The Quest was subjected to a very thorough overhaul during her stay in Rio. Judging by the opinions of the experts Sir Ernest called into consultation, she needed it—she seemed to be wrong everywhere; and to venture down into the icebound South with her in her then condition was practically suicide.

First of all, her engines were surveyed, and the crank-shaft, which was the cause of most of our troubles, was properly aligned. The marvel seemed to be that we’d managed to come as far as we had done without meeting disaster. We’d met with a certain amount of it, anyhow—and we’d treated that impostor, as Kipling calls it, contemptuously. How we should treat triumph when that appeared we hardly knew. Did I mention that what are, in my opinion, the most stirring lines in English poetry, Kipling’s “If,” were posted up aboard us conspicuously as a sort of chart by which to steer our daily course?

Then, too, it was discovered that the propeller, which had churned astern so uncertainly, was far too heavy for the ship and her shaft; she was being racked to pieces by the violent vibration; and so a smaller, more complaisant propeller was shipped in place of our old friendly enemy. The scarfed topmast, that had caused more bad language than I like to remember, was condemned, and a new one furnished by the Brazilian Admiralty, who offered us every courtesy throughout, was shipped in its place. I should like to give a detailed description of these operations, but must leave the task to one better equipped with nautical knowledge than myself. But, as well as repairs, we recaulked and tarred the hull, which, like all wooden hulls, was disposed to leak consumedly. When a wooden ship is sailing on a wind, her weather side heaves out of the water a good deal, and, in tropical seas, the sun scorches down on the exposed timber with such merciless effect that, as soon as the vessel is put about and the once-high side is below the water-line, her open seams permit the water literally to pour in, and this keeps all hands busy at the pumps. Moreover, it makes the bilges extraordinarily unpleasant, for the stench of putrefying sea water is about the most stomach-turning odour I know.

We also enlarged our existing accommodation to the extent of erecting a new deck-house forrard of the old one, to serve as a dining-room, as the after mess-room was far too small to accommodate all hands. Since the Quest was to be our home for an indefinite period, we thought we deserved room in which to stretch ourselves.

Naturally enough, whilst these alterations were in progress, the ship became too small by far for us to live aboard; too, she was so uncomfortable when careened for caulking that we thought it no shame to live ashore, and accepted the ready hospitality that was offered to us on every hand. Slight changes were made, too, in our personnel; Mr. Eriksen returned home, and three new hands were shipped, one of them to carry on my old job of cook’s mate.

We explored Rio pretty thoroughly during the month we were there. For it demanded a whole month to effect sufficient repairs to make us weatherly, in spite of the Boss’s growing impatience. No wonder he was impatient: the odds had been against us from the beginning. Here, and simply on account of defects, we were fully six weeks behind our programme, and that programme promised to need considerable amendment. We marvelled at the beauty of Rio itself: a city of really stately buildings, broad boulevards, and thoroughly up-to-date improvements. We admired the very wonderful mosaic pavements, which are everywhere, a tribute to the patience of those who had laid them in this age when beauty has so constantly to give place to utility, and the labour of love seems to be becoming a thing of the past.

Furthermore, we climbed the famous Sugar Loaf, Vao d’Assucar being its Brazilian title. As I mentioned, this curious peak, ridiculously like one of the old sugar loaves that I understand used to decorate grocers’ windows, dominates the entrance to Rio Harbour on the southern side, and towers vertically out of a placid sea a sheer two thousand feet into a cloudless sky. At one time its ascent was considered a feat second only to the conquest of the Matterhorn; and I remember reading a breathless story dealing with a young midshipman’s conquest of the problem; but now modern ingenuity has effected a solution, and we modern adventurers ascended by means of a cable-car running to the summit. I suppose that if Julius CÆsar suddenly came back to life and decided to invade Britain again he would do it by aeroplane!

Even if we had been required to make the ascent in the primitive manner, our trouble would have been well rewarded, for, at night, staring out towards the city from the ultimate summit, seeing the countless lights reflected gloriously on the bay, I viewed what I consider to be the most enchanting scene I have ever clapped eyes on: a very City Beautiful, unreal and mystical, as it were a vision of Fairyland itself.

Rio heat can be very trying; but Nature has provided a remedy. Punctually at four o’clock in the afternoon, just when the soggy heat is becoming absolutely unbearable, when even to think requires impossible exertion, and to stir one’s littlest finger calls for lengthy meditation and preparation, there suddenly comes a refreshing coolness in the air, pleasant wind-currents stir, the oppression lifts as if by magic and a tingling suggestion of well-being fills the veins. This wind is known as the “Rio Doctor,” and its qualities are undoubtedly medicinal. But for that “Doctor,” I fancy prolonged existence there for a white man would be unbearable.

Amongst other diversions, I visited a small troop of British and American Scouts, and amongst them spent a memorable evening. It is very gratifying to an enthusiastic Scout to see with his own eyes how far-flung is our movement, and what benefits it confers on those who are in it. Apart from the white Scouts there are many troops amongst the Brazilians; but, unfortunately, the movement amongst them, as in Germany, is, to my way of thinking, too much imbued with the military spirit, which in these days is being revealed as a worthless anachronism.

Owing to our long delay it was not until December 17 that we left Wilson’s Island, where we had lain throughout the period of our overhaul, and dropped anchor again on the city side of the harbour in order to take aboard stores, water, and the other necessary impedimenta. Not that our alterations were by any means complete; but the Boss’s impatience was growing to such an extent that he was firmly resolved to make shift with what was already done and chance his luck. Once the stores were aboard, we moved off again and dropped anchor in a lovely little bay on the Nictheroy side, not far from the harbour entrance; and here we found ourselves with as much work to tackle as was convenient. During refit all our past careful stowage had been necessarily disturbed, and as we had to prepare ourselves to face any kind of weather that might come along, we were as busy as bees, lashing, stowing, jamming, wedging, contriving innumerable ingenuities, and trimming the ship into a weatherly condition. A bathe was very welcome when daylight died.

Next morning work continued. We got something of a scare when an urgent message was received aboard, requiring Dr. Macklin to go ashore at once to see Sir Ernest, who had been taken suddenly ill. Off went the doctor, post-haste, but on arriving at the house where the Boss was staying as the guest of hospitable friends, he found him completely recovered and apt to make light of his temporary affliction. Sir Ernest was always the sort of man who made light of trouble: he merely stated that he had been troubled by a slight faintness and that he had actually sent for the doctor to make inquiry about stores; but afterwards we knew that this attack was an advance messenger to our gallant leader, warning him that the sands were running low in the glass of his life.

The shipping of a new cook’s mate left me free for deck duties, and I saw an excellent chance of qualifying myself as a seaman. I started this Sunday morning by keeping an hour’s anchor-watch: 2-3 a.m. Very quiet and wonderful the ship was during that hour of darkness, with those unforgettable stars blazing nobly in a sky that was for all the world like velvet. Then, during the forenoon, I helped Mr. Dell to set up a stay and rig halliards for the jib; proper sailorizing work this, and enjoyable. For, however enthusiastic a man may be, peeling potatoes can lose its interest and fail to convince the peeler that his labour is an essential aid to Polar exploration work! Whereas, when you’re working with the gear that actually means the ship’s safety and progress, you feel you’re something that definitely counts in the scheme of things, and your pride swells enormously.

What with stowing and restowing, trimming and retrimming, it was four in the afternoon before we finally got under way and, under easy steam, proceeded towards the entrance. A most invigorating “send-off” was ours as we departed; our Brazilian friends seemed determined to “do us proud”; they accompanied us in boats for a considerable distance, cheering themselves hoarse, firing salutes from guns they had thoughtfully brought with them. We answered with high-soaring rockets and our famous “Tally ho!” war-cry, and the scene was a very pandemonium of enthusiasm, invigorating to a degree. But we left the clamour behind, and, quickening speed, steamed out past the Sugar Loaf and the forts, down through the chain of islands, and so to open sea once more; and glad enough we were to feel the swing and lift of the gliding keel beneath us; for though our stay in Rio had been memorable, chockful of pleasure, and revealing the jovial thoroughness of Under the Line hospitality and encouragement, when you’re embarked on a definite quest you want to get on with the business in hand, and lying tugging at your anchors won’t help you to overcome the troubles of open sea.

I had the wheel during the second dog-watch, and the Boss was on the bridge. Knowing how terribly he had worried throughout our stay in the Brazilian port, it was invigorating to discover him so cheerful and enthusiastic; he had shed the burden of his woe, and talked to Wild and Worsley very animatedly about his experiences ashore. An accident to Jeffrey—his leg was injured—promised to keep him more or less hors-de-combat for a considerable time; Macklin said three weeks in bed was absolutely necessary. Jeffrey, a man of action and the exact opposite of a shirker, grumbled ferociously at this sentence; but the doctor knew best, and instead of three weeks it was six before he was fit for the fighting line again. Sir Ernest volunteered to stand his watch for him. Here, again, he gave evidence of his thought for others and his unwillingness to add to their burdens, no matter how weighty those he took upon his own shoulders might be. Had he done as some men would have done, and required his officers to share sick Jeffrey’s work between them, he could have given himself greater easement; maybe averted the tragedy that was already touching him with the shadow of its wings; but no, he acted up to his motto throughout and played the man to the very end.

During the night the sea began to get up more than a bit, and tested our recent stowage work to the full. The decks became almost impassable by reason of the confusion. Drums of oil, crates of fruit, heavy packing-cases, everything that was not actually bolted to the ship’s framework seemed on the run. It was like chasing excited pigs to secure many of the loose articles, for the oil splashed about in earnest fashion, and even when you got a grip on a wallowing cask your fingers would slide off its chines, and away would go the cask, as the ship saucily hove herself up on end, for all the world like that runaway gun in Victor Hugo’s book. So that, what with one thing and another, it took us all day to get things set to rights and the decks squared up.

One part of my work consisted in clearing the chart-room for action. The Boss summoned me at 7 a.m. to do this, and seemed peeved about the prevalent disorder. No wonder; his orderly soul must have been in utter revolt against the chaos that reigned. Everything that had been overlooked, everything that had come aboard at the last minute seemed to have been heaved into the chart-room. There were bundles of clean washing on top of the chronometer lockers, oddments of all kinds littered the place. Most of these belonged to Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Douglas, who had started off three weeks before for South Georgia to make scientific observations. Owing to our long delay in Rio our meditated call at Cape Town was ruled out, and it was necessary to alter the original plan of campaign. It should be remembered that much of our gear had been sent on in advance to Cape Town, which was to be our base. Shackleton, accordingly, made up his mind to wash out Cape Town, and avail himself of the resources of South Georgia, where dogs and impedimenta might be obtained, thanks to an ill-fated German expedition that had left much of its equipment there in pre-war days.

“Carry that gear down below into the fo’c’sle, and treat it kindly,” said the Boss. “Always remember that you think twice for an absent shipmate where you’d think once for yourself.” So I gradually brought order out of chaos, thereby easing Shackleton’s not unnatural peevishness, and then got out on deck to make myself generally useful.

We were carrying a full press of canvas, but as the wind was falling light, notwithstanding the boisterousness of the sea, it was decided to shorten sail, and the topsail was accordingly clewed up. Dr. Macklin and myself went up aloft to make it fast; and this was my first experience on a topsail yard. It was rather like being tied to the end of a piece of elastic. You’d never think one small ship could be so vigorous in her motions as was the Quest. One minute I was sliding down an apparently unfathomable chasm, the next I was perched high aloft, staring down with mingled scorn and apprehension on my opposite number who was busily engaged in furling the other side of the sail. “One hand for yourself and one for the expedition,” was the maxim that had long ago been instilled into me, so you may believe me when I say that the hand for myself was busily employed! It was a nightmarish experience, but the topsail was ultimately made fast, and the ship’s liveliness seemed to diminish as a result.

It was a relief to turn in after all these adventures and win some sleep; but at midnight I was out again, to find the engines stopped and the ship rolling as if she intended to have the masts out of herself, for her headway was stopped and she had fallen off into the trough of the sea. Once again our engines were causing trouble: the circulating pump had gone “phutt,” and it was necessary for all hands to turn out and pump the bilges clear. A lovely job, there in the darkness, with the ship trying to tie knots in herself! And bilge water is so pleasant! Pumping is a back-aching job at best, but when you’re performing nautical gymnastics throughout your spell it exercises every muscle in your body, and you marvel at the number of muscles you possess, when they’re all aching at once! Still, the engine-room staff quitted themselves like men, repaired the damage, and got us under way once more; and the day broke fine with a calming sea and enough of a breeze to warrant the setting of all plain sail. This eased matters considerably, the erratic motion subsided, and all was well. In the afternoon, by way of variety, I was instructed to trim coal for the stokehold. Rio was hot; we are led to believe that there is even a hotter place, but if it is no worse than in the Quest’s bunkers down here in the tropics, I have no fear of the future. The particular bunker selected for my attention was situated quite close to the boiler. It left a baker’s oven ridiculously behind, so far as heat was concerned, and the coal-dust—phew! Not that I’m grumbling, mark you, the job had to be done, and there was no reason why I should have been excused; but it is my way to relate impressions.

I found out a way to make even this existence tolerable—man, especially a Scout man, being an adaptable animal. I threw down exactly sixty shovelfuls of coal, that being my extreme limit; then I dived for the stokehold, with the enthusiastic eagerness of a Bromley-kite after a dead Malay, and emerged into that comparative ice-chest in an avalanche of dust, small coal, and bigger lumps, with the shovel clattering triumphantly between my legs. In the stokehold I got a breath of air that was not entirely solid, remembered that mine it was to do or die, and got back to the bunker just in time to satisfy the demands of the stoker on duty. A great game!

Evidently my success at this ploy was so conspicuous that I was employed throughout the following day in the bunkers as a reward of zeal. But the weather was cooling somewhat now, and the conditions were not so irksome; yet sleeping on deck was becoming more of a pain than a pleasure, and I found my bunk in the wardroom quite inviting.

Then, on the next day, I completed my bunker work, to my great satisfaction, and resumed duty on deck. The weather overhead was fine, the sea was growingly vigorous. On this day I saw my first albatross. It was sitting on the water, and at first sight looked to be nothing more important than a large gull; but when it took wing and skimmed away, I got an impression of perfect and amazing flight. It took things in most leisurely fashion, obtaining the greatest amount of result with the least expenditure of energy—circling our mastheads with supreme insolence, without so much as the quiver of a wing. It was one of the Wanderer class, I was told; but its wanderings ceased when it came upon us, for it accompanied us south with the greatest pertinacity, living on the scraps thrown overboard from the cook’s galley.

Also, we saw a “Portuguese man-o’-war”—a nautilus; a flimsy, bewildering, beautiful sea-curiosity, with its sails that looked like mother-o’-pearl all fairly set to the breeze. Albatrosses and nautiluses are seldom seen in company—but we were favoured by witnessing this remarkable combination.

It was amusing to watch the envy and admiration with which our two flying men—Carr and Wilkins—studied the manoeuvres of the albatross. Both of them, apparently, thought that if they possessed ingenuity sufficient to enable them to construct a heavier-than-air machine that would duplicate that effortless motion, their fortunes would be made and their undying fame assured. They talked throughout the day in a jargon that was entirely unintelligible to me about vol-planing, and stalling, and banking, and at the end resolved that Nature was a greater inventor than mere man.

Just about now, too, there was a certain amount of merriment in the ship owing to Carr being required to improve the accommodation below. It takes very little to arouse a laugh on shipboard, where stern hard work is the prevailing note; and we were grateful to our amateur carpenter for permitting us to laugh at his well-meant efforts, which, though rough and crude, suited the conditions. Despite the alterations that had been made at Rio, the down-below accommodation was still limited, and every man had to stow himself away in as small a space as was compatible with continued existence. If in a future state I am ever destined to become a sardine, I shall know that I’ve had good training in the art of close stowage!

As the wind was coming away fair and with a force that promised added speed, the foresail and staysail were taken in and the square-sail set. The promise was fulfilled, and now we romped along in an inspiring manner through a quickening sea that slapped happy little wavelets against our quarter and threw occasional wisps of spindrift aboard. In the main the day was somewhat misty, and there was a heavy swell running as though promising an increase of the wind—what Kipling calls “The high-running swell before storm, grey, formless, enormous, and growing.” It’s astonishing to me how Kipling, himself no sailor, understands the sea so well! He seems to have got right down to the very inwardness of open water, and if he’d been a trained sailor he couldn’t understand the sea’s mysteries and wonderments better than he does.

The day of Christmas Eve broke to show us a moderate sea and a refreshing west-south-west wind. During the entire day this breeze increased, with frequent squalls and a gloomy, lowering sky, and the wiseacres amongst us prognosticated bad weather. Of course it is always safest to prophesy bad weather at sea, because you naturally make up your mind that it is coming and prepare yourself for any emergency; and then, if it doesn’t eventuate, you thank your lucky stars for continued good times. But on this occasion the portents proved correct: before night a big sea was running, and the wind, from menacing whistle, increased to that deep thunderous note of striving which indicates the nearness of a pukka storm. We began to ship water—nothing to worry about, but still enough to drown out the dynamo, as a result of which catastrophe our lights were extinguished and we were compelled to resort to the oil-lamps by way of illumination.

While shortening sail one of the clews of the squaresail, carrying heavy block and shackle, whipped sharply across the deck and caught Carr a sickening blow in the face. He was literally clean knocked out, but contrived to come back to time, and with his hands to his face, and the blood flowing all too freely through his fingers, tried to carry on. But this wasn’t to be permitted; he was sent below for the attentions of the doctor, who diagnosed a broken nose. The doctor and his assistant worked assiduously to restore the unfortunate’s nasal organ to its pristine beauty, but though they satisfied themselves they failed to satisfy the sufferer, who did his best, in front of a mirror, to flatter his own mild vanity. He made such a poor attempt that the work had all to be done over again, and during the operation Hussey consoled him with impertinent remarks concerning the effect his face would have upon the women of England if he tampered with it any further.

This was a funny Christmas Eve, however, far different from those of the past. To palliate our present uncomfortable conditions, we endeavoured to create a vicarious atmosphere by remembering previous Christmases. Here were we, a congregation of desperate adventurers, collected from all the corners of the world, isolated for our sins in a little, tossing ship that seemed pitifully small to engage with the massed forces of the southern seas; all of us separate entities, dependent upon our imaginations for recreation. We talked about Christmases past, and groaned in spirit when we reflected upon their glories; and then, as nothing was to be gained thereby, we went on to picture the ideal Christmas we would wish to spend. Opinions varied very considerably. Sentimentally, we mostly drew passionate sketches of snow-covered fields and church spires pointing upwards, and waits and skating and honest Christmas fare, carefully omitting, needless to say, the consequent, inevitable indigestion! It is rather queer how the exile invariably pictures Christmas as a snow-smothered festival, whereas the average Christmas, according to my experience, is chiefly remarkable for its entire lack of snow!

Anyhow, we all decided unanimously that the Christmas dinners of the past were to be mere shadows as compared with the Christmas dinners of to-morrow; for Mr. Rowett and his considerate wife had made their arrangements well in advance, and the ship was excellently well supplied with rich and luscious fare. Certain cases, carefully stowed and treated with exaggerated respect, were rumoured to contain turkeys, hams, puddings, and all those ameliorations which go to make Christmas what it is; and on this note of gastronomical anticipation we welcomed the Day.

Alas! alas! we builded our hopes on foundations of shifting sand!

Christmas Day, down there in southern latitudes—where it was officially midsummer—dawned bleak and grey and threatening. The wind during the night had increased to a very good imitation of a real gale, and the ship was showing precisely what she could do in the way of uneasy motion. A cork could not have been more lively in the sea that was kicked up by the droning velocity of the unleashed winds. So far as I myself was concerned, a happening occurred that threatened to make me entirely indifferent to this Christmas Day, or indeed any others that might gladden the world. My job was to maintain a look-out on the bridge—the forecastle by this time being so constantly washed by whole water that the normal look-out position had become untenable. The officer of the watch sent me below for a tin of milk wherewith to make more palatable his morning coffee, and off I started, full of zeal. Crossing the poop I felt the Quest poise and quiver preparatory to taking one of her solar-plexus-disturbing pitches. A big, formidable grey-bearded comber swung up out of the obscurity, gathering weight as it came; it towered high, growing—always growing. Then it fell, right atop of me, washed me clean off my feet and promised to wash me overboard; but with a natural desire for a long life as well as a merry one, I clung to what came handiest, a bit of the covering-board, and held on. Noisy water covered me, I felt myself drowning; but the ship kicked up her stern with a saucy irresponsibility, the water receded, to the accompaniment of thunderous growls, and I continued to exist. But I was as nearly overboard as a toucher; and considering the sea that was running it is doubtful if a boat could have been launched to the rescue. However, all’s well that ends well, and the watch-officer got his tin of milk in the long run.

Let it be recorded here and now, how wonderful a sea-boat the Quest is. I have probably mentioned the fact before, but it cannot be too strongly emphasized. She seems designed to stand weather that would make the biggest Atlantic liner quail. Small and light, she rises triumphantly to the noisy crest of the biggest waves, and stares down in supreme scorn at the welter of disturbed water beneath her. Always she seems to be laughing in her sleeve at the clamorous immensity of the combers, as though deriding their efforts to overwhelm her. She is wonderful, a ship to be proud of, a ship to trust! She seems to look on the whole business as something of a game; and, instead of shipping vast masses of destructive water as a bigger vessel would, dodges the big fellows, kicks them under her keel, and roars up splendidly to the foamy summits to twiddle her fingers at the Atlantic’s worst. Of course, even the Quest shipped water, but not in sufficient quantities to tear away her bulwarks, stave in her hatches, and generally tear her timbers apart, as might well have happened in the case of a bigger ship.

But what she gained in seaworthiness she atoned for in her liveliness. By breakfast-time she was heaving herself about in an unimaginable fashion, so much so that it was impossible to keep anything on the table. Everything was thrown about, and the fiddles proved worthless as a safeguard; and, for this reason, the actual ceremonial of Christmas was wisely postponed. To cook a satisfactory meal was a problem beyond even the cook’s skill and resourcefulness, though there is no doubt that Green was the hero of the day. He did his best; but when the kettle hits a man in the eye, and the soup-pot empties itself into his waistcoat, and the stove thoughtfully discharges its hissing embers on his feet, and every now and then a wave slaps in and extinguishes the newly-kindled fire, and the floor is swimming knee-deep in greasy brine, what can a man do that would not cause derision in the mind of a Parisian chef? The Boss gave orders that the impossible was not to be attempted, and lacking turkeys and the kindred delights of Christmas, we satisfied ourselves with heroic sandwiches of bully beef and bread, eating them as best we could manage, stowed away in the alleyways for the most part, with our feet and bodies well braced for steadiness against the soul-stirring rolls of the ship to which we had entrusted our fortunes. Green, like the hero he was, unexpectedly provided us with piping hot cocoa, and considering how thoroughly drenched and chilled we were—for there was no shelter worth the name to be found—the steaming beverage was better to be desired than nectar and ambrosia and all the fabulous delights of the gods. What though its flavour was reminiscent of the bilges! It heartened us and stimulated us to a nicety, and we asked for nothing better—at least, we might have asked, but with scant prospect of receiving.

Notwithstanding all seafaring difficulties, Green, determined that we should have some sort of a hot meal for dinner. A thick stew resulted, which we did not attempt to analyse too closely, but ate and were thankful for. Such as wished it were also served with a tot of grog, wherewith to drink the healths of the promoter of the expedition and his wife; and then we compared notes of Christmases past again, and discovered what a queerly assorted company we were. From Central Africa, Iceland and Singapore, from New York, Harburg and Lithuania, from Mauritius, Rio and Cape Town, from London and Aberdeen, and, seemingly, all the cities of the world, we’d drifted towards this restless speck now wallowing in the run of a South Atlantic sea, as a witness that the call of adventure can never overpass the widest limits of the world.

And that all things might be finished in real slapdash style, a big sea lolloped aboard, insinuated itself down the after-companion and saturated my bunk. Truly a merry, merry Christmas; but what of it!

And this Christmas Day brought us many greetings, if not from absent friends, at least from the birds of the air, which were about us in great numbers: albatross, mollymauks, whale-birds, Cape pigeons—their name was legion.

Boxing Day brought an improvement in our conditions; the wind was lessening, although the sea still ran high, and with only our fore-and-afters set, we logged an even six knots, which was to us almost a racing pace. As an offset to improved circumstances outboard we developed inboard defects again—and the chief of these promised to be really serious, for our main fresh-water tank sprang a leak, and before it was discovered the tank was dry and our precious store of drinking water was washing nastily about the odoriferous bilges. The Boss took this accident very much to heart; it seemed as though ill-fortune had dogged him throughout the voyage; but all the worrying in the world could not mend matters, and the only thing to do was to practise the most rigid economy in using what little fresh water still remained, reserving it for drinking and cooking only, endeavouring to satisfy all our other needs with sea-water pure and simple, though a little oily water was being distilled from the engine-room exhaust tank. Fortunately the weather was growing considerably cooler, and our thirsts were slaked automatically.

Next day, though the wind was still blowing fairly hard, it was fair, and we set the squaresail to take full advantage of it. No luck! Hardly was it set than the out-haul carried away, and down came the canvas for repair, which was effected with commendable swiftness, so that by breakfast-time the sail was again set, and in obedience to the weight of wind in it the Quest began to romp along like a cup winner. The number of albatrosses accompanying us now was growing; they are wonderful birds, and well worth watching. Gigantic, too, some of them are, with a stretch of wing somewhere about fourteen feet, and an ability to fly untiringly without any perceptible exertion. As the day progressed the wind freshened, and by four bells in the middle watch a full gale from the W.N.W. was rioting about us. Coming on deck at this time I was greeted with the awe-inspiring sight of a favouring gale, with big seas galloping in our wake like hungry monsters eager to overtake and devour us. Dark though the night was, the phosphorescent gleam of the foam was so vivid as to give one a fine impression of the elemental tumult that raged outboard. The seas were being kicked up with truly astonishing velocity, and the hissing rumble of them as they piled along our rails was a sound to remember for many a long day.

As the wind was well away on the quarter the engines were unnecessary, so under squaresail and topsail alone the Quest flashed merrily southward. We were logging a steady nine knots by this time—better than we’d ever done before, even with engines working and all sail set; a mightily invigorating sensation it was, I must admit.

At four o’clock I went to the wheel, not without a certain amount of trepidation, for the ship appeared a lively problem to tackle, rioting about as she was. This was by far the most strenuous trick I’d experienced, for the following sea played the mischief with her stern and threw it so recklessly about that only by dint of constant twirling of the spokes was it possible to steer even an approximate course. The helm was hard a-port or hard a-starboard all the trick—there was none of that old easeful turning of a spoke either way. The ship seemed to go mad; she took the bit in her teeth, and fretting at the control, simply reared, and capered, and plunged, and bucketed until you’d think she was incapable of further exertion; but just as you satisfied yourself that she was quietening down, away she went again, taking the whole circle of the compass to play with, so that my heart was in my mouth most of the time for fear she might broach to and, coming broadside on to the threshing combers, capsize and finish the matter once and for all.

Yet it was thrilling, magnificently so, to realize that I’d got this boisterous vessel between my hands and was master of her destinies. The clamour of the gale was nothing, the level drive of spindrift as the roaring wind clipped off the wave-crests and hurled them aboard was but a challenge to war. Mr. Wild, who had the watch, was not at all anxious to rid us of the benefit of this good fair wind; and he cracked on for all he was worth, in regular, old-fashioned clipper style, and imagined he was back in his younger days when steam seemed a poor servant and spray-washed canvas the one great thing that counted, and when he was relieved at four o’clock he passed the word to keep on carrying on. This we did until six, when the Boss decided that we’d run quite far enough, and that now was the time to heave-to, since a ship making no headway at all is better than a ship plunging to the bottom of the sea. I, being off duty, had just turned in and was dropping off into that sleep which comes as a reward for much honest toil, when I was rudely awakened by a sanakatowzer of a sea that, obeying a purposeful weather-roll of the ship, had boarded us and was flooding down the companionway towards my berth, which, unfortunately for me, lay right in its track. I got out on deck as nimbly as I’ve ever done it, and there was compelled to sheer awe by the affrighting majesty of the waves, which were towering now to our very trucks, so far as my impression went, though I’m told the biggest was not more than forty feet in height from trough to crest.

I wish I had the pen of a writer to do justice to the majesty of the gale as it now was. The wind had increased to hurricane force; and the purposeful intent of the white-bearded combers as they piled and grew and added others and yet others to themselves and then bore down upon us, must have been seen to be understood. All hands were summoned to shorten sail and get the ship ready for heaving-to, and with the utmost difficulty the big squaresail was mastered, by the process of running the Quest directly away before the gale, and letting the big canvas down by the run, with all hands leaping like furies to throw themselves upon its slatting, cracking, thunderous mass, to quieten it on the foredeck. Dell injured himself pretty severely in this operation; he paid the price of his own activity, for he fouled his foot in a rope when jumping to help another man who’d got too much to tackle single-handed, and came such a smasher to the deck that it was many a month before he was himself again.

Once the squaresail was mastered the topsail was clewed up, and Worsley and Macklin went aloft to stow it, which they did in seamanlike fashion, despite the trying conditions under which they laboured. Then, under a reefed staysail, we hove-to, to wait for better times.

Heaving-to was a ticklish task, but thanks to the prime seamanship of our officers it was effected without disaster, and although all hands were ordered into the rigging when the Quest was eased up to the wind, in case big water should drench her; and although whole seas had thundered over our bows whilst running, never a drop of water worth the mentioning was shipped as the helm was put down and the bow came gentle creeping up towards the run of the seas. In order to give us greater easement the wheel was lashed down and oil-bags were put over the bows, where they trailed ahead, and, leaking oil steadily, created an almost miraculous effect on the turbulent seas. It was most curious to watch a towering, foamy crest come hurtling towards us, growing as it came, as though intent on our instant overwhelming; but when within about fifteen yards of the bow it would suddenly loose its viciousness, flatten out, and slink as though ashamed of its previous bullying uproar, smoothly under our bows. It took in all some sixty gallons of oil to master that broken water, but it was worth it! Not that the ship’s motion was eased much thereby, she still rolled and pitched consumedly, but the savage assault of the greybeards was lessened, and, although uncomfortable, we realized that we were no longer in actual danger.

A little water certainly lopped on board, quite enough to fill the waist and wash out the galley fire; but when our delayed breakfast-time came round Green, whom nothing could daunt on shipboard, served out substantial sandwiches to the satisfaction of all hands, and these we ate whilst collected round the lee door of the galley, washing them down with some hot decoction of mingled flavours which our cook had apparently managed to create out of nothing.

By three o’clock in the afternoon the back of the gale was broken, and by seven it was deemed safe to get under way again, with the engines moving easily.

It was necessary to pump continuously now, however, because the ship was taking a good deal of water, but gradually, through the hours of night, wind and sea abated. After breakfast we took in our storm staysail and set the jib, topsail and squaresail, and proceeded upon our lawful occasions. There was no little stowing and securing to be done, as was only natural; for such a blowing as we had passed through was enough to test the stoutest lashings; particularly was the surf boat in danger; but all was made Bristol fashion again, and as the sprays were no longer breaking inboard I took advantage of the betterment to dry my blankets and clothes, which sorely needed it.

And now, once more, our ill-luck waited on us; again it was the engine-room. The engineer had discovered a serious leak into the furnaces from the boiler, and it was a leak that could not be repaired at sea. The Boss had serious thoughts that it might mean the total relinquishment of the adventure, and this worried him enormously. All through, from the very commencement—long before the Quest left London indeed—worry had piled on worry, and Sir Ernest had overcome difficulties that must certainly have daunted a man of much less stout fibre than his. But he gave instructions that if the leak developed steam pressure must be reduced, and so we carried limpingly along, making the best of it, since this wasn’t precisely the yachting trip it had appeared to be in more genial waters.