Daily our lifeboats were overhauled, examined, and their stores tallied, to see that everything was in perfect order in case of emergency. A lifeboat mayn’t be necessary for ninety-nine years, eleven months and twenty-nine days out of a century, but when you do want it you want it in a hurry, and with a ship settling under your feet there isn’t always time enough to add a new coat of paint or mend a broken oar!
The first day of February brought us a freshening breeze and a consequent increase in speed. Under a press of canvas we made rousing headway, which was invigorating, for the sense of even motion is delightful. To one standing on the bridge, listening to the hoosh-hoosh and lap-lap and gurgle of broken water as it streams away to leeward, it appears as though the ship were storming along at a twenty-knot clip; for when the Quest did move she made as much fuss about the job as a battleship. I used to delude myself with the idea that I was on the spray-washed bridge of a destroyer hurtling through the seas at the speed of an express train; and imagination helped in the self-deception, though the best the old packet could do, with a strong favouring wind behind her, was about seven knots and an onion. Still, what does it matter if you feel you are doing thirty? It is a great joy to feel a sailing ship thrilling with life beneath your feet, to listen to the even drumming of the reef-points on the distended canvas, the harping of the wind through the tautened rigging and the whole glad chorus of striving.
As time went on we got all the storm-music we needed; for this breeze shifted to a point forrard of the beam, unfortunately, which necessitated our taking in the square sail. Here’s where the “unfortunately” comes in. We of the middle watch must needs add our aid to housing the sail and setting the somewhat unwieldy foresail in its stead, and it was so refractory that it kept us out of our bunks till long after we should have been relieved. But with the wind freshening to a good half-gale, bunks looked very inviting, and none the less so because we had been deprived of their cosy welcome for certain precious minutes. You can take a very tolerant view of heavy weather from the shelter of your blankets, I found! But the gale increased by leaps and bounds, and in a very short time the Quest was at her old game. Every one of those nautical exercises in which she had become so proficient were indulged in with admirable gusto; we pitched, rolled, spun and lurched as though qualifying for a prize as the most restless ship on deep water. Big seas rolled aboard in monotonous succession; high sprays lashed over us, and the grey, clammy griminess of hard weather claimed us for its own.
It struck me during the beginning of this blow that it would be almost better to have one long unbroken succession of snorters, without any of those tantalizing intervals of fine weather, because in a little while you acquire a habit of balancing yourself under the most drastic conditions; but one day of a steady keel gets you out of practice, and so the lesson needs to be learnt all over again every fresh storm that comes your way. Fortunately our giddy evolutions did injured Worsley no harm; he took advantage of the gale to report that he was feeling much better, though how broken ribs and crushed muscles could benefit by such movements puzzled me infinitely.
During the night the storm grew in force, and Commander Wild was reluctantly compelled once more to heave to. His disappointment was keen, for he was so anxious to make every mile he possibly could to the east; but you can’t drive a ship with weak engines dead in the teeth of a snorter, and the only thing to do is to resign yourself to adverse circumstances and wait for better times to come along when the fates are more propitious. Smothered in crashing water, washed off our feet, clinging breathlessly to everything that afforded a handhold, waist deep when we were not over our shoulders, we handed the foresail—an ugly sail to tackle in a breeze—and got the Quest laid to under her staysail alone. Then the ship friskily beat all her previous bests. She pitched things about that you’d think an earthquake couldn’t have started. She lifted wedged books out of their shelves and flung them to the floor amongst dirty swilling water; she turned the galley into an imitation slap-stick comedy; and Green, trying to retrieve his belongings—now plunging gallantly into Gubbins Alley after a soup-kettle, now flying across the galley to collect a kettle—used language that would certainly have shocked our troops in Flanders.
That we should not be bored to death through inaction, the Quest leaked handsomely, and the daily spells at the pumps were increased, all hands taking spell about at the labour, which has very little to recommend it as a pastime. Query, the dog, made an indifferent showing in this rough weather; he seemed unable to acquire the good sea-legs necessary in a ship of our dimensions, and as every fresh lurch of the ship flung him helplessly to leeward, we had to chock him off in the wardroom with coats and blankets and anything that would serve as padding, in order that the poor brute might sleep in peace.
At the wheel that evening I stared wishfully to windward, hoping to see some sign of the storm abating; but there was nothing save an ominous grey-black horror of drooping cloud, and a waste of black-grey water, whipped to foamy spite between the narrowed horizons. Majestic enough in very truth, awe-inspiring, indeed, but far from promising; the sort of outlook that made you grit your teeth together and swear you wouldn’t be dismayed, although every thinking bit of you felt that it ought to be.
Nevertheless, black as were the portents, four o’clock in the morning brought an easing up of the conditions, and by noon we were steadily under way with fore and aft canvas set to a breeze that was not at all terrifying. By contrast with the past days it was like being on an inland lake; the steadiness of the ship seemed unnatural; you were always reaching out for the old familiar grip of something substantial, in readiness for the inevitable lurch; but when it was discovered that it was possible once more to serve a meal as it should be served—in the dishes instead of the eaters’ laps or down their necks, it was soon possible to grow familiarized with the better times. Peggying in real hard weather is no joke, let me assure you. As often as not you find the entire meal lying to leeward, a hideous blend of tea, milk, bacon fat and jam, together with a few spoons and forks and broken fragments of crockery thrown in. Sometimes, also, you discover a stray breakfaster, resigned to the state of affairs, eating off the floor, as being the lowest depth to which he could descend.