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Into the Frozen South

<h2> CHAPTER IV Lisbon to Madeira </h2> Our stay in Lisbon was prolonged by reason of the engine-room defects. No wonder the engines had knocked; the shaft was found to be badly out of alignment. As a natural consequence the bearings heated, and this, coupled with the fact that the high-pressure connecting-rod was bent, accounted for all our woes. The work of repair was set in hand at once, and our people began to readjust the ship’s stores in order to make her more weatherly, having learnt much during the passage out across the Bay. Certain alterations in the ship’s rig were also put in hand; but as all work and no play makes Jack but a dull boy, in the afternoon of this first real day in Lisbon certain of us went ashore to see the sights, including a bull-fight. We forgathered at a café, and from there were motored to the bull-ring. Looking back on the past, I have come to the conclusion that I would sooner go ten times to the Antarctic than take one motor ride in Lisbon. Their motor-drivers seem to run mad immediately the engines begin to revolve. In Lisbon, so far as I could see, there is neither rule of the road nor speed limit. The streets are blocked, for the best part, by slow-moving bullock-carts, three, four and even five abreast. Through this welter of sluggish traffic the cars charge like six-inch shells; and if the road isn’t wide enough they use the pavement. Our driver performed motoring miracles, and I firmly believe that if the pavements had not helped him he would have climbed the sides of the buildings along the way. You’d think it 34 was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a high-powered motor to navigate the streets of Lisbon, but our driver did it without turning a hair, and deserved a V.C. every minute of the time he was driving. Of course, accidents happen, and the tale of dead dogs must be enormous. If our driver so much as saw a dog he let out a yell and charged straight for it, and lucky was that dog if it escaped. As for the ordinary, unconsidered pedestrian, he never troubles to look round when a motor-horn blows—he just jumps for it; up a convenient lamp-post if necessary, and then shouts thankfulness to all the saints for safe delivery from the perils of the streets. A Portuguese bull-fight is not quite so bloodthirsty as those held in the neighbouring land of Spain. In Spain the main idea is to get the bull killed, after suitable tortures have been inflicted; in Portugal the bull’s horns are padded thickly at the tips, and the principal scheme seems to be to show the agility of the bullfighters. As soon as the bull, always a magnificent animal, is admitted into the ring he is annoyed and excited by the waving of gaudily-coloured cloaks and flags. Being only a bull and not a philosopher, he naturally gets angry and promptly puts his head down and goes for his tormentors, who, after risking as much as they dare, leap over the barricades into safety. These cloak-wavers are merely pawns in the game; for all the time they are busy the genuine hero of the hour is in the ring, either afoot or on horseback, showing himself off to an admiring audience. A successful bull-fighter on the Tagus is a very much more important personage than the captain of a Cup Final team or a hero who has knocked up a couple of centuries in a county cricket match. Presently the bull gets angrier—very angry indeed. His bovine nature impels him to cast about for something 35 on which to wreak his spite. I don’t blame the bull. Even a Scout would be annoyed if a crowd of yelling idiots waved coloured blankets in his face for half an hour at a stretch! Seeing the idol of the audience proudly prancing about, the bull quite naturally lowers his head and goes for him. Here’s where the sport begins. The bull-fighter, with a twirl of his moustache and a sort of hand-kiss to the ladies, promptly retreats and turns, and as the bull slithers past he plants a dart in his hide. It is a sign of skill and daring to get that dart as near the animal’s head as possible. As soon as it is embedded in the skin the bull-fighter, in case anyone didn’t see him, unfurls a paper flag and waves it exultantly in the air. Then the people cheer and the ladies kiss their hands, and the temporary hero bows and smiles and pretends that he is the identical man who won the Great War. Then he goes to get another dart; a shorter one this time. The shorter the dart you plant in the unfortunate bull’s neck the greater the glory that comes your way, it seems. True enough, it is a sign of agility and courage, even though the bull’s horns are padded; and to hear the spectators cheer you’d think it was what the Americans call “the cat’s pyjamas.” To my way of thinking, though, football is streets ahead of bull-fighting for downright thrills. If the toreador happens to be dismounted, he is given even shorter darts than if he were mounted. The footman’s weapons carry no paper flags, and he usually sticks them in two at a time, because he’s only got two hands, I suppose. It must require a bit of nerve to do it, even though it doesn’t quite come up to a Britisher’s idea of sport. The bull charges like an avalanche, and I fancy, from the ring, must look about as big as a landslide. He looked gigantic from where we sat, with the wine sellers offering us heady Portuguese drinks every time we breathed; and to the toreador that bull must 36 have seemed as enormous as the P. and O. boat did to the little Quest outside the Tagus. I held my breath more than once during those charges, I assure you, for I was certain the bull-fighter was going to be smashed to smithereens; but just at the critical moment the man stepped aside, took a short run, plunged in his two darts fairly into the back of the animal’s neck, and got clear before he bellowed and turned. Yes, it was very dexterous indeed; but it didn’t please the bull. He swung about, scuffling the sand and roaring, and the toreador streaked for the barricade like greased lightning. Another took his place and did the same thing. Instead of trying to knock up a century in Portugal you try to plant a dart shorter than any other dart in the back of a mad bull’s neck! And you go on doing it until the bull begins to look like an animated pincushion. If Stephenson’s first locomotive was “bad for the coo,” bull-fighting must be very bad for the bull! Folks tire of this exhibition, so presently a whole crowd of funny-looking fellows in red and yellow are let into the ring. One of these steps forward as if he intended to be properly introduced to the bull; whereupon the bull promptly goes for him, because he thinks he’s responsible for the pain he is suffering. But the man of the moment leaps fairly between the lowered horns, gets one of them under each armpit, and then starts a wrestling match with his four-footed opponent. His object is to throw the bull, and to do so requires more skill than most of them possess. There’s the indignant bovine doing its best to throw the man off and stamp him or gore him to death; there’s the red-faced man working as hard as you like to pitch the bull over on his side. It seemed rather a waste of energy to me, but it is the national sport down 37 there, and we Britons must live and let live. Anyhow, this wrestling was uncommonly exciting. It would have been even more so if the bull’s horns hadn’t been padded. Not that the sport is as bloodthirsty as might appear from the foregoing description. The darts which are employed have only very tiny barbs, not much bigger than fish-hooks, intended merely to pierce the skin and not draw blood. And the bull is not killed, as I’ve said; it is simply baited. All the same, my sympathies were with the bulls all along. Get about fifty fish-hooks stuck through your skin and you’ll understand what I mean. Those of our party who had seen genuine Spanish bull-fights, where the bull’s horns are not padded, said this show was only a mild imitation of the real thing. In Spain the horses—shocking screws, taken out of the trams after they’re used up—are gored savagely, and when they scream with pain they are spurred and lifted clean on to the murderous horns for another dose of the same medicine. Sometimes even the toreadors and matadors and picadors get gored in their turn. I won’t say “Serve them right,” but it’s my own affair what I think. We Quests kept our end up so far as cheering was concerned. Whenever anything really exciting occurred we got up and yelled our famous war-cry of “Yoicks! Tally-ho!” which naturally aroused interest and amusement amongst the general run of the spectators, who got to their feet and cheered back at us very heartily, and no doubt described us to their friends at a later hour as “Those mad English!” This bull-fight was particularly honoured by the presence of the President of Portugal. I’ll say it was an unusual day, very different from an average day in England! Naturally enough, during our stay in Portugal we 38 were swarmed with visitors. The British and American Ministers were shown over the Quest by our leader. Like the sight-seers in London and Plymouth, these visitors seemed to imagine we had joined a sort of suicide club; they were astonished at the tiny proportions of the ship and expressed grave doubts as to her future safety. The day after the bull-fight was nothing out of the common. I was detailed for galley duty with the cook, who was now revelling in still waters, a stove that would burn, and grub that a man could take a pride in cooking. In the evening I went ashore with some Portuguese Scouts, who insisted on giving Mooney and myself a truly top-hole welcome. That’s what Scouting does—it makes you firm friends wherever you go. But being a Scout, and especially a kilted Scout, makes you a bit too conspicuous, so I shed my uniform whenever possible and tried to pass along with the crowd. All the same, the Lisbon Scouts were good pals and showed us all the sights of the place. In return we showed them the sights of the Quest and got the debt squared in some measure. They were keenly interested, and there were so many of them that we could have filled in all our time in explaining things to them in such language as Scouts can understand. The ship during these days was a hive of activity, for the repairing gangs were extremely hard at work straightening the shaft and refitting generally. There was so much to be done by all hands that time went by very quickly during this halt on our voyage, but beyond bull-fighting and sight-seeing there was nothing extraordinary to recount. I missed the trip to Cintra, being busily engaged in work, but those who went told me the view from the Pena Palace was rather gorgeous. Everything is left exactly as it was when ex-King Manoel had to seek fresh pastures; even 39 the papers of that day are still lying on the tables; and the view from the palace top is superb. You can see all Portugal lying as a map at your feet, they said. But the horses that tug you up the final steep of the mountain make you gnash your teeth with sympathetic rage, they are so overdriven and half-starved and brutally ill-treated. It’s queer how few people beyond Britishers know how to treat a horse! On Monday, the 10th of October, we left our berth, repairs having been completed, and made fast to a buoy in the stream. Here we restocked our tanks with fresh water, and made such final preparations as were necessary for a continuation of the voyage; and after all hands were well worked up we had another cinema show in the evening, and then turned in for the last long night’s sleep for a little while. Just after lunch on the 11th we left Lisbon. I’d prided myself on overcoming the woes of seasickness before we reached the Tagus, but, alas! I boasted too soon. Once outside the river we hit up against a nasty kind of a sea, worse than anything we’d hitherto experienced, I think; so the old familiar qualms possessed me more vindictively than ever. But I had the poor satisfaction of knowing that others were in as bad case as myself, for very few of the crew escaped on this occasion. They blamed the smallness of the ship and her pronounced lack of comfortable accommodation. Maybe it was so. I wasn’t in a mood to argue, anyhow. So ill were Mooney and Mason that Sir Ernest Shackleton reluctantly decided that, failing an improvement, they would have to leave the ship at Madeira. So far as I was concerned, I think the Boss was quietly giving me a thorough “trying-out” to see if I could endure the still greater rigours that were promised us farther south; for I was set to work very hard—with the cook, stowing stores, in the stokehold, 40 everywhere. It wasn’t pleasant, but I wasn’t going to let the Scouts down if I could help it, so I gritted my teeth and went at it for all I was worth. Praise was not too lavishly bestowed by Sir Ernest Shackleton, because his own standard of efficiency was so high that a man had to be pretty good even to be tolerated; but as he seemed pleased with the way I was carrying on I was satisfied. There’s one thing about the sea, I find—it either makes you or breaks you. You get salted through and through, and in some cases it toughens you, whilst in others it rots all your pluck away and makes you feel you’d like to live in the very middle of the Sahara desert and never see salt water again in your life. But during the passage from Lisbon to Madeira I didn’t feel like keeping a very exhaustive diary. Anyhow, there was nothing exciting to recount, for the weather wasn’t alarmingly bad; it was only the vicious run of the seas that made the little vessel so lively. On the 15th, however, we had a reward in a brilliantly fine day, with smooth water and not much wind, and this brightened the spirits of all aboard, though Mooney and Mason still continued under the weather and longed for the peace of dry land. Notwithstanding the exhaustive overhaul we’d been given at Lisbon, the engines developed trouble once more; the knocking began again, and it seemed as though the days spent in Portugal were completely wasted. Madeira promised to be another welter of refitting. During this stage of the voyage Major Carr and Captain Hussey started in with meteorological experiments, sending up kites and balloons for observations of the upper air for the first time. When I came on deck on the morning of Sunday, October 16, I got my first sight of Madeira, and that 41 glimpse of beauty seemed to atone for all previous discomforts. Madeira is a beautiful island, with its rich vineyards, its noble gorge of the Wolf that literally splits the island in two halves; its typical semi-tropical houses, with red roofs and blue or white walls and vividly painted shutters to keep out the fierce noontide heat. The clarity of the atmosphere is so remarkable here—indeed, I believe it is the clearest in the world—that you feel you could toss a biscuit ashore even when you are miles away. We came to anchor in Funchal Harbour, about a hundred yards from the shore, and breathed deep sighs of relief as the fretful motion of the Quest ceased and she lay once more upon an even keel. We promptly went overboard for a bathe in that amazingly clear water. The day after our arrival Mooney and Mr. Mason left the Quest for home. I know it was with the greatest reluctance that Sir Ernest parted from them; but both had been very ill during the entire trip, and Mr. Mason had, indeed, been seriously ill, developing a high temperature and alarming symptoms. Both were loth to go; their natural grit prompted them to remain and stick it out to the bitter end. They made no unseemly fuss about their tribulations; but things promised to be worse rather than better as the voyage progressed, and it was in their own interests that they were relieved from further suffering. I know how elated I felt that I’d been better favoured by fortune, so I think I know how depressed they must have been. Poor Mooney was a full-sized brick throughout; he showed all the best characteristics of the best sort of Scout, and there was not the slightest fault attaching to him in his inability to endure the rigours. But knowing that the whole weight of Scout responsibility rested on my shoulders was rather a startling realization. Still, I was managing to get hardened by this time, and I hoped for the best. 42 This afternoon the cook and myself went ashore, on shopping bent. Our principal desire was to find fruit, which shouldn’t have been a difficult matter in an island famous for its fruits; but somehow we contrived to lose our bearings and wandered into the filthiest parts of the town—and Funchal can be very filthy in places. We managed to count at least one hundred and thirty-five different smells—Green said there were two hundred and fifty, but perhaps he exaggerated—but all were vile. Every alley corner we passed, every open window, discharged its fresh offensive; and we seemed to walk for miles and uncounted miles before eventually we touched down in the market. There we ordered what we needed, and afterwards went on to see the sights. Madeira is interesting. Its foreign note is very marked, for here the foliage is definitely approaching the tropical; hibiscus flowers are everywhere in the greatest profusion, and the vivid crimson poinsettias strike a warm and enlivening note. Huge clusters of wonderful blooms met our gaze at every turn, and drew our attention from the little cobblestones of the streets, which are uncommonly hard to walk upon. There were not very many wheeled conveyances visible, for the island doesn’t lend itself to them overmuch; the few motors we saw were ancient and honourable members of the fraternity. The principal means of conveyance are the bullock-cars—wooden sledges, drawn by bulls, fine, big, sleek animals, though very leisurely in all their movements. One sees these cars going everywhere about the streets on well-greased runners. Some of the cars are very tastefully got up and drawn by bullocks as white as snow; and the motion when one gets inside is far from unpleasant. Of course, the streets are so rutted and worn in Funchal that ordinary wheels would soon come to grief; but the long sledge-runners sort of bridge the worst of the holes, as a 43 big liner crosses from wave-crest to wave-crest without diving too deeply into the troughs, and consequently you don’t realize how ill-kept the roads really are. As practically all Funchal is built on the side of a hill, you may be sure the streets are steep. We didn’t try to climb them unnecessarily, but contented ourselves with standing at the bottom and looking up, a much more restful occupation than working to the top and looking down. Then we had tea, where they apologized for a little meal with a big, an astoundingly big, bill. Still, although the little cakes they gave us were evidently relics of the ancient Portuguese travellers, the tea was wet and damped the dry, sawdust-like confectionery excellently. A lot of sugar-cane grows in Madeira, and the sight of the groves is very pleasant. And all amongst the soft green of the young canes you see those marvellous splashes of colour from the poinsettias and the hibiscus, so that your brain, refusing to take in the full effect, perceives only a blur. They told us that the roads and paths between the groves were constructed by Portuguese convicts, and we believed them. Honest men could never have made such fiendish roads! In the evening we were invited as guests to the mess of the Western Telegraph Company, who have a cable station here and who publish the only newspaper in English on the island. Our hosts were very cordial and did us nobly; they apologized for the general atmosphere of poverty that characterizes the island by saying that the Lisbon Government taxes everyone so heavily for Portugal’s good, that when the taxes are paid there’s nothing left for home improvements. 44 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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