The wind rose steadily, and by the morning it was blowing a stiff gale, so taking in a reef on the mainsail, we set out for the Pelsart group, some 15 or 20 miles further south. The wind, however, increased, and it was thought advisable to run for shelter into a channel between two bare coral islets near the “Post Office.” Why it is called the “Post Office” it is difficult to understand, for no one lives within miles. On the extremity of one of the islets a beacon of stone has been built, about the size of a sentry box, and it is said that this gave rise to the name. Names are evidently very easily suggested.
We had to beat in to our shelter. The channel is not more than a hundred yards wide, and flanked on either hand by sharp coral rocks, which voraciously bite a hole in the bottom of our boat if we came into contact with them. The islets are forbidding in their aspect, and although oysters are to be had on them, the difficulty of walking over the loose, sharp corals make us glad to return to the boat, where we may get below into shelter from the now howling gale. The anchor drags a few yards now and then over the rocky bottom, and a second is got ready to throw over, but happily the first at last catches a good hold, and keeps us in safety from the fury of the wind.
Square Island, Wreck Point, “Batavia’s Grave,” and Pelsart Island are visible in the distance to the south, but the living gale keeps us weather-bound at our moorings. All Saturday night it howled and whistled through the rigging.
Poor old “Father,” who had hitherto insisted on sleeping on deck, realised with Sir Joseph Porter, in “Pinafore”—
“When the breezes blow I generally go below,
And seek the seclusion of my cabin grants,
And so do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.”[Pg 27]
The gale was too much for “Father,” so he joined the others in the hold, as our vessel writhed under the fury of the blast and tugged at her moorings.
Sunday morning broke with the wind unabated. The long, spray-capped ocean rollers could be seen over the top of Pelsart Island, as they thundered over the reefs and churned themselves into seething masses of foam. There was no hope of shifting that day. Nicholas told us it would be madness to attempt to run to Geraldton in the heavy sea which had been lashed up by the southerly gale, and it was hopeless to attempt to beat against that gale to Pelsart or the other historical places we wished to visit. Our bread was run out, and we made puff-de-lunes, but the rolling of the boat was not conducive to the culinary art. The biscuit tin was nearing the bottom, and we were reduced to one biscuit a meal, although we had plenty of tinned meats, and fish and some oysters. The last two bottles of beer were opened as the sun approached the yard-arm, and were skilfully divided amongst the eight of us.
Towards evening the wind lulled, and the sky became overcast, so it was decided that as soon as practicable, we would start for home. Nicholas told us the glass was falling again, and someone remarked that the “Governor of North Carolina” had been finally deposed at 11 o’clock.