The interest of this little story lies in the fact of its being a typical example of the way in which one often finds, in our remote dependencies, the people exhibiting unexpected keenness and pride in associating themselves with England, and her interests, on an opportunity of doing so being pointed out to them. We had found it so at Pitcairn Island.
A more delightful place than Bermuda at which to spend a winter would be hard to find by those who care for pleasure sailing in smooth waters, fishing, sunshine, and the customary amenities of civilised life. Unhappily we could not spare the time to avail ourselves of the possibilities of St. George’s. We had constantly to be at Hamilton on ship’s business, so after several journeys to and fro in the dreadful covered wagonette, wherein physical discomfort almost rendered us indifferent to a kaleidoscopic succession of humorous persons, situations, and incidents, we got a pilot and went round under power into Hamilton Harbour. Pilotage is compulsory, but free. Once at Hamilton things went much more easily. The Colonial Authorities and the Admiral in Command and his Staff were most kind and hospitable. Admiralty House is a charming eighteenth-century English country residence, of moderate size, and romantically situated. In its garden, peeps of the sea are seen, through graceful subtropical foliage, at every turn, and miniature land-locked coves, reached from above by winding steps down the face of the falaise, afford the most perfect of boat harbours and bathing-pools.
Another delightful official residence is allotted to the officer in command of the Dockyard. In his case he is given a miniature archipelago. His tiny islands rise from 20 to 100 feet above the water. On one is his house; another is his garden; chickens and pigs occupy a third, whilst his milch goats live on various small skerries. As the extent of water between the different islets is proportional to their size, and is deep, the whole makes a very charming and compact picture. Yet he is only ten minutes by bicycle from his office in the Dockyard, although, from his little kingdom, no sign of the Dockyard is to be seen, it being shut off by a wooded promontory.
The Admiral was good enough to offer us every facility for laying up Mana in the Dockyard, but on various grounds we eventually decided to take war-time risks and bring her back to England, so receiving from him a signal-rocket outfit, and some kindly advice on the unwisdom of trying to run-down periscopes that showed no wake behind them, the vessel being now refreshed, at 0.55 p.m. on Friday, May the 12th, 1916, we weighed, and proceeded under power from Hamilton to the Examination Anchorage, with pilot aboard. Arriving there at 4.15 p.m. the Examining Officer came alongside and handed us the now usual special Admiralty clearance card, together with a courteous radiogram wishing us luck, from the Officer in Command of the Dockyard. The new trysail was hoisted, the engines stopped, and we commenced our voyage to Ponta Delgada in the Island of St. Miguel, one of the Azores, distant miles 1,869.
BERMUDA TO AZORES
This run was of “yachting” character. Gentle breezes, smooth seas, an occasional sail on the horizon. On the eighth day out, at the beginning of the first watch, the lights of St. Elmo were seen burning on both fore and main trucks. It is rather remarkable that this was the first, and only occasion, on which this phenomenon occurred throughout the entire voyage. Occasionally we got a turtle. Ten o’clock in the morning of the 30th of May showed us the Peak of Pico Island, 65 miles away, and at 10 p.m. next day, Thurs., May the 31st, we hove to off Ponta Delgada in the island of St. Miguel to await daylight. The 1,869 miles had taken us 18 days.
Having been the victims of the organised dishonesty of the pilots of San Francisco in California, we had long before decided to run no risks of having the vessel again detained for ransom by foreign officials. Mana therefore next day, June the 1st, simply stood in and dropped a boat outside the breakwater, and again stood off, whilst we pulled in. Being Good Friday, it was, of course, a fiesta, all shops shut, and everybody away in the country. Our consul, too, was away for the day, but his wife kindly gave us our letters. We had been instructed to obtain from him the necessary information regarding war conditions, and the regulations governing shipping bound for British ports. At Bermuda nothing was known.
When pulling up the harbour, we had noticed one British vessel—an armed Government transport, evidently formerly a small German passenger-carrying tramp—so having bought some pineapples, vegetables and cigarettes, nothing else being procurable, we got into our boat and paid her a visit. Her commander was ashore for the day with the Consul fiestaing, but his Chief Officer was good enough to put us au courant with things, so we bade adieu to Ponta Delgada without any wish to see more of it, and pulled out to sea. The ship was far away to leeward, set down by wind and current. Not expecting us to get through our work so quickly, she had not troubled to keep her station, but went off to argufy by flag with a Lloyd’s Signal-Station which would not admit that she was in its book.
After she had picked us up one of the men left aboard asked whether any of the craft in the harbour were “a-hanging Judas.” Though there were several small square-rigged vessels alongside the Mole, none had, however, cock-billed their yards.[[93]] It was interesting thus to find that the memory and meaning of the old sea custom still survived. Old superstitions and fancies still exist: an ancient shellback who was with us down to the s’uth’ard reprobated the capture of an albatross—“They is the spurrits of drownded seamen.” Someone objected on doctrinal grounds, but was met with the crushing rejoinder: “I said spurrits: their souls ar’ in ’ell.”