Early in the afternoon the geologists set out with the intention of gaining the ultimate summit. Towards nightfall the weather became pronouncedly worse, and the wind, sweeping down the gullies with hurricane violence, made us wonder if the island itself would remain firm on its foundations. Rain and hail accompanied the wind, and away above the peaks were white and glistening with driven snow. A wild, bizarre night enough; and the sensation of being marooned and left to our own devices was very strong, by reason of our lack of communication with the ship, which was only occasionally visible through the noisy squalls. What was happening to the geologists upon the distant peaks we could only surmise. As there was nothing to be done to succour them, we turned in at ten o’clock, amid the thunderous flapping of the tent’s canvas, which battered about at such a rate that we felt certain it must inevitably carry away. We were right. At four in the morning it did carry away; a whole side was blown out. In rushed the storm, roaring its delight at having penetrated our inner defences. We had perforce to turn out, collect our belongings and store them in the hut, where we continued our sleep with philosophical calm, except for the irritation of the mice, which scampered all over us and evidently thought we were manna sent from heaven for their especial benefit.
The morning breaking somewhat better, Commander Wild was able, with careful handling, to bring the boat ashore and effect a landing, taking off Mr. Wilkins and Naisbitt and their baggage. Naisbitt, who is the unlucky man of the ship, contrived to carry out his usual act of falling overboard whilst helping to ship the stores. Giving me a rifle, they left me alone on the beach, to soliloquize in Selkirk fashion as best I cared. I had a very pronounced Robinson Crusoe feeling, I must admit—and the rifle failed to bring comfort to my lonely soul, for there was nothing to use it against that I could see.
Standing on a lonely beach, holding an unnecessary rifle, struck me as being waste of time, so I set to work, in true castaway style, to employ myself—in making a meal. Food plays a large part in the economy of desert-island life, and I was no exception to the rule. I experimented to the extent of boiling a number of flint-like ship’s biscuits until they were quite soft; then I poured off the water, put in some baking-powder, and pounded the lot into a solid mass. Adding salt, pepper and other condiments, I placed the mixture in one of the mining pans, which I had previously smeared with dripping, and, inverting another mining pan on top by way of a lid, proceeded to bake my impromptu pie. I am in nowise disposed to brag about my culinary masterpiece, but it really was quite good to taste; and I pass on the recipe for Pi à la Gough Island to such potential castaways as might happen to read these pages. The dish is cheap and uncommonly filling—considerations worth while when lost to the resources of the outer world.
Whilst I was busy, Query, who had accompanied us ashore and followed the geologists, turned up, accompanied by Argles. Argles was full of details of a bleak, comfortless night spent on the hill; he told how, when starting for the summit that morning, he had fallen down a steep place, so that he hurt his side and was compelled to turn back. I sympathized, fed him, and we awaited the return of the rest of the party, which occurred later in the day. Both Mr. Douglas and Major Carr were very excellent imitations of drowned rats; their woes clung thickly to them; their faces were blue and lacking laughter. They’d reached the top, however, where they had been able to do some useful work regarding surveys of the other peaks.
We turned in for that night on the floor of the hut—no more experimenting with fragile tents for us, thank you—and the mice carried on their best entertainment for our benefit, scampering about us, over our faces, over our blankets, everywhere. One wakened me at break o’ day by nibbling my nose; and deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, we surrendered their citadel and turned out. We packed up everything, as Commander Wild had determined to take us off this day or perish in the attempt; for it was quite on the cards that if he failed to-day a favourable opportunity might not occur again for weeks, or maybe months. As Gough Island offered scant entertainment either for body or mind, we were quite determined to run all reasonable risks to regain the Quest.
The boat arrived about 8 a.m., and Commander Wild was craftily bringing her inshore, slacking away on the anchor rope to prevent her being smashed, when he saw the danger of the scend of the surf lifting her and banging her bottom down on the unkindly beach. He pulled off and made for the lee of a high cliff, which we ascended after landing, with the aid of ropes, hauling our gear to its summit, afterwards lowering the lot down the other side and sliding down the ropes ourselves. Query presented a problem, as even a South Polar dog can’t negotiate ropes; but some bright genius thrust him into a sack and lowered him down willy-nilly, Query making no end of a fuss of it all the while.
Fierce, very fierce gusts were coming away down the glen with a loud screaming as of hordes of fiends, and the surface of the water was curdled with spray, whilst the spindrift hurtled in blinding clouds. Pushing off, we gained the Quest after a stiff pull, and the ugly old packet seemed to smile us a genial welcome, so homelike did she appear to our eyes.
Anchor was weighed and we steamed along the coast for a short distance to where a narrow island rose like a gigantic pillar out of the sea for about two hundred feet. There the surf-boat went ashore again, but, though a nasty swell was running, she came to no harm, because a dense bed of kelp provided an ample buffer if at any time we hit a boulder too hard. In the meantime Jimmy, who is a man of varied accomplishments, slew the pig.
Accompanied, so it seemed, by his dying screams we got under way for Cape Town and the joys of civilization.