We steamed out on the Rio de Janeiro route on October 29. Endless numbers of albacore welcomed us to the open water, leaping vividly in the startling blue sea, crisping it with snowy foam splashes. The Boss drew my attention to them first—he was always very decent that way in pointing out such details as he considered might interest a somewhat ignorant first-voyager. That was one of the traits in his character that drew men to him I think; his infinite interest in the little things; no detail was too small for him, no trouble too great. Albacore are fine, plump fish; some that I saw must have measured quite five feet from nose to tail—perhaps more, for they’re as quick in the water as the sheep the Irishman couldn’t count by reason of their liveliness; you only get a fleeting impression of them as they leap clear into the air then splash back with a noble flurry into their native element.

Everything seemed propitious as we went rolling down to Rio; everything, that is, except our engines. No, it wasn’t the man-made machinery that played us up this time, but the precious St. Vincent coal—dust and such poor steam-making stuff that it was impossible to maintain a working pressure for long at a time. As a consequence, we crawled; but this lazy fanning along across a sapphire sea is an enjoyable experience enough. Down in the bunkers loud cheering announced the finding of an occasional lump of coal by way of a change from the dust, and after a while a better pressure was secured, thereby quickening our pace. Flying-fish were very plentiful, and the feeling now was that we were merely embarked on a yachting cruise.

Now, to detail each day as it passed would be but a reiteration, monotonous in the extreme. I find that during certain portions of this Rio run my diary reads much as Mark Twain’s did when he, as a boy, endeavoured to keep one. “Got up, washed, went to bed,” about describes it. And though the routine work aboard a ship at sea can be uncommonly interesting to the worker, as I always found it, it can also, in its description, be very boring to those who desire other things than a plain tale of plain, unexciting happenings. Daily I got up, did my work, went to bed. True, there were events which, unimportant in themselves, yet served to interest us who were dependent on the chance incidents of sea travel for our amusement. What pleased me personally was the continued keen interest the Boss took in me. When it would appear that my duties were somewhat monotonous and irksome he was there to console—not that I needed it, for duty aboard the Quest was always a pleasure—but the thought that he, with a brainful of responsibility, aware that his ship, secured after so much planning, lacked in many respects the perfection that was really necessary for a thoroughly successful expedition, with all his great plans constantly seething in his mind, could still take so lively an interest in the thoughts and feelings of the least-to-be-considered member of his crew, gratified me and bound me to him with bands of steel. His desire was that all aboard should be happy, for he knew how small a mite of the leaven of unhappiness can affect the entire personnel. The yarns he used to spin of his own youth at sea, too, were entertaining beyond the power of description; his bluff, hearty personality infused a happy content into the daily round.

Through the blazing days and the gorgeous nights of the Tropics we slid smoothly towards Rio: sleeping out in the open constantly, by reason of the stifling heat of down below. These nights on deck are a pleasant memory. No covering was needed save something thrown across the eyes, lest moon-blindness might result. Shackleton had some yarns to tell of careless boys in his sailing-ship days suffering from this curious complaint, as a result of sleeping in the full glare of a white, tropical moon, that rides like a silver cannon-ball in a purple velvet pall spangled bewilderingly with myriad stars. Boys, perfect of sight by day, became as blind as bats by night; they developed twisted necks and drawn faces, all through the baleful influence of this beautiful night illuminant, which can be an enemy as well as a friend to those who go down to the sea in ships.

Sleeping in the open air, I discovered, was infinitely more refreshing than sleeping in a cabin below-deck: one wakened instantly, with every sense fully on the alert, instead of the usual slow heaving up from the chasms of sleep. But, occasionally these restful slumbers on deck were rudely interrupted. A rain-squall fetched me from my plank couch one morning at five o’clock; brilliant lightning was searing the sky, and the wind, freshening in squalls, was whipping up a considerable sea. Thus we began genuinely to roll down to Rio, for the Quest—of which no ill be spoken!—could always hold her own at that rolling game, and seemed as much in earnest about this part of her work as she did about any other. The big square-sail had to be furled on account of these quickening squalls, and the staysail set instead; but the rolling continued; and there were those who vowed that even in dry dock our ship was capable of liveliness.

By this time we were learning the value of fresh water during a prolonged voyage. In every case where salt water could be used in the ship’s cleaning, it was used; and even our ordinary washing was reduced to the minimum. Aboard a small sailing vessel with a limited tank-capacity, fresh water is permissible for only two purposes: drinking and cooking. All rain-water that falls must needs be carefully conserved, too: and from the oldsters I received not one but many serious lectures on the value of economy in this precious fluid.

One outstanding event was the harpooning of a giant porpoise. Mr. Eriksen was our harpooner: taking advantage of a shoal of these sea-pigs being very much in evidence about our bows one morning, he grew animated, felt within him the northern desire to kill something, and equipped himself with a harpoon and line, with which he crept out on the boom-guys forrard and lay in wait. Presently he saw his chance: a porpoise, more daring or careless than the rest, shot within his distance. It was a good throw he made: clean into the back-fin went the steel; and away like a flash of lightning shot Master Porpoise. It went aft, towing the line with it. Every available hand promptly clapped on to the whirring line: one man endeavoured to snatch a holding turn round a bollard; but Mr. Eriksen yelled: “Steek! Steek!” in a perfect frenzy of excitement—I think he was surprised at the fairness of his aim!—and those on the rope hung on for dear life; the swing of their arms and bodies giving enough play to the line to prevent the harpoon being torn from its holding. But even so, the helpers seemed to apply too much strain to the light line; for Eriksen was far from pleased, and, English failing him in his dilemma, he had recourse to his native Norwegian, which, volleyed forth as he volleyed it, is a most expressive language. But though expressive it was not illuminating: confusion grew, until some of Eriksen’s meaning penetrated to our minds, and the line was slacked off sufficiently to permit the stricken fish to be brought to starboard, where we were able to see how truly Eriksen had struck. Blood poured from the wound; the blowing of the porpoise was fearsome; its strength was nearly spent, and it was wallowing somewhat pitifully when we drew it close alongside; so, in order to put a period to its misery, Mr. Wild promptly shot it. Then we got it aboard and gazed satisfiedly at our kill. Seven feet seven inches long he was, and seemed to weigh a ton; but we had no means of verifying that estimate.

Query and the cat betrayed curiosity mingled with awe of our catch. Especially the cat: it completely failed to understand the queer body with its piglike snout and its scaleless skin; and when, by way of hardening it to the realities of the sea, the cat was thrown on the porpoise’s back, you would have thought it had landed on india-rubber, so actively did it bounce into the air from the unpleasing contact.

But after a bit of skylarking, the porpoise was taken into stock: the best parts of the flesh, cut into steaks, were handed over to the cook, together with the brains and tongue; the tail was cut off to be used as a trophy of our prowess, and the rest of the carcass was returned to the sea.

On the day we killed the porpoise we discovered a new hobby: coal-sifting. It was necessary, in order to maintain a working head of steam, to separate the dust from the lumps—much dust to very few lumps—and all the useless stuff was hove overside. A messy, gritty job! But the rain helped us somewhat: and it did rain! Solid sheets of it came cascading down, so that to keep even a semblance of dryness was out of the question; but the weather was so warm that the downpour was more in the nature of a blessing than a curse. We were now fairly in the doldrums.

Just before lunch the sea presented us with a picture: one that is all too seldom seen in these days of mechanical progress and stern utility. A noble sailing-ship: a vast five-masted Frenchman, La France, hove in sight. She was becalmed, a painted ship lying still on a painted ocean; with her enormous spread of canvas and the beautiful tracery of her rigging reflected in every tiniest detail in the mirror of the sea. So taken with the sight she presented was Sir Ernest that he altered course in order to pass her at close quarters; and so we not only got an excellent view of this famous Horn sailing-ship, but also some really fine photographs. Moreover, as is the custom of the sea, we spoke to her and gave her information such as might appeal to a windjammer: telling her where we had lost the North-East Trades and the strength of them as they deserted us. Quite an animated conversation was carried on between ship and ship: and the amusing part of the business was that whereas the French skipper was compelled to use a megaphone to make himself audible, the Boss, simply by funnelling his hand about his mouth, made himself perfectly well understood across the intervening space of lifeless sea.

“She looks peaceful enough now,” said one of the crew to me; “but you ought to see her as I’ve seen her: ratching round the Horn under her topsails, scuppers awash, and the big fellows piling aboard as if determined to overwhelm her. Then you see a windjammer as she really is: a sea-fighter, depending not at all on machinery and the ingenious contrivances of this present-day civilization; but just a conglomeration of steel and wood and wire and hemp, built to “euchre God Almighty’s storms and bluff the eternal sea”; then you’d begin to understand a thing or two. Seafaring isn’t what it was—it’s a pastime instead of hard labour; but so long as such packets as that keep afloat there’s hope.”

And, alas for his enthusiasm!—we were to hear at a later date that the splendid fabric had been totally wrecked on a reef fifty miles off New Caledonia: that Ocean Graveyard might reasonably be called, “The Port of Missing Ships.”

Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley! The Boss, after informing the Frenchman that the North-East Trades had not entirely gone out of business, complimented him on the appearance of his ship—which was well-deserved—and so, with mutual good-feeling, we trudged past her into lowering cloud-masses that soon developed into noisy squalls—little wind and much rain, until we hit one squall with more wind in it, and were compelled to shorten sail to combat the breeze on even terms.

We had decided to call at St. Paul’s Rocks—a lonely outpost of Mother Earth almost exactly on the Line—and as we had no desire to overrun the land, engines were slowed down in order that we might sight the rocks at daybreak. There was nothing the matter with the Quest’s navigation; and soon after daylight we sighted our immediate haven, with the sun shining whitely on the barrenness of these deserted islets.

They are not in any way large: being merely the ultimate peaks of a deep-sunken mountain range, jutting up through the placid waters of the equatorial seas. The biggest of them is not more than two hundred yards long with a maximum altitude of sixty feet or thereabouts; and from one end to the other they are smothered in guano, thanks to the sea-birds that rest there in unbelievable clouds. In the frequent squalls that rage about them, the wind-flung sprays leap high over their insignificant bulk; and the hot tropical sun at once dries the spindrift into dazzling crystals of salt; it is these crystals and the guano combined that make the islands look, at a distance, as if they were covered with newly-fallen snow.

Arriving within easy pistol-shot of the largest island, all sail was taken in and the surf-boat lowered. Shoals of ravenous sharks swarmed about the Quest as she lost her way: the water was whipped to whiteness by their quick movements. Without loss of time the first exploring party loaded themselves into the surf-boat, with gear for observations and provisions for the day, and moved off from ship to shore. I counted myself fortunate in being included in this party, which comprised Mr. Douglas, Major Carr, and myself, with a notable crew of Dr. Macklin, Mr. Jeffrey, and Mr. Eriksen, Mr. Wild being in charge at the tiller. We were landed, through the sullen surf, on one of the smaller rocks, and the boat returned to the Quest for a fresh load. Mr. Wilkins, with Mr. Hussey and Mr. Dell, the electrician, landed on the largest rock; and by the time this difficult landing was effected Mr. Douglas, who was entrusted with the duty of making a comprehensive survey of the place, discovered that our small islet was not suitable for this purpose; consequently it was necessary to hail the boat, load in all our gear, and proceed to the big island. During the reloading process Douglas was so keen and zealous that he allowed himself to be soused repeatedly by the grumbling surf. It was, indeed, a matter of no little difficulty to get anything into the boat, since its motion was so lively; every time it came within reachable distance and we began to swing the load towards it, the backwash licked it out of reach again; and so it was for all the world like playing a somewhat exasperating game of cup and ball. To beach the boat was impossible, for the simple reason that there was no beach: the rocks being steep-to, so that the first part of the boat to touch land was her stem. However, we managed the transhipment after a fashion.

Enormous numbers of crabs were a prominent feature of the island when we reached it; they scuttled away with queer suggestions of terror at our arrival. Moreover, it was as though the rocks actually lived and breathed, by reason of the vast quantities of sea-birds that were everywhere, and so tame as to be ludicrous. You could go right up to them without their stirring, save to advance threatening beaks; and only when they were actually touched did they fly away, and then not very far. If they were sitting on their nests, as many of them were, they stayed put, contenting themselves with squawking and flapping their wings, which was their idea of defence.

So far as I could see—not being a naturalist—there were two kinds of birds common to the islands: the one was rather larger than an ordinary duck, brownish in colour, with big, webbed feet and a long, yellow, pointed bill. This bird—species unknown to me—emitted, when disturbed, a wild, squalling cry like an hysterical woman robbed of her only child: an infinitely pathetic sound. It made a fellow feel absolutely inhuman to touch these birds, once the queerness of it all had passed.

The other type was smaller, no bigger than an ordinary seagull, brownish-black in colour, and lacking webbed feet.

The young of the larger species, almost until reaching years of discretion, boast fluffy coats of white feathers of downy softness, and made one anxious to secure sufficient of their plumage to stuff a mattress that might be more kindly to one’s projecting bones than the “donkey’s breakfast” with which I was provided. The young of the smaller kind were quite ordinary: being, if anything, a shade darker than their parents. Flying-fish appeared to comprise the major portion of the larger birds’ dietary, for we found many of these curious fish lying about the rocks in the vicinity of the nests. Not that these nests were architectural masterpieces by any means: they were merely rough scrapings in the ever-present guano: trifling bowls just sufficient to contain the eggs or the downy young.

Mr. Wilkins soon found material for his cameras. He was keen on securing impressions of life on St. Paul’s Rocks; and quested about like a newspaper reporter in the silly season. He was fortunate enough to run upon what can only be described as a piscatorial drama: a huge crab that had discovered a dead fish and was working overtime to get it stowed inside. With all the stolidity of an Aberdeen granite-hewer, the crab was ripping off enormous chunks from its odoriferous catch and tucking them away. You’d have thought he was a small boy—not a Scout, of course—bagging apples from a forbidden orchard, with the owner of that orchard coming round the corner. Something like a score of smaller crabs were anxious to share his prize, but he had no intention of making a common cause of his salvage. Every time they advanced he dragged the fish bodily away; and when the smaller fellows showed a nasty, greedy disposition, he thought nothing of kicking them away to blazes-and-gone with his scrabbling hind-legs. Very evidently that apple “wasn’t goin’ to have no core!”

Throughout the interesting morning Mr. Wilkins took photographs, both still and moving, of the life of the island: birds, crabs, even the fish swimming in the rockpools; and Mr. Dell and I assisted him to the best of our ability. We were all busy according to our capacity. In the afternoon Mr. Wilkins killed such birds as he required for specimens, and went on with his picture-making in order that those who only Britain know might learn somewhat of the outlying pickets of the earth. Mr. Douglas made a comprehensive survey of this largest island, taking Mr. Hussey and Major Carr to assist him; the latter also did some useful meteorological work, besides helping me in the bug-hunting labours relegated to me by our naturalist. Spiders and moths formed the greater part of our bag; and all were of interest, because they were so entirely different from the spiders and moths of home.

As for the boat’s crew, they fished throughout the greater part of the day, catching small sharks and varied finny victims in considerable quantities. As sharks are not particularly appetizing food, they were thrown back into their native element after certain operations had been performed upon them which guaranteed that they, at any rate, would never more trouble harassed mariners.

All this work was done under a baking sun, striking with merciless savagery down from almost directly overhead. Our moving bodies threw no shadows whatsoever, but the glare from the rocks caused our skins to flame and burn with unbelievable thoroughness, so that when we returned to the Quest we looked more like a party of half-cooked negroes than white men.

That our observations might be thorough and of use to civilization, when once we were all embarked and the surf-boat housed on deck, the Quest steamed slowly round the entire group of mountain peaks, taking soundings as she went. Not until seven o’clock at night did we move off finally and wave farewell to what is, in my opinion, one of the most forlorn clusters of rock in all the world.

Forthwith we resumed the even run of shipboard duties: I myself acting as cook’s mate when required, standing watch, taking the wheel, trimming and sifting coal; and all the time the sea was running high and the Quest doing herself proud in the matter of rolling. Such of us as did the tedious bunker work, in ten-minute shifts because of the stifling conditions below, cursed that St. Vincent coal heartily enough to set it on fire on its own account, but felt high reward when we were granted an afternoon’s easy as a solace to choked lungs and aching limbs. There were no class distinctions among us, let it be known. I, the loblolly boy, worked side by side with the leaders of the expedition at what, ashore and in civilization, might have been considered menial tasks. The ship was absolutely a commonwealth, all hands working all-out for the common good; social distinctions were thrown overboard almost as soon as we left Plymouth. Thus were formed the bonds of a proved comradeship destined to stand us in good stead in the coming days of common peril, when every man might be required to depend upon his nearest neighbour for the boon of continued life.

Major Carr, during these days, conducted a series of meteorological experiments, although the uneasy motion of the ship rendered such work difficult in the doing. He sent up balloons and kites to test the currents of the upper air and secure the temperatures of those remote strata, all of which information is of great value in weather-forecasting and the like. One kite was lost. This work is rather interesting because, to one not versed in its complications, it is so infinitely mysterious. You send up a big kite, say, getting it up as high as you can, or as high as you wish; and then, up the same wire you dispatch a smaller kite—just as we used to send up messengers, as we called them—which messenger kite carries with it the complicated instruments by means of which the records are taken; afterwards these are tabulated day by day.

Infrequently, during the run to Rio—though it was more a crawl—I indulged in the luxury of a shave. I make a special point of mentioning this, because shaves were amongst the rarest events of existence those days. A memorable day; the Boss gave me further praise. I told the cook, because sometimes it is well to give others a correct estimate of yourself, as seen through eyes that are not biased by long and close companionship.

“The Boss asked me to make his tea for him this afternoon,” I said. “And when he tasted it he said it was the best that had ever passed his lips.”

“He always says that,” said the cook with a dreadful sneer, “when anyone makes it but me—who’d be a cook, anyhow? All the dirty work, none of the fat! Who’d go to sea at all, if it comes to that?” But I made allowances for his liver suffering from the constant nearness to our stove, and forbore to press home my triumph.

Occasionally becalmed, not infrequently labouring in high seas, we trudged along the long and uneventful road to Rio, and early on the morning of November 21 sighted the South American coast. It is bold in its outline hereabouts, with the Sugar Loaf hill at the entrance to Rio Harbour striking a dominant note, and as we progressed and closed the land we secured exceptionally fine views of the scenery, a welcome spectacle to eyes long used to staring out over the unbroken horizons of the sea.

It had not been the Boss’s original intention to make any call until we reached South Trinidad Island; but the engine-room defects were developing so rapidly, despite the overhaul at St. Vincent, that Sir Ernest discovered it absolutely necessary to secure further engineering assistance, and, moreover, the topmast and rigging were also giving no end of trouble, which it would not do to risk further. As Rio de Janeiro offered an excellent harbour of refuge, to that port we steered, and arriving off the harbour at midnight, cruised about until the dawn, for South American ports are all alike in the respect that no vessel may enter or leave between the hours of dark and dawn. I suppose this rule is enforced in order to prevent surprise revolutions taking place too often. The hobby of Latin America, so I was solemnly informed by those much older and wiser than myself, is revolutions, and there is a definite season for hanging Presidents to their own flagstaffs. I do not vouch for it; I only record what I was told. Apparently, when bored after a too long siesta, some South American will say: “It’s a fine day; let’s have a revolution!” And the others agree that life is lacking in excitement, so a revolution they have, and no one makes much ado about it, not even the late President, because he’s generally past caring one way or the other. Only sometimes it is the usurper and not the up-to-the-moment occupant of the Presidential chair who decorates the flagstaff—it all depends.

On a brilliantly sunny morning, with the sky and sea rainbow-like in a welter of vivid colouring, we passed up amongst the little network of islands, and ran beneath the frowning sheer of the Sugar Loaf into what is surely the most beautiful harbour in all the world. Jealous Australians will tell me that I am wrong, and that Rio cannot beat Sydney; but as I’ve never seen Sydney, and I wager most of them have never seen Rio, I’ll hold to my opinion. Rio is beautiful—with its richly clad slopes on either hand, its majestic size, and its clustering white-walled buildings along the cliff-tops. The water is as blue as sapphire; the sky above is radiant; and—there are worse places than Rio to visit, when one is wearied of much seafaring. And yet, not so very long ago, the very mention of Rio sent shivers through the spinal cords of honest sailormen. The place had an evil name for Yellow Jack, that most dreaded of plagues, and ships going there would lose every man of their crews; fresh crews would be sent out, these in their turn would die, and gradually the ships rotted away helplessly at their moorings for want of man-power to set them into open water. But those tragic days belong to past history. A progressive government, shaking off the apathy and lassitude of the South, drained the pestiferous swamps in which the fever-bearing mosquitoes bred, destroyed a few millions of the humming pests and made the port as healthy as any other port of the Southern hemisphere, perhaps. But here and there, in the backwaters of the harbour, they will still show the mouldering hulls of what once were proud ships—charnel houses of empire, I called them—which had failed to return to their homeland by reason of that dreaded “El vomito.”

Already, though the sun was not far above the horizon, it was growing amazingly hot; and when the port doctor visited us at 7.30, the heat was well-nigh unbearable. Until his visit took place the Quest was in quarantine, with the yellow flag flying at her foremast. No one might board her, none might leave, though boats swarmed about us as soon as we trudged up through the harbour-mouth and past the frowning forts that guard the entrance and make the bay well-nigh invulnerable. But the doctor surged up alongside in his speedy launch; there was an inundation of gilt-edge officials who all seemed to talk at once and very rapidly, so that our deck was like a fish-market; salutations were made, and—thanks to the magic of the White Ensign which we flew astern—the formalities of giving “pratique” were not overlong drawn-out. You begin to get some clear impression of the worth of the White Ensign when you stray beyond your own coastline. It is a veritable Open Sesame; bureaucratic difficulties melt away before the sight of it, and instead of doing all they can to hinder, the foreign Jacks-in-office bow and salute and oil the wheels to some effect.

Prior to making Rio we had treated the Quest to another spring-cleaning, painting her thoroughly inboard and out. She was now no longer white and yellow as to upperworks and funnel, but battleship grey, and her appearance was enormously improved. No one could ever call her beautiful, even at the best of times, but in her new clothing she certainly looked dignified and what she was: a pioneer ship embarked on a hazardous cruise. Even the country that owned the White Ensign had no cause to be particularly ashamed of her, I thought, as I saw her reflection mirrored in the crystal-like waters of the harbour.

We passed up the harbour and anchored off the city: a city of terraces and palms and much rich foliage. Many anchored craft dotted the surface of the water: handsome sailing ships, their spars a black forest against the eye-aching blue of the sky; powerful steamers, coastwise craft—there was no end to the variety. And now we were treated to real tropical fruits and vegetables—luxuries that were trebly enhanced in value by reason of long abstinence. Sink your teeth into a juicy pineapple, bought for a penny, if you want to know what I mean. Or wolf a few of those queer, turpentiney mangoes, which disappoint you so much by reason of the big stone with its tough fibres, to which clings all that’s best and sweetest of the pulp, until, in your aggravation you seriously contemplate getting into a filled bath—the best place by far wherein to devour mangoes—and indulging in a very orgy.