Into this haven I came one night after the spell at sea of salt beef and margarine, and who can tell the contrasting charm of the crisp rolls and real butter and vino tinto! And as I rested and made furtive notes of the patron there came music from above or some room near—a piano of early nineteenth century—or was it a spinet or guitar playing the air of one of Moore’s melodies.
“All that’s bright must fade, the brightest still the fleetest,
All that’s sweet was made but to be lost when sweetest.”
It is used in Indian as a bearer’s tune, and these are what I can recall of the words from the long ago. It’s a sweet air and surely the words are distressful enough to make a young man sad, and an old man smile. I wonder what Portuguese words the fair (I mean dark) beauty next the Atlantico put to the air—I must call again. Some of these native women are very pretty, but they are much more guarded in the use of their eyes than are their Spanish cousins. There’s a queer dress some of them, mostly the seniors, wear out-of-doors; when they come out, which is very seldom. Here is a jotting of it on the next page—it is of dark blue cloth. The younger generation wear rather neat up-to-date French dresses, but you see very few townswomen, they stay indoors, but many countrywomen come into the town in the daytime and a group of them sitting with baskets and fruit, with their vivid kerchiefs and shawls, make a colour, light, and shade, enough to make a painter’s heart leap with joy.
We hunted round the east end of San Miguel and saw dolphins and some very small whales.
Then we went north and chased some small whales, one, the biggest, almost white. It was getting late, the sun setting behind the cloud-capped island, still we stood by the guns—skipper, first mate and the writer each at his gun, ready for a chance shot. These little whales move too quickly out and into the water to give a fair shot.
The little excitement helped to raise our spirits from the damping disappointment of the wreck. We now drift, and expect the light wind to take us down to some shallower soundings which we see on the chart several miles south and east of San Miguel, where we hope to find whales; for they are in the habit of frequenting the edges of “banks,” when say two or three hundred fathoms change into a thousand fathoms.
The way of a man with a maid is perhaps a simple problem compared to the ways of whales. Who can tell how they guide their course, year after year, past the same points, travelling, for instance, off the Shetlands always N.E. along, you may say, a definite line.
Our plan for next week or so is to beat up the seas north of San Miguel, going about twelve miles, spying six miles on either side, then taking a right-angle course for other twelve or twenty-four miles, and so spying a large tract of sea, and by this simple means we can keep our position easily; and we keep the ordinary four hours’ watch; later, when we get whales, “if” I should say, we will have all hands on deck all day, and only a watchman on deck at night to attend to the steam cookers—but when will that be? There is a new moon to-night and I turned some silver leiras and a sixpence in my pocket, and will play the pipes—they may bring us whales—bagpipes make both salmon and pike take vigorously; I can bring witnesses to this! and they have, beyond doubt, an effect on the wind.