Until Saturday we lay at Plymouth. Prior to sailing we embarked two passengers, one temporary, Mr. Gerald Lysaght, who was invited to accompany us to Madeira; one permanent, in the shape of a very fine Alsatian wolf-hound puppy, presented to “The Boss” as a mascot. “Query,” we called this pup, and, as usual aboard ship, he became a firm favourite with all hands. So now we were all complete. Mr. Rowett came down from London to see us off, and he gave us a joyful dinner. We moved off into the Sound, where our compasses underwent another careful testing; and as the ship swung round the circle she was surrounded by such swarms of small boats as seemed impossible of belief. We were a magnet to draw all water-going Plymouth that day, believe me. Drake himself never had such a send-off as we had, I swear.
This day was memorable for two reasons. First, the Quest made her real start on her southward journey; second, I took my first spell in a ship’s stokehold, not as a spectator, but as a genuine working member of the black squad! There are some men, I believe, who consider stokehold work almost a pastime. I didn’t. To learn to become an efficient stoker you must first acquire the art of coal-trimming. You go down into bunkers packed tight with coal, breathless caves below the waterline, where the stench of bilge is thick and clogging, and you shift coal to within easy reach of the men who are tending the fires. You breathe coal dust and you absorb coal dust at every pore. In a little while, if you persevere, you actually begin to think coal dust—it’s everywhere. Coal is a very fine thing in its proper place—and that is on a fire—but the getting of it to the fire is an overrated sport. Coal dust as food leaves much to be desired; my mouth was full of it; so were my eyes and my ears and my hair and my nose and my lungs. Still, they say that ship’s firemen are a healthy race, so there must be some good in coal dust after all. But, having shovelled and breathed and eaten sufficient of the black and unpalatable stuff, I was deemed qualified to serve the fires, and contrived to get on well enough for a beginner, though the heat was excellent preparation for a future existence. Not that I’m grumbling, observe; I am merely trying to set down my early impressions as they came to me. I registered a solemn vow during those hours that my ambition should carry me higher than a steamer’s stokehold, or I’d know the reason why.
It was during this 12 to 4 engine-room watch of mine that the Quest got properly under way. Her second send-off, and a good one it was. Plymouth excelled itself that day. An Admiralty tug helped along the first lap of the journey, a comforting sight, for she was very much bigger than the Quest. Mr. Rowett and Mr. Stenhouse, who had remained aboard till the last possible minute, now left us with cordial farewells that made one feel uncommonly lumpy about the throat, and all hands manned ship to reply. We gave them our fiendish war-cry, its “music” devised, I think, by Captain Worsley: “Yoicks, tally-ho!” and gave it them again and again, until our throats were sore. Then quite suddenly, so it seemed, we were all alone, trudging down-Channel through a perfect evening, with a sea as smooth as polished glass, and busy porpoises welcoming us to the glory of deep water. And so, with the English land dimming into the evening mist, we were really up and away at last.
CHAPTER III
The Voyage Begins
There was a great deal to be done before settling down, however. The ship was so deep-laden with stores and equipment that every precaution was necessary in the event of our meeting bad weather. Our decks were still littered with every imaginable object under the sun. Lifeboats were crammed with supplies; ropes in coils, ropes in flakes, canvas in bolts, innumerable gadgets connected with science, art and the human stomach filled the planking. So it was “Lash up and stow” with a vengeance; for all this clutter had to be brought within reasonable bounds of safety, and until this was done steady rest was out of the question. My chief concern, I found, was to keep out of the way of more skilled seamen than myself. I was uncommonly willing, but a trifle lacking in ability, like the Irishman who tried to sound the depth of water in the ship’s boilers by dropping a stone down the funnel at the end of a rope!
At midnight I went down to the stokehold again for another watch amongst the coal dust. They told me that the ship had been literally bombarded with wireless wishes from our countless friends. But for the coal dust I should have been as happy as a sandboy; but you can’t have everything, even when you’re Antarctic-bound.
In the morning we saw the last of England, or rather the foam that guards old England, for the big seas breaking on the Scilly Isles and the Bishop Rock practically hid them from view. As a fair wind was blowing we stretched our canvas, and I tried to familiarize myself with the mysteries of a sailing-ship. I decided that I had a lot to learn that even scouting hadn’t taught me. Ropes are queer things; they always seem to turn up where least expected; they always foul something just when they are most needed. Try for the first time to coil down a split-new rope that hasn’t had its kinks taken out, and you’ll understand what I mean.
I should like to draw a thick veil over what happened next. But even a Scout, selected for such an eventful experience as this, must bow his head to certain circumstances. Perhaps Neptune didn’t quite understand how important an individual I was. At all events, the smell of the engine-room when next I went on watch at noon began to be afflicting. It hadn’t been attar of roses before, but now——! They said it was because the Quest was so deep-laden that she rolled so much, but I wasn’t concerned so much with causes as with effects. Those rolls seemed unending. At first I was afraid the ship would sink; later I was afraid she wouldn’t!
More seasoned men—I wonder why seasickness is always considered amusing?—advised various remedies. To drink hot salt water steadily was one; to swallow salt pork at the end of a string was another. The best remedy proposed was hard work, so I clenched my teeth and resolved to stick it out. I had to be one up on Mooney, who had thrown up the sponge by now, as well as practically everything else. I will draw the veil.