Thus, after much delight, we left Table Bay on July 13 very hurriedly, and once more faced the elements. Not very trying on this occasion, however, for the weather was beautifully fine; though, thanks to our high living when ashore, certain of us began to realize that seasickness, a thing forgotten, was still a real affair. Nevertheless, across a sea as smooth as glass we pursued our way, until South Africa dropped below the horizon and our visit was nothing but a golden memory—a memory that set one longing to be possessed of wings, to fly back and continue the prolonged farewell.
Once fairly at sea, I learned to my keen regret that we were homeward bound—definitely homeward bound. I say “with regret” advisedly, for I had looked forward joyously to cruising amongst new seas, of seeing great new lands—Australia, New Zealand, and the romantic, colourful islands of the South Pacific. Still a journey of considerable interest was in prospect, and many a day would pass before we loomed in sight of English shores.
It was like yachting—yachting de luxe—as we steamed along placid seas, under broiling suns and cloudless skies. Pleasant travelling this, but we of the Quest, hardened to bad weather, occasionally found the lazy times a trifle boring. Not unduly so, mark you. We did not precisely pray for big gales and high seas, for we had had our share, and more than our share, maybe, of such happenings of ocean travel; but even lazy loafing about the decks with a book can grow monotonous, and a gale certainly provides excitement and the element of the unexpected.
Without any event of outstanding importance, following a placid round of commonplace duties, living on the fat of the land, since there was now no pronounced need to conserve our stores, cleaning ship diligently, fishing for albatross, taking occasional soundings and dredgings, we reached St. Helena and anchored off Jamestown. It is a pretty little town, which straggles picturesquely for a long way up the bottom of an acute-sided valley. The island itself is a mountainous mass, intersected in every direction by deep valleys, those opening to the sea in our direction being of a very regular V-shape. An exceedingly fertile land, its chief industry is the growing of flax. The natives are black, some being rather less so than others, and white people are few and far between.
Mr. Douglas and I rode across the island to inspect some dykes he had heard about, and on the way stopped at Napoleon’s last abiding-place, his lonely home during his tragic banishment. We saw his tomb only from the distance, having no time for a closer inspection. The roads we negotiated were uniformly good, but at a certain point on the far side of the island, in order to reach our destination, we had to alight and lead our sturdy animals down the rough side of an extremely steep hill. At the bottom Mr. Douglas stopped and purchased some exquisitely dainty lace at a native cottage. St. Helena rather specializes in lace of delicate fashioning; its manufacture is an industry of some importance.
The dykes were situated beside a ruined Dutch fort which once guarded a small cove, and I wondered what feature of history this stronghold illustrated, but was able to secure no worth-while information on the subject. A few shattered cannon, crumbling to nothingness under the influence of the sea air, still remained—grim relics of a forgotten era in colonization. We stayed in the vicinity for an hour, Mr. Douglas taking many photographs and gathering various geological specimens. The country hereabouts was rocky and barren and not at all inviting. Having satisfied our lust for information so far as possible, we returned; it was already dark when we clattered into Jamestown. After months at sea, and to a man untutored in the art, riding was a painful business at best, and I was so sore by the time we sighted our destination that I could not sit in the saddle, but, jockey-wise, rode in the stirrups alone. Counting everything, I think my performance wasn’t so bad—I only fell off once; but then, as I said, anyone who could exist aboard the Quest when she was up to her tricks could sit anything, even a drunken giraffe. Next day brought its penalty of adventuring: I was so sore that if there had been a mantelpiece aboard the ship I’d have eaten my breakfast from it. Lacking so unusual a table, I suffered in stoic silence, mentally anathematizing all horses; but the smart soon disappeared, helped by activities aboard.
The weather at this time was blazing hot, so hot that even to wind up one’s watch was an exertion to be seriously considered for long half-hours at a stretch before completing the operation. Sweat ran from us in rivers, for we were all carrying flesh as a result of lush feeding on the passage from Cape Town.
My general impression of St. Helena was that it was a derelict island; its glory had departed. Its name rings down through the aisles of history, and will probably never be forgotten, for here the Corsican Ogre was housed in safety after peace was given to a war-ridden world; but it is its name that matters and not the place itself. However, I was very glad to have seen it, and it was easy to picture the ambitious Man of Destiny eating out his heart in a galling captivity, reflecting on the glories and triumphs that once were his.
We departed for Ascension Island the night Mr. Douglas and I returned from our equine gymnastics, and spent a fairly lazy time on the passage, for the heat was against arduous exertion. During these days the dominant feature of the seascape—a placid plain of shining water for the most part—was the enormous swarms of flying-fish that dashed away from the warning of our thrusting bow and scattered wildly in every direction, rising foolishly into the air until their wings dried, then plopping and pattering back into their native element, to become easy prey, one supposes, to the voracious bonitos who are their natural enemies. We found amusement in endeavouring to coax the last lonely albatross that had accompanied us northward to continue its journey; but an uncanny instinct prevented it from venturing. It is said these birds will never under any conditions cross the Line, and this fellow seemed a living proof of the fact.
In the afternoon of August 1 we sighted the sharp peak of Ascension Island—where the turtles come from—and after dark we came to anchor a few hundred yards from the naval barracks. I went below into the hold to find some clean clothes, and the Chief, entering the ward-room, fell down through the open hatch. Under normal conditions he would have expressed his feelings with such words as occurred to him at the moment, and I should have wilted under his torrential profanity; but the homeward-bound feeling was evidently strongly within him, for he maintained a silence that was more pregnant than many words. He made a game struggle against his natural feelings and won—all credit to him.