forgathered at a café, and from there were motored to the bull-ring. Looking back on the past, I have come to the conclusion that I would sooner go ten times to the Antarctic than take one motor ride in Lisbon. Their motor-drivers seem to run mad immediately the engines begin to revolve. In Lisbon, so far as I could see, there is neither rule of the road nor speed limit. The streets are blocked, for the best part, by slow-moving bullock-carts, three, four and even five abreast. Through this welter of sluggish traffic the cars charge like six-inch shells; and if the road isn’t wide enough they use the pavement. Our driver performed motoring miracles, and I firmly believe that if the pavements had not helped him he would have climbed the sides of the buildings along the way. You’d think it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a high-powered motor to navigate the streets of Lisbon, but our driver did it without turning a hair, and deserved a V.C. every minute of the time he was driving. Of course, accidents happen, and the tale of dead dogs must be enormous. If our driver so much as saw a dog he let out a yell and charged straight for it, and lucky was that dog if it escaped. As for the ordinary, unconsidered pedestrian, he never troubles to look round when a motor-horn blows—he just jumps for it; up a convenient lamp-post if necessary, and then shouts thankfulness to all the saints for safe delivery from the perils of the streets.
A Portuguese bull-fight is not quite so bloodthirsty as those held in the neighbouring land of Spain. In Spain the main idea is to get the bull killed, after suitable tortures have been inflicted; in Portugal the bull’s horns are padded thickly at the tips, and the principal scheme seems to be to show the agility of the bullfighters.
As soon as the bull, always a magnificent animal, is admitted into the ring he is annoyed and excited by the waving of gaudily-coloured cloaks and flags. Being only a bull and not a philosopher, he naturally gets angry and promptly puts his head down and goes for his tormentors, who, after risking as much as they dare, leap over the barricades into safety. These cloak-wavers are merely pawns in the game; for all the time they are busy the genuine hero of the hour is in the ring, either afoot or on horseback, showing himself off to an admiring audience. A successful bull-fighter on the Tagus is a very much more important personage than the captain of a Cup Final team or a hero who has knocked up a couple of centuries in a county cricket match.
Presently the bull gets angrier—very angry indeed. His bovine nature impels him to cast about for something on which to wreak his spite. I don’t blame the bull. Even a Scout would be annoyed if a crowd of yelling idiots waved coloured blankets in his face for half an hour at a stretch! Seeing the idol of the audience proudly prancing about, the bull quite naturally lowers his head and goes for him. Here’s where the sport begins. The bull-fighter, with a twirl of his moustache and a sort of hand-kiss to the ladies, promptly retreats and turns, and as the bull slithers past he plants a dart in his hide. It is a sign of skill and daring to get that dart as near the animal’s head as possible. As soon as it is embedded in the skin the bull-fighter, in case anyone didn’t see him, unfurls a paper flag and waves it exultantly in the air. Then the people cheer and the ladies kiss their hands, and the temporary hero bows and smiles and pretends that he is the identical man who won the Great War. Then he goes to get another dart; a shorter one this time. The shorter the dart you plant in the unfortunate bull’s neck the greater the glory that comes your way, it seems. True enough, it is a sign of agility and courage, even though the bull’s horns are padded; and to hear the spectators cheer you’d think it was what the Americans call “the cat’s pyjamas.” To my way of thinking, though, football is streets ahead of bull-fighting for downright thrills.