The phenomenal fair wind which I have referred to was in the month of April. We had made a fairly decent passage to Cape Horn and passed outside the Falkland Islands as far at Lat. 44° S. when the wind began to blow strong from the north-east, with a falling glass, and at the same time showed an inclination to shift further to the eastward. Here, I thought, is a possibility of deriving some benefit if, as I concluded, a cyclonic system was passing to the eastward and we were on the south-east corner of it. There was a good bit of sea running, but I let her go off and set fore-and-afters. I was rewarded by the wind freeing still more, so that before dark I got the single reefed topsails and foresail on her, which was about as much as she would stand, for the sea was just abaft the beam, increasing all the time, and the ship was lurching very badly. That night stands out as one of my pleasantest recollections of sailoring, for there was a clear sea in front of us, as much wind as we wanted, and the need for good handling if the most was to be made of it. About midnight we were getting another pull on the weather braces, and the men of the watch were finding that it taxed all their energies to do it, for she was lurching horribly. The chief engineer came staggering along the poop to me to ask whether I could do anything to keep her steadier, as she had more than once rolled her vacuum away. This meant that her injection plate had been out of water, and I could readily believe it. I told him it was getting better all the time, so he must make the best of it, and with that he had to be content. By morning the ship was on her course again, the wind aft, and we with topgallant sails set running about 16 knots. In three days we ran 1,064 miles, an average of close upon 15 knots, and that with all the freezing engines going, but the Kaikoura was as grateful for canvas as a thirsty man for drink, and revelled in the real sea dance. I felt rather pleased with myself over that business, but it was all vanity, for we got to Rio before they expected us, and there was no coal ready. The actual steaming time between Wellington and Plymouth was thirty-seven days three hours, or an average speed of just over 13 knots.
While on this question of route some word must necessarily be given to the Straits of Magellan, the passage through which figured largely in the advertisement for passengers. Very wisely, however, no strict instruction was ever given to the masters to adopt that route; it was left entirely to their discretion. At that time there was great rivalry to make the fastest passage, both between our own ships and those of the opposition line, and to this day I do not really know who did the fastest passage home, although I believe I did. Naturally, under those circumstances, when a ship was in a good position for rounding Cape Horn, it required some powerful argument to make a master go out of his way to increase his distance, and undertake what is at best the risky navigation of that magnificent waterway. For absolute grandeur the western portion of the Strait is unsurpassed, but when a ship is in a hurry there is little inclination or inducement to stop to admire scenery. As it happened, however, in my case the “powerful argument” was supplied. Leaving England in November 1885, we had on board a full complement of passengers, and among them were General Sir Patrick and Lady McDougall and the Earl and Countess of Dalhousie. They were intending to make the “round trip” in the ship, and the passage of the Straits was, I fancy, an event they all looked forward to. I never had more pleasant passengers. As it happened Sir Patrick’s reading and mine had been on very similar lines, and conversation at meal times was by no means dull. Lord Dalhousie had been in the Navy and was still a sailor at heart; he was also a great student of Shakespeare. Lady Dalhousie also had had some experience of the sea when her husband was Commander of the Britannia, apart from any other. It is superfluous but natural to remark that she was charming as she was handsome, and whenever she could further the harmony of the ship she spared no pains to do so. We made a very fine passage to within four days of Cape Town, when we dropped a propeller blade. We were at dinner at the time it went. I felt it, and looking across the saloon caught the eye of my chief engineer, which had sought mine. I said nothing and hoped it had passed unnoticed, but one of my lady friends at table had caught the look and artlessly inquired why the chief engineer had left the table in the middle of dinner. It is little use trying to hide anything, for we had to ease the engines, but even then we made a good run to the Cape.
When we got to Table Bay, I was not trusting to any divers’ work. We put her in dock, discharged an atom of cargo, and then dry-docked her, cargo and all, replaced the blade, reshipped the little cargo we had discharged, coaled and left again in about thirty-two hours, which was not bad work all things being considered, for, much as I liked Cape Town and its people, there were certain interests there that were very pleased to welcome a “daily stranger” in distress. We had to make what is known as a “particular average” of this matter in New Zealand, and few things cause more irritation to consignees, but there would have been no excuse for me if I had incurred needless risk which could be avoided by reasonable expenditure. The remainder of the passage to Port Chalmers was made without incident; but on the last night some young men amongst the first-class passengers had too much to drink, and succeeded in making themselves asses, and a nuisance to their fellow passengers. The Port Chalmers pilot took us in on the ebb tide and succeeded in putting us on a sandbank, where we stayed until the next high water. There was no harm done, but a lot of inquiries were afterwards made about it at the London Custom House. Our steaming time out that passage was 39 days, 9 hours.
The new order of progress was now inaugurated, and we were having our long spell in port at the New Zealand end. In all we had six weeks there, but we left for home in the middle of February, and then I had to face the music. I knew the Doric was to sail the day after us, therefore I was loth to lose the time involved by the passage of the Straits, for the Doric and Kaikoura always ran very jealously of one another, and I was confident our rival would stick to the great circle. I also knew that if she once caught sight of us we should never hear the last of it, for Captain Jennings, who was my very great friend, never lost an opportunity of impressing upon me the immense superiority of the Doric and White Star fashions generally. With this I naturally disagreed, although Jennings himself was one of the finest specimens of an old seaman it was possible to come across. As we drew down towards the Horn the questions with which I was plied concerning the Straits and my intentions grew more and more pointed. We had a fine fair wind, and I was loth to lose its benefit, but as it became eventually a personal matter I shifted my helm for the Straits and was fortunate enough to make them at daybreak, so that I had a really long day’s run in front of me. Needless to say, my passengers were delighted, for the scenery, if wild, was very magnificent, and to tell the truth I enjoyed the trip myself, now that I had had a reasonable excuse for losing time. There was no difficulty in navigating so long as one could see, but in that locality the weather changes with great suddenness and one watches it carefully from hour to hour. We passed the remains of more than one big steamer, stranded and deserted. Some speculation took place as to what the fate of their crews had been, for at that time the natives of Tierra del Fuego were cannibals. We were fortunate, and anchored at Sandy Point about nine in the evening, just after dark. We started at daybreak again, and carried a fair tide through the narrows, and that being so we raced past the land at the speed of a railway train, the current running perhaps nine knots, and the water one mass of boiling impetuosity. When we were past Cape Virgins that afternoon I sat down to play a rubber of whist with very great equanimity. We reached Rio in due course one morning, but coaling was very slow and detained us until late in the afternoon of the next day, by which time, as I anticipated, our friend the Doric had made her appearance, and I knew that for all eternity Jennings and his crowd would relate how they caught up the Kaikoura.
On this occasion in Rio (it was before the revolution) the Emperor favoured me with an intimation that he would be pleased to visit the ship. He did so, and inspected her very minutely, afterwards lunching, to the great relief of his staff, who had been attending some religious ceremony for the whole of the morning, and had confided to me that they were desperately hungry. His Majesty was extremely gracious, and the function was a very pleasant one. There was no further incident on the passage, and when we got to Plymouth early one morning, we were boarded by several friends of Lord Dalhousie who came to announce that he had been appointed Secretary of State for Scotland, and how both he and the Countess must be on shore with the least possible loss of time. They had been exceedingly popular in the ship, and the following voyage every officer received from them a souvenir of a pleasant voyage. I personally cherish a little hand-painted Christmas card, for Lady Dalhousie was fond of painting and had made some wonderful studies of sunlight effects at Rio.
There are few more puzzling things than a dense fog on shore, even in a well-known locality, but at sea it at times causes the most fantastic incidents, one of which I propose to now relate. We were bound down-Channel for Plymouth with a Channel pilot (Posgate) in charge, and when off the Start it came on a thick fog. I will confess that I was rather given to navigation under these conditions, so I kept on until I knew that we were not very far from Plymouth Breakwater, when the anchor was put down. Nevertheless, it is not pleasant to be anchored in the fairway of the Channel, for there is considerable risk of some one blundering into you, and a sharp look-out was being kept whenever the fog thinned a little, to pick up the breakwater light. About nine in the evening it was made out very dimly, but yet sufficiently well for me to get under way, and in a short time we picked up the Plymouth pilot, who then took charge. The fog was then heavy, but we kept the loom of the light and passed it, the pilot being very anxious to use port helm more than seemed to me to be warranted. At last I said, “How do you want to go, Pilot?” “About N.E. ½ E. sir,” was the reply, to which the London man said, “But you are E.N.E. now.” Said the Plymouth man, “Never mind, sir, port please.” At which I stopped the engines, although we were moving very slowly. Shortly after this the chief sung out from the forecastle, “A man-o’-war close ahead of us,” and immediately afterwards, “No, no, it’s the breakwater fort!” I turned astern full speed, despite remonstrances from both pilots that I should foul moorings and buoys, and as she backed out she just shaved the fort with her bowsprit, which thereby got a cant that it carried for the rest of its days. I asked the chief, East it was, if she had touched, but he like a good man said, “No,” and indeed it was the lightest possible graze. Eventually we anchored, nothing the worse for our novel experience. I forget now what I said to the Plymouth pilot—no doubt it was something very polite—but it was hardly ever possible to take Cousin Jacker really seriously, for they knew themselves that they were frequently as useful as a fifth wheel to a coach. The moral of this story is, if there is a moral, that if one had tried to do as we did on a fine day the chances are that we could not have done it, and indeed, there are times now when I can hardly understand how it took place. It did, however, and exactly in the manner I have described.
I must admit that during my entire sea experiences I was singularly immune from any serious accidents. That was my good fortune. But there were disagreeables at times. On one occasion we were hampered by a bad epidemic of scarlet fever, and some very cantankerous people in the saloon could not see that I had to act for the welfare of all, and that it was consequently necessary to sacrifice some room to secure isolation and hospital accommodation. To mend matters we had an accident that gave a deal of trouble. In one of the orlop decks was stowed a great quantity of casks of oil, illuminants for the New Zealand lighthouses. By some mischance one of them worked loose, and before it was realised the whole lot were adrift—for the ship was rolling badly—dashing from side to side, eventually smashing and deluging the orlop deck and lower hold with oil. It was a matter of difficulty and some danger to secure the casks that were left, for there was a curious cross swell on, and try as I might I could not persuade her to keep quiet. The men worked well, however, although the fumes affected their eyes badly. Great quantities were baled up in buckets and thrown overboard, but enough was unavoidably left to damage an enormous quantity of cargo in the lower hold. That was one of the few disagreeable trips I had.
On the other hand there were passages where people made everything a pleasure, and one very cheery time we had three young Englishmen not very long from college. One was Lord Burford, another was named Conolly, and the third was Seely, now (1912) Under-Secretary for War, who was even then exercising considerable influence by perfect manners and a knowledge of the world rare in one so young. Lord Burford has since that time succeeded to the dukedom of St. Albans. He has the most graceful seat on horseback I ever saw. Conolly, who afterwards joined the Scots Greys, sleeps with his fellows, the bravest and best, under the turf in the Transvaal. The reason I specially mention these three young men is that they had the happy knack of getting everything they wanted, and at the same time making it a pleasure for other people to give it them. It is true that three tandems at one time bulked rather largely in the streets of Wellington and caused a little comment, but the New Zealanders with whom the friends came in contact liked them, even to the extent of delaying the start of an express train while they laid in a stock of provisions for a journey. Conolly alone made the complete voyage with me, and on the run down to the Horn developed a taste for going aloft to handle canvas in bad weather. I did not like the risk he incurred, but could not well oppose it, and fortunately no accident happened.
Although I had by this time lost touch with a great deal concerning the Cape I had the good fortune at odd times when calling there to see old friends when they were gathered together for any special function. On one occasion there were some warships in the bay and a ball was taking place that night at Government House, to which I was invited. Coaling would be finished, I knew, by nine in the evening, and my anxiety was to get all my passengers safely on board, for it was coming on a south-easter. That, however, was safely managed, and then, having seen the gangway pulled up, I started for the shore and had a couple of hours amongst old friends and enjoyed it to my heart’s content. I returned to the ship by midnight and got under way at once. I suppose I really had no right to take those three hours, but it was the only time I ever lost a minute on a passage, and the exception does not make me feel repentant even now.
I think it was that passage that I had the satisfaction of carrying out a very great scientist, Sir Julius Von Haast. We were friends, and I had the greatest respect for his views and attainments. He gave me a great deal of his time, and for one thing thoroughly convinced me that our national system of free imports involved ultimate disaster. Geology, however, was his forte, and his reputation in this science was world-wide. I regret to say he died shortly after landing in New Zealand.