Next day we hove up anchor and started off for Cape Verde. You’d hardly think a small ship so full of men could feel lonely, but the Quest seemed to me to miss our late shipmates. We still carried our passenger, however—Mr. Lysaght, who had intended to leave us at Madeira, but who was so well liked aboard that he was persuaded to stay on a little longer. Immediately on leaving Madeira we picked up the fine north-east trades, and with every stitch of canvas we could carry, bowled along nobly toward the South.

No doubt many interesting things happened aboard that never came under my immediate notice, though you might think it was impossible for anything to transpire within such narrow confines as those of the Quest without all hands immediately securing the fullest information; but other better qualified pens than mine have dealt with them. I am trying to give my own impression of this astonishing voyage as it appealed to me: a raw landlubber and a somewhat young one. And I suppose that to a mole, its own burrow is of much more importance than even a European war.

What chiefly concerned me about this time was the cook’s mishap. Prior to leaving Funchal, Green had run a fishbone into his hand, causing him considerable pain, and rendering him useless during the rest of the day; but with true pertinacity he stuck it out until the morrow found his hand in a much worse condition; whereupon Mr. Douglas, our geologist, volunteered to replace him in the galley. For, although all hands had specific duties allotted to them as regards the expedition proper—that is: one was meteorologist, another geologist, another flying-man, and so on, when not actually engaged in scientific duties, all took part and lot with the general crew. There was a good deal of the Drake spirit about our leader: “I should not care to see the gentleman who would refuse to hale and draw with the mariners” was one of his mottoes, and so—the geologist became acting “Doctor,” and celebrated his appointment by heaving the disabled cook from his sanctum sanctorum, as, being a new broom, he wanted to make a clean sweep. Let’s say Green’s hand recovered rapidly; we won’t blame the breakfast; but at all events, Green returned to duty after that meal was served, and so a possible mutiny was averted!

Beyond washing my clothes, this was about the only incident of the day. Next day brought us sight of a noble Royal Mail boat snorting magnificently along; and those who watched her regaled themselves with moving accounts of the comforts and luxuries to be had aboard. As Mr. Mason, our original cinema photographer, had returned to England, Mr. Wilkins, the naturalist, deputized for him, and managed to secure some very good shots at the moving monster. Daily duties, necessary and time-absorbing, filled in the hours not unpleasantly, and the usual even glide of day and night set in after its break in port. There is no way of eating time so thoroughly as by keeping regular watch-and-watch at sea: days slip into weeks, weeks into months, so very smoothly as to be well-nigh imperceptible.

The summery weather conditions now necessitated something of a change in our regular mode of life. The little wardroom, snug and warm farther north, was growing unpleasantly stuffy; and the scorch of the sun on the decks did nothing to mend matters. Consequently, awnings were rigged on the poop, and meals were served beneath it in alfresco fashion; a welcome change from the tinned atmosphere of down below. So genial were the weather conditions that I felt it incumbent upon me to celebrate the occasion, which I did to the extent of a much-needed shave: the first for ten clear days; though the private opinion of some aboard, I believe, was that I was growing unnecessarily dandified! Others thanked me politely and vowed that I had raised the water-line of the ship by a full two inches, thus guaranteeing her seaworthiness if further bad weather came our way.

We began, now, to use the deck much more than down below; it was not only our messroom and our music-room, but also our bedroom. Even the gramophone seemed to appreciate the change to open air, for it did its noblest this evening under the awning, when Shackleton’s favourite airs were played all through and a spirit of mirth and cheer animated all hands. Excellent amity prevailed: we were shaking down into our places, fitting ourselves into corners, and determined to make the best of these present good times in preparation for the prophesied bad times ahead.

Turning-in on deck was an enjoyable experience: free air blowing about your face makes for enjoyable rest; and it is possible, lying under open sky, to study and marvel over the radiant glory of the stars. There are no stars like those of the tropical skies; they are bigger and brighter than seen in English skies, and seem not so much to be set flat on a board as arranged in proper perspective. Why anyone should frowst below decks when there is room above, I fail to understand. Query, the wolf-hound, shared my opinion, for he slept at my head all night and aroused me at daybreak by licking my face. He showed promise of growing into a fine dog, and was already a good friend to all aboard. You’ve simply got to make a pet of something at sea; and you are lucky if you are given so excellent an object for your affections as was Query.

Fine weather at sea means—so I was told by those more experienced than myself—an orgy of painting. The craze bit the ship’s company now, and some wonderful decorative effects resulted. And the weather was really fine—sunny sky, sea like glass, and never an awkward movement to the ship, save for the long, even swell that was more like a steady breathing of the ocean than an actual heave.

But lest too much fresh, sweet air should harm us and increase our appetites beyond all reason, it was decided that now was the day and hour to trim bunkers; so all hands turned to to chew coal-dust. The engines were stopped and all sail was set. Once more our mechanical heart was showing symptoms of valvular disease; and the engineer was loudly of opinion that only extensive repairs and alterations could save the situation. During the day the breeze freshened somewhat, so that the good, clean rustling of the distended canvas sang a note of striving; but fair though the breeze was, we made indifferent headway; and in the evening the engines were started up once more. It appeared as if the ship was annoyed at this interference with her placid progress; for the first turn of the screw caused the hull to give such a fiendish lurch that the entire galley did its best to turn a somersault and capsized, spilling everything worth while over the deck. A big can of boiling cocoa plentifully bathed the cook’s legs; a tin of melted fat smothered the floor; and for an hour we were as fully employed as we had any desire to be. Cooling fat leaves much to be desired in the handling; and I was glad that I was over my seasickness! All that troubled me now was toothache, and that was getting better. But we mopped up the dÉbris and scoured everything white again, and turned in with the sweet consciousness of work well done. Thinking it necessary, no doubt, to take his share in the common toil, Query contrived to discover a flying-fish which had blundered aboard in the blind fashion these fish have of doing things. It was a very toothsome morsel—but not for Query!

My own individual duties during these days lacked nothing on the score of variety. Turning-to at six o’clock, I proceeded to assist in scrubbing decks—as they call it in the Navy; washing down, as it is designated in the merchant service. A hose and a broom are in demand for this sea-ritual. Having satisfactorily completed this sanitary duty, I went aft and got all things in order for breakfast, and served at table whilst my seniors ate. Simple enough in the telling, but when the sea got up a bit, as it did about now, and the ship grew lively, not so simple in the actuality. Since no right-thinking man cares to have his breakfast spilt down the back of his neck, it behoved me to be careful, as I had no wish to figure as principal character at a coroner’s inquest. Another of my daily duties was to scrub out Sir Ernest’s cabin. Don’t, please, carry away from these pages an impression of a sumptuous stateroom. This sea-bedroom was little better than a glorified packing-case: it measured seven feet by six, and when you were in it you felt half-afraid to draw a full breath in case you carried something away or burst the bulkheads apart. The door of this cabin opened on the afterside; and on the port side was the bunk, stretching the entire length of the room, with drawers beneath and a single porthole above. A small washstand stood against the forrard bulkhead; shelves well-filled with books on the starboard side, and a small, collapsible chair completed the more elaborate furnishings. In addition, fixed to the forrard bulkhead, was a small, white-enamelled cabinet fitted with an oval mirror in the door, and an emergency oil-lamp for use when the electric supply gave out. That’s as good a description as I can give of this tabloid apartment, where you could do everything humanly possible without leaving one spot!

After daily breakfast I did whatever I was told to do—helped the cook to clean the galley and prepare the meals, took a trick at the helm, trimmed coal, gave a hand with the sails and rigging, and made myself generally useful. As one of my shipmates said: “It was a pity we had no clay aboard because I might have spent my leisure in making bricks!”

Wednesday, October 26, was a red-letter day: one to be recorded with all due solemnity. I had my wages raised! When cleaning out his cabin on this particular morning the Boss asked me what I had been doing in Aberdeen in addition to scouting. I told him that I had been at the University. Whereupon he laid the accolade upon my shoulders by saying, in that deep, pleasant voice of his which seemed designed to beat up against the fiercest gale that ever blew: “Well, you’re pleasing me very much so far, and I want to increase your pay to £12 a month. That will help pay your fees when you get back to the Granite City.”

I was enormously pleased. It wasn’t so much the increase of pay as the kindly words that accompanied the promise. I was giving satisfaction to such a judge of humanity as Sir Ernest Shackleton! That was what warmed my blood. I’d passed severe tests and was qualified to count myself properly one of the adventurous brotherhood! It seemed to me as if this honour had been bestowed on all Scoutdom, and I was glad.

Cape Verde Islands greeted my sight this morning, looming dimly into view. By noon we were closing the coast, rugged and inhospitable. Absolutely nothing but bare rock was visible; sun-scorched and lacking entirely in verdure; bare rock rising majestically some fifteen hundred feet into the clear air, never a tree to break its monotony, apparently no soil in which a single blade of grass might grow. St. Vincent has few charms at the best; it is used for little else beyond a coaling station and a connecting link in the world’s submarine cable system. Rain seldom falls in St. Vincent, and it is too remote from the rest of the world to be fertilized by passing birds. Its harbour, though, is a fine, natural roadstead, being composed of an assortment of smaller islands, and the native divers beat anything I have ever come across, though they are reputed to be as light of finger as they are deft of movement in the water, and occasionally they are apt to become truculent and peevish if interrupted in their favourite hobby of abstracting such movables as they can lay hands on. Not that it was necessary for an article to be movable. I was solemnly assured by one who should have known that these same modern buccaneers had on one occasion endeavoured to steal the funnel out of the ship that harboured him!

Bathing off the ship was vetoed on account of rumoured sharks, which did not appear to trouble the natives overly; but it was permissible closer inshore, and we only too gladly took full advantage of this opportunity. It was a delightful experience, for the water was so balmy as to be like a continued caress.

At night a farewell dinner was given to Mr. Lysaght, who was to leave us here and return to England, home and beauty. Throughout the journey he had quitted himself in most manly fashion, refusing to succumb when hardier men than himself went down, bearing part and lot in all that happened with the greatest good cheer. His principal wish seemed to be to continue aboard the Quest, indifferent to the call of home and comfort; but this was not to be. The ship did herself well that night: giving of her very best in food and drink, and the occasion was one to remember.

Next morning I dressed myself decently and went ashore in company with the geologist and the naturalist, Mr. Wilkins. At sea, I may mention, we dressed as convenient and studied our personal appearance very little, so that we often looked like a gang of scarecrows. The nigger population of St. Vincent turned out to greet us—not out of admiration for our noble selves, but with an honest—or dishonest—desire for gain. They literally mobbed us as we set foot ashore: snatching at our bags, thrusting diminutive donkeys under our noses, clamouring to be permitted to show us the sights, and generally buzzing about like gigantic flies. What they lacked in reserve they made up in enthusiasm; but we considered ourselves quite able to look after ourselves. We collected various tiny donkeys, and I found myself very greatly at sea when I boarded my noble mount. Steering the Quest was child’s play as compared with navigating that ass at first, but one got the hang of it after a while and contrived to make some progress ahead instead of sideways.

Nothing I saw ashore here altered my first impression of the Cape Verdes. They are, without exception, the barest, poorest lumps of land I’ve ever seen. St. Vincent, like the other islands, is purely volcanic in character, and what is not bare, vitreous rock is simply dry, reddish volcanic earth that contains no fertilizing qualities, so far as I am aware. There had been no rain for two years prior to our arrival; there was naturally no herbage growing, all was sheer sun-scorched rock and blazing heat, tempered only a little by the sea breezes. As nothing will grow ashore beyond a few miserable stalks of maize on the higher slopes, the inhabitants, set down there for their sins presumably, would starve but for another island in the group. From this island they secure water, which is ferried across in boats, and also all their cereals and fruits, though these are nothing to wax eloquent over. Even this water is not very palatable; it is obtained by boring down to a great depth, and as there had been no rain to liven the springs, the general result was stale and unlikeable. Until it is boiled and sterilized it is practically undrinkable. So that, taking one thing with another, it is not surprising that occasionally quite large numbers of the native population die off from sheer starvation. Their staple food is ground maize, and when it becomes scarce, as it so often does, they are in a bad plight.

We travelled up into the hills quite a distance, thanks to our donkeys. Joining Mr. Wilkins I went bug-hunting; we successfully pursued butterflies, caterpillars and other creepie-crawlies. Mr. Wilkins added a small lizard to his bag, and seemed delighted; whilst Mr. Douglas contented himself with his own particular hobby: studying the dykes, and hills, and volcanic formations of the island, collecting certain specimens that interested him on the way. Some of the butterflies, which we bagged in considerable numbers, were rarely beautiful, and seemed, in my opinion, to be wasting their time at St. Vincent. There’s a Scots lament called “The Barren Rocks of Aden,” but the man who composed it had never seen St. Vincent, or he’d have decided that Aden was nothing to make a song about.

Coming back, we seemed so much too big for our donkeys as they braved the precipitous slopes that out of sheer humanity—to say nothing of respect for our necks—we dismounted and proceeded afoot along the scorching rocks which seemed to burn through our boot-soles as if we walked across red-hot lava. The impression I received was of a weary plodding through a hopeless desert, and this suggestion was increased by the great swirls of vultures that were everywhere overhead. How they lived on St. Vincent I do not know; maybe, like the Maltese, they took in each other’s washing, or fed on one another.

Here, again, the Western Telegraph Company gave us warm hospitality: a rousing good evening with dinner and a sing-song to follow. By way of a leg-stretcher, and in order, I suppose, to rid ourselves of the superabundant energy accumulated in the close quarters of the Quest, we then let ourselves go; had a go-as-you-please rugger match in the passage—much to the consternation of the nigger servants—and generally took the place apart. When a score of hefty Britishers feel within them the spirit of movement things are apt to get smashed. But a rough-house is a good thing occasionally, and I dare say we should have had one or two aboard but that we were too much afraid of bursting the ship apart.

Whilst we sported others toiled, for we found to our unbounded satisfaction on returning in the ghostly small hours, that the Quest had been coaled and we were saved the grimy irksomeness of that unpleasant labour. I was glad enough, I assure you, for though I don’t profess to be any more afraid of work than the next fellow, there’s a lot of fine, heartfelt joy in knowing that someone else has done your job! Late aboard never meant late abed under Shackleton; six o’clock found me resuming the daily task. A homeward-bound liner, by which Mr. Lysaght travelled, replenished our lockers with fresh provisions—much better than the stringy goat obtainable ashore—and also granted us the inestimable boon of a ton of ice for the freezer. Ice counted for a lot there near the Line; but the time was to come—yet why anticipate?

During our enforced stay in St. Vincent our engines were once more tuned up, in the hope that the usual discords they played would cease. Visitors naturally came and went, for anything the least little bit out of the ordinary is an event in that sun-baked wilderness; but, with the engines reported fit and ready again, we once more put out to sea.