Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

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.