Though only a little south of Ireland, we have the real swell of deep sea; rolling low hills that leave no level horizon to us, for we are so close to the sea-surface, long, gentle undulations that suggest a perfect golf-course for elderly people.
We have a steady air from the north-east like the Trades. Possibly we may never have to shift a sail till we reach the Azores, and certainly to-day there was that in the light at midday, the sharp shadows on faces as we took the sun’s altitude, that, even with a pigeon-grey sky, reminded me of southern light that I have not seen or felt for several years, and we did things with our coats off, and brought our rifles on deck for an overhaul.
Our Norwegian heavy bores for sea-elephants cost £3, and as far as I can see are extremely accurate at the short range. I have tried them at one hundred and one hundred and thirty yards and they do not burst. It will be interesting to compare the effect of my higher velocity sporting mauser, a 375, with their work. Possibly the larger bullet of the Norse rifle, about 500, may be more useful for this huge animal at close range. The Norsemen are sure of this, but I back the bullet with the higher velocity every time.
There is a gale this evening and we are running with reefed foresail.
CHAPTER XVI
It is a strong N.E. gale, but “Muckle word pass ower,” as the children were taught by a certain dominie in the north to repeat when they came to a word beyond his knowledge, so “Muckle gale and pass ower,” we say, and try not to think of it. Why dwell on the unpleasing side of the sea. It is beastly all the same, and trying to one’s nerve.
We have no canvas on her now, just tumble along before the wind, with bare poles, through the grey seas, the wind passing through to our bones, wet with spray, weary with the motion. Henriksen says: “To-morrow ve vill be into the feene vedder.” I don’t know which is best, to be alongside an optimist or a pessimist in a gale at sea. An old skipper used to murmur to me in evil, dangerous times: “Hoot-toots, we’ll be oot o’ this intil a waur” and I begin to think this grim pessimism was really more comforting than Henriksen’s sanguine forecast of fine weather and blue seas which, I think, are far off.
All the same I notice to-day that as we bury our stem and the water roars over our deck, the little light which comes through the seas into our round bowley aft has a watery tint of blue instead of the green it had yesterday. That is, I take it, because we are out into the deep sounding beyond eighty and two hundred fathoms that encircle our shores past the great Sole bank, on the S.W. of England and Ireland, and now have somewhere about two thousand fathoms beneath us. We thought of heaving to last night and had a trysail ready for the aftermast. It was very black and awesome, but we managed to hold on our course. It is rather risky heaving round head to wind after you have run till the sea is dangerous. If you do not put down the wheel at the right moment you have a chance of getting one of these black seas and their huge white crests full on your beam or bridge and perhaps becoming a wreck in a second. It was as if the lights of cities at night showed every instant round the low horizon every now and then, to be blotted out by black hills, the light of the phosphorescent white ridges of foam.
Seizing what we think is a lull between big waves we scramble across the wet deck forward to our small mess-room, pause as we hang on and swing, till the iron door is almost upright and dive in. The door shuts with a clang.... How the wind whistles as the new-comer opens the little round-topped iron door! But once inside there is peace and warmth and lamplight and steamy air from the cooking stove, and we have sardines and bread and margarine for dinner, for it’s too rough for cooking more than tea. Then out into the black, wet, slippery deck again. Phew! How it blows, and how difficult it is to see now! Then to the bridge again and the St Ebba beneath us, a patch of black with two lights like eyes shining aft from the galley, a mass of dark against the wicked white of the surf which we tear in the dark sea—a black cat on a white bearskin, in a half-lit room. I suggest to the styrman (Norse for first mate) and captain as we shiver (I do at least) on the bridge that a Rolls Royce motor-car on a hard, dry road isn’t so bad, and they shout with derision. “No! No!” the St Ebba for them, driving before a gale. I wonder if they really mean it! Anyway I must pretend that I like it too.