Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

After a breakfast to treasure in memory through many years—never were such delicious cold chicken, such sweet eggs, such vegetables and fruit!—we listened to our worthy host’s pleadings that we should inspect a bridge of his own fashioning, and followed him along through tunnels and arches and cuttings, balancing ourselves on precarious ledges with sheer drops on the one side that terminated thousands of feet below, until we reached the bridge, which spanned a small gully and was composed of steel piping, cemented smoothly over and giving the impression that it had existed from time immemorial and would continue to endure for ever—a striking piece of work.

Those who gave the place-names to this island were evidently obsessed with a belief that the entire country owed its origin to Plutonic ingenuity. There’s the Devil’s Punch Bowl, there’s the Devil’s Riding School—this latter a peculiar crater, perfectly circular and looking from above precisely like a giant target that has fallen over on its back. There would seem to have been successive volcanic eruptions here, and the resultant deposits are laid out in concentric circles of varying colour, quite conveying the idea of the conventional target.

The flaming sun took toll of us during the return journey. My face, back, neck, arms and legs were baked bright scarlet when I boarded the ship at five o’clock, just before she weighed anchor; and in some way I’d picked up a temperature, too, which resulted in my being ordered to my bunk for the night.

But the temperature did not long endure; in the morning I wakened quite normal, to find the Quest in open water and practising her rolling evolutions with gusto. Beyond a few blisters and much smarting, my sunburn failed to trouble me. From Ascension we brought the beginnings of a menagerie—sailors must have pets of some sort—and in addition to a monkey and a canary we boasted quite a flock of young turtles, as proof we had visited Turtleopolis. We tended these fellows carefully, changing their water frequently and feeding them regularly on salt pork. This Saturday night, as had been our custom throughout, we drank the old navy toast of “Sweethearts and Wives,” to which the inevitable joker solemnly added, “May they never meet!” an amendment as customary as the toast itself. We then turned on the faithful gramophone, suffering by this time from much hard usage, but still determined to do its best and producing quite decent music.

Next day we cleaned ship, and, with the wind dying down into puffs, encountered heavy rain, which gave us all the joy of baths. This being Sunday I took opportunity for a “sailor’s pleasure,” and turned out my bunk, which, from its peculiar situation just below the companion-hatch into the wardroom, seemed to be the harbouring-place of every oddment in the ship. The sum total of these accumulations is interesting. Listen: Sea-water, sea-boots, enamel plates and other eating gear, soup, salt pork and tinned fruit, and a sample of every article of food ever consumed aboard.

August 8 we crossed the Line again in blazing heat. During the uneventful days of the passage to St. Vincent we exerted ourselves faithfully in cleaning ship, washing her inside and out, up aloft and down below. She shone like silver as a result of our exertions, but we wondered what would happen to her when the coaling began. Still, aboard ship the hands must be kept employed, otherwise they might grumble and slack and grow discontented. When there’s no other employment for them they clean ship and go on cleaning. Then the coaling crowd come aboard and take a diabolical delight in smothering her with foulness. Still, no bones are broken, so no one is any the worse.

The hours spent at the wheel during these fine-weather days were enjoyable in the extreme. With the sun shining across the easily rolling sea in a broad dazzling beam, and a cool north-north-east wind blowing gently six points or so on the starboard bow, the heat of the day is delightfully counteracted and sailing conditions are perfect. During such hours a man is allowed to think—those deep thoughts which cannot be put into so many prosaic words, but which lift the soul gloriously out of itself and teach one the majesty of God. One drifts aimlessly from subject to obscure subject, lost in a hazy dreamland of introspection, until——

“Hallo! What might you be trying to do with her? Write your name with the —— —— ship?” comes from the officer of the watch, and you spring to alertness and stare aghast at the loops and twists of the bubbling wake.

In due course we reached St. Vincent, and found it and the adjacent islands in even a sorrier plight than when we visited them on the outward journey, for the drought had spread to the neighbouring islands, and as they supply St. Vincent itself with cereals and vegetables and water, a condition nearly approaching famine existed. Throughout the day of our arrival we were surrounded by bumboats in charge of extremely ragged boatmen, who endeavoured to tempt us into buying their trifling variety of fruits. Certain of these enthusiasts varied their hours by diving for the chunks of coal which fell overboard from our coaling, and they inevitably secured their loot. We coaled ship, smothered ourselves in grime, bathed, and finally left St. Vincent on Sunday, August 20, in a whirl of excitement, firing rockets lavishly, and sent on our way by much cheering from women and children who had massed in a high place to see the last of us.

Placid workful conditions continued until, on September 3, we reached San Miguel of the Western Isles and anchored there. A very pretty picture this island presents from the sea, reminding one greatly of our own northern land—green fields, much vegetation, and regular walls. Going ashore here, I enjoyed a Portuguese Sunday—the busiest, most careless day of the week, apparently, for the cafés were all wide open and doing a roaring trade, and the streets were thronged with islanders dressed in their best, determined on enjoyment. A very different scene from Tristan da Cunha, let’s say! I enjoyed this colourful scene immensely, it was such relief from the monotones which had been our experience for so many months. But all things have an end, and on Monday, September 4, we weighed anchor and headed out upon the final lap of the homeward trail. After certain sunny days we ran into screaming hard weather, with a fortunate fair wind that bade the Quest do her best—an order she obeyed, both as to speed and rolling. Her firm intention seemed to be to leave us with poignant memories of her activities in this direction. But we endured, and we blessed her for carrying us so far so worthily; and now that the hazards are past I retain nothing but the tenderest recollections of what we used to call in our wrath “that perishing old wash-tub of a rolling son of a gun.”