Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

Cape Verde Islands greeted my sight this morning, looming dimly into view. By noon we were closing the coast, rugged and inhospitable. Absolutely nothing but bare rock was visible; sun-scorched and lacking entirely in verdure; bare rock rising majestically some fifteen hundred feet into the clear air, never a tree to break its monotony, apparently no soil in which a single blade of grass might grow. St. Vincent has few charms at the best; it is used for little else beyond a coaling station and a connecting link in the world’s submarine cable system. Rain seldom falls in St. Vincent, and it is too remote from the rest of the world to be fertilized by passing birds. Its harbour, though, is a fine, natural roadstead, being composed of an assortment of smaller islands, and the native divers beat anything I have ever come across, though they are reputed to be as light of finger as they are deft of movement in the water, and occasionally they are apt to become truculent and peevish if interrupted in their favourite hobby of abstracting such movables as they can lay hands on. Not that it was necessary for an article to be movable. I was solemnly assured by one who should have known that these same modern buccaneers had on one occasion endeavoured to steal the funnel out of the ship that harboured him!

Bathing off the ship was vetoed on account of rumoured sharks, which did not appear to trouble the natives overly; but it was permissible closer inshore, and we only too gladly took full advantage of this opportunity. It was a delightful experience, for the water was so balmy as to be like a continued caress.

At night a farewell dinner was given to Mr. Lysaght, who was to leave us here and return to England, home and beauty. Throughout the journey he had quitted himself in most manly fashion, refusing to succumb when hardier men than himself went down, bearing part and lot in all that happened with the greatest good cheer. His principal wish seemed to be to continue aboard the Quest, indifferent to the call of home and comfort; but this was not to be. The ship did herself well that night: giving of her very best in food and drink, and the occasion was one to remember.

Next morning I dressed myself decently and went ashore in company with the geologist and the naturalist, Mr. Wilkins. At sea, I may mention, we dressed as convenient and studied our personal appearance very little, so that we often looked like a gang of scarecrows. The nigger population of St. Vincent turned out to greet us—not out of admiration for our noble selves, but with an honest—or dishonest—desire for gain. They literally mobbed us as we set foot ashore: snatching at our bags, thrusting diminutive donkeys under our noses, clamouring to be permitted to show us the sights, and generally buzzing about like gigantic flies. What they lacked in reserve they made up in enthusiasm; but we considered ourselves quite able to look after ourselves. We collected various tiny donkeys, and I found myself very greatly at sea when I boarded my noble mount. Steering the Quest was child’s play as compared with navigating that ass at first, but one got the hang of it after a while and contrived to make some progress ahead instead of sideways.

Nothing I saw ashore here altered my first impression of the Cape Verdes. They are, without exception, the barest, poorest lumps of land I’ve ever seen. St. Vincent, like the other islands, is purely volcanic in character, and what is not bare, vitreous rock is simply dry, reddish volcanic earth that contains no fertilizing qualities, so far as I am aware. There had been no rain for two years prior to our arrival; there was naturally no herbage growing, all was sheer sun-scorched rock and blazing heat, tempered only a little by the sea breezes. As nothing will grow ashore beyond a few miserable stalks of maize on the higher slopes, the inhabitants, set down there for their sins presumably, would starve but for another island in the group. From this island they secure water, which is ferried across in boats, and also all their cereals and fruits, though these are nothing to wax eloquent over. Even this water is not very palatable; it is obtained by boring down to a great depth, and as there had been no rain to liven the springs, the general result was stale and unlikeable. Until it is boiled and sterilized it is practically undrinkable. So that, taking one thing with another, it is not surprising that occasionally quite large numbers of the native population die off from sheer starvation. Their staple food is ground maize, and when it becomes scarce, as it so often does, they are in a bad plight.

We travelled up into the hills quite a distance, thanks to our donkeys. Joining Mr. Wilkins I went bug-hunting; we successfully pursued butterflies, caterpillars and other creepie-crawlies. Mr. Wilkins added a small lizard to his bag, and seemed delighted; whilst Mr. Douglas contented himself with his own particular hobby: studying the dykes, and hills, and volcanic formations of the island, collecting certain specimens that interested him on the way. Some of the butterflies, which we bagged in considerable numbers, were rarely beautiful, and seemed, in my opinion, to be wasting their time at St. Vincent. There’s a Scots lament called “The Barren Rocks of Aden,” but the man who composed it had never seen St. Vincent, or he’d have decided that Aden was nothing to make a song about.

Coming back, we seemed so much too big for our donkeys as they braved the precipitous slopes that out of sheer humanity—to say nothing of respect for our necks—we dismounted and proceeded afoot along the scorching rocks which seemed to burn through our boot-soles as if we walked across red-hot lava. The impression I received was of a weary plodding through a hopeless desert, and this suggestion was increased by the great swirls of vultures that were everywhere overhead. How they lived on St. Vincent I do not know; maybe, like the Maltese, they took in each other’s washing, or fed on one another.

Here, again, the Western Telegraph Company gave us warm hospitality: a rousing good evening with dinner and a sing-song to follow. By way of a leg-stretcher, and in order, I suppose, to rid ourselves of the superabundant energy accumulated in the close quarters of the Quest, we then let ourselves go; had a go-as-you-please rugger match in the passage—much to the consternation of the nigger servants—and generally took the place apart. When a score of hefty Britishers feel within them the spirit of movement things are apt to get smashed. But a rough-house is a good thing occasionally, and I dare say we should have had one or two aboard but that we were too much afraid of bursting the ship apart.

Whilst we sported others toiled, for we found to our unbounded satisfaction on returning in the ghostly small hours, that the Quest had been coaled and we were saved the grimy irksomeness of that unpleasant labour. I was glad enough, I assure you, for though I don’t profess to be any more afraid of work than the next fellow, there’s a lot of fine, heartfelt joy in knowing that someone else has done your job! Late aboard never meant late abed under Shackleton; six o’clock found me resuming the daily task. A homeward-bound liner, by which Mr. Lysaght travelled, replenished our lockers with fresh provisions—much better than the stringy goat obtainable ashore—and also granted us the inestimable boon of a ton of ice for the freezer. Ice counted for a lot there near the Line; but the time was to come—yet why anticipate?

During our enforced stay in St. Vincent our engines were once more tuned up, in the hope that the usual discords they played would cease. Visitors naturally came and went, for anything the least little bit out of the ordinary is an event in that sun-baked wilderness; but, with the engines reported fit and ready again, we once more put out to sea.