The Golden Ocean
The connexion escaped Peter: but he very distinctly remembered that every single ball that Mr Randall had handled in the many days of gunnery practice had had its little cross.
‘You may reckon three degrees as sixty leagues—sixty sea-leagues, mind,’ said Elliot. ‘So it is roughly sixty leagues then, since we crossed the latitude of the river Plate.’
‘So we are a thousand miles from St Catherine’s,’ said Peter, adding up the figures on his slate.
A thousand miles of sea, and some sweet sailing.
‘And with this lovely southern current,’ said Peter, ‘we ought to reach the Horn in about the same time.’
‘The Tryal has to be refitted first,’ said Elliot.
‘Yes,’ said Peter, staring over the side towards the sloop, an odd, maimed object with a dwarfish jury-mast, lagging behind the Gloucester, which fumed at the end of the tow-rope, with every possible sail set to keep up with the squadron. ‘Yes, but even so …’ He did not finish the sentence, and although his eyes were fixed on the squadron—the Severn ahead of the Centurion, then the fat-sided Wager with her oddly patched foretopgallantsail, the little Anna pink to leeward, and last the Gloucester and her burden: but an empty place where the Pearl had sailed—he did not see them, any more than his ears consciously perceived the steadily repeated splash of the lead and the cry of the man in the channels, a cry that had run through all the watches these many days, ever since they had come into soundings again. Mr Walter stood a few feet from them, taking samples of the sandy bottom that the deep-sea line brought up on the tallow put to the lead: he was exceedingly interested in this pursuit and he kept up a continual private conversation with himself upon it. Yet neither Elliot nor Peter heard a word of it; for not only were both accustomed to the only way of finding peace in an overcrowded man-of-war, which is to shut yourself up from the perpetual outside din and jostling, but the minds of both were already away round the Horn and far upon what Peter thought of as “the other side”—the coast of Chile and Peru.
Nobody knew the contents of the Commodore’s orders but himself: but although there was a great deal of variety in the squadron’s conjectures this only applied to the details, and the main intention of the expedition was very clearly understood to be the harrying of the Spaniards in the Great Southern Ocean. And that, to the dullest soul aboard, meant gold. Visions of treasure filled the gun-deck, where the men swung in their close-packed hammocks: at St Catherine’s tales had come aboard of Indian tribes who used gold fish-hooks, and gold to weigh down their nets, tribes where the children played at alley-tor with marbles made of gold; and the more these tales were repeated by their original hearers the more their fascinated audiences asked for more. There were tales of the Incas, shining in armour made of gold, and of the Spaniards who took all the gold away and shipped it to Old Spain in galleons every year: hundreds of these tales, many with a strong vein of truth, and all believed. The five ships’ companies were all, from the ward-room to the obscurest holes where the loblolly boys had their being, in a strong and highly advanced state of greed: they all knew that a powerful Spanish force lay between them and the accomplishment of their desires, but with one accord they dismissed that as a trifling nuisance. Their fever to be at the task of loading the hold with bullion made them wonderfully attentive to their duties, and now that even the stupidest impressed ploughboy was something like a seaman, they would fairly fly aloft to make sail and increase the squadron’s pace: and on the other hand, they would look pensive and discontented, if not downright mutinous, when under the impulsion of a growing wind the studdingsails and royals showed signs of carrying away and were obliged to be taken in—there never was such a crew for cracking on; and Mr Walter made himself downright unpopular by his often-expressed wish to have more time to study the ocean’s floor.
‘Yes,’ said Elliot, as if Peter had spoken. ‘I hope you may be right. After all, it should not take long to set up a mainmast of sorts. One of our spare topmasts would answer very well. I wonder they have not done it themselves, the helpless set of lubbers.’ He looked angrily at the crippled Tryal. ‘After all, good Heavens above, she’s only a sloop, and has no right to give herself such airs. Look how the Gloucester yaws,’ he said, as the sluggish Tryal snatched at the tow in the long swell and made the close-hauled Gloucester spill her wind. ‘I must say I find it hard to wait,’ he continued. ‘I want to fill my pockets with moidores until there is no room for my hands.’ He drummed impatiently on the rail, and a flush mounted in his keen brown face. ‘It is not for myself,’ he added. ‘I don’t care a farthing candle—but there are special reasons, you know.’
Peter nodded, and he was about to speak when Ransome and Keppel came hurriedly aft towards them. Ransome was strangely pale under his tan, obviously the prey of some strong emotion.
‘Has Agamemnon had them?’ cried Peter.
Agamemnon, that turbulent cat, who ordinarily ruled the berth with an implacable tyranny, selecting the warmest midshipman as a bedfellow whenever Ransome was on duty and beating that midshipman whenever he moved as well as biting as hard as a dog at the first suspicion of a snore, had grown weirdly meek since St Catherine’s—meeker and meeker as the signs of her approaching maternity increased. It was known, moreover, that Ransome, who fed the expectant mother with a pap-boat, dreaded the arrival and the consequent destruction of the kittens with a degree of open cowardice that would have disgraced a maiden lady. He had distinguished himself in the battle of Cape Passaro, could face a broadside yard-arm to yard-arm with the utmost composure, and had cleared the quarter-deck of a Spanish brig-of-war with no more than a belaying-pin, single-handed: but he could not drown kittens. There was no question about the drowning: the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth lieutenants, all of whom had been scratched, bitten and generally maltreated and bullied by Agamemnon, were quite as firm as the chaplain, the surgeon and his mate, the carpenter, the gunner, the bo’sun and all the others in whose cabins Agamemnon had been sick. ‘The animal is a menace to the well-being of the ship, and should be destroyed,’ they said, ‘but in all events we are determined that the breed shall not be perpetuated.’
‘No, it is not that,’ said Keppel. ‘Go on, Ransome. Tell them.’
‘You see that sloop?’ said Ransome, hoarser than usual.
‘Yes,’ said Peter and Elliot, staring.
‘Well, she’s quite small.’
‘All right,’ said Peter. ‘What of it?’
‘But she’s a great trial to the Gloucester. She’s a great Tryal—oh hor, hor, hor.’ Ransome could not contain himself long enough to explain the joke fully, but between writhes and gasps he did his best. ‘A great trial—hor, hor—Tryal—you smoke it? Oh, my stomach. I got it out solemn, didn’t I?’ he wheezed to Keppel, thrusting him half-way through the neatly triced hammocks in the weather-netting. ‘I said, “You see that there sloop?” and they says, “Yes, we see un,” and I says—oh, hor, hor, hor hor.’
‘That’s the second I made,’ he said faintly, as they supported him below. ‘The first was before. It was very good, but not as good as this. Oh I hope I live to tell them all in Wapping. Oh, my stomach. Oh.’
The great bay of St Julian and the empty pampas rolling to the sea: the illimitable plain and the cold wind over it—a world almost devoid of life and bare of men except for this one brief week of intensely crowded busyness in a corner of the bay, when a tiny stretch of the enormous shore was black with men from all seven ships of the squadron, and the bowl of the sea re-echoed with the sound of hammers as the Tryal was put to rights. Seven ships, for the Pearl had rejoined. They had seen her on the same day that St Julian’s had heaved up on the starboard bow, and she had fled from the approaching ships with all sail set to the royals; for only a week before she had fallen in with five Spanish men-of-war, one wearing a pennant so closely modelled on the Commodore’s that she had been deceived, and discovering her mistake almost too late, had escaped only by running under full sail over shoali
ng waters—a horrible risk that the Spaniards refused to take. The second time, therefore, the Pearl’s first lieutenant (her captain lay at the bottom of the sea fourteen days out of St Catherine’s) decided not to endanger his command, and would have vanished over the rim of the sea had not the Severn and the Gloucester been better sailors. As it was it took them hours and hours of furious cracking on before they ran her down and found her cleared for action, with all her teeth showing.
The excitement over the Pearl was very great; the certainty of the Spaniards’ presence was more exciting still; but the necessity of working without a moment’s respite in order not to be caught on shore, and in order to meet the Horn and the enemy in a well-found state, overlaid it all; and Peter, for one, came away with few distinct memories standing out from a confused impression of an immense amount of work accomplished in a very short period of time; and if he had been asked what Patagonia was like, he would have replied that it was a dry, brown, treeless, inhuman land with nothing attractive in it except the penguins on the shore—and even they were too inquisitive, always hurrying in to stand in rows among the work—a country, moreover, where the men were perpetually trying to creep away and dig for gold in the dusty grass.
But when they were at sea Peter had time for his journal again. This was not the official journal that every midshipman was required to keep, with his navigational records like a subsidiary ship’s log-book, but a private account which Elliot had urged him to start, and which he had kept since latitude 28° S.
‘March 5th lat 52° 32’ S. When we got under way Gloucester fouled her anchor and after 7 guns to order her to her station, cut her cable. Her people in a horrible mother. How we laughed. But before that there was a council of war, with land-officers and all captains: we are to attack Baldavia. And Capt. Murray of Wager is to have Pearl, Mr Cheap from Tryal to be capt. of Wager, and Mr Saunders to command Tryal, but he is too sick to move so Mr Saumarez holds his place, which makes Mr Brett first of Centurion pro. tem. He will be charmingly mild. We have had poor little winds, but we raised Cape Virgin Mary yesterday. It grows precious cold. Am very glad of FitzGerald’s warm things. Fitted Sean into his largest pea-jacket, with canvas to make out. I left my spoon in the sand at St Julian’s. Elliot says no two officers have the same longitude for St Julian’s—some make it under 70° W. and some as high as 74° 30’. He explained about lunar observations and the chronometrical machine, which I wish they would find out, for it is impossible to be sure of your longitude without you know the time it is on the meridian of Greenwich. Though you can find your position by transits….’ There followed a long and creditably intelligent piece about sidereal time, lunar tables and astral navigation. Then Peter wrote, ‘Mem. to tell Sean to put more lemon in the young whiskey, and to ask the sailmaker to let out my reefer. Ransome made a joke on the 2nd and is working on another now. He says he Did for Agamemnon’s little cats, but we believe he has hidden them abaft the well. Preston’s ape died yesterday, which is the last of them all: he grieved very much, though it was a wicked ape and never would love him. Mr Woodfall begged to dissect it, but Preston would not indulge him, saying that the ape was the better Christian by ½. All the captains came aboard of Cape Virgin Mary, in a sweet calm. Thought Mr Cheap (made post into Wager from Tryal) and Mr Saumarez looked very conscious and solemn. Hope said he pitied the poor midshipmen in Tryal and would not be in their place for 101. and not for 201. when Mr Saunders gets better. The squadron is to sail very close as we have great hopes of falling in with the Dons, and any officer of the watch who allows his ship to be more than 2 miles from Centurion is to be reported to the Commodore. While the captains were aboard somebody blew himself up aboard the Gloucester and all the captains screeched out Fire and rushed off like hares. How we laughed. But it only turned out to be a little blaze of powder: and then it came on to blow and we lay to until the end of my watch. Cape Virgin Mary is the entrance of Magellan’s Strait, but we are to go through the Straits Le Maire, because—’
‘Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr Palafox,’ said Bailey, hurtling into the berth with his customary delicate tread, ‘what an old Scribe and Pharisee you are becoming. Han’t you heard of the landfall?’
Peter flung his book and his pen aside and ran on deck to join the starers. It was a dim greyness looming from a mass of cloud, much like any other landfall from the deck and at that distance, but every unoccupied man aboard gazed at it with passionate attention, for this was Tierra del Fuego, and round its farther side ran the tides of the Great South Sea, the Pacific Ocean.
After a long while Peter went below for a thick jacket and joined Ransome and Keppel in the fore-topgallant crosstrees: the squadron was standing in along the shore, and from this somewhat over-crowded eminence one could clearly see the land—more and more distinctly every minute.
‘I say, it’s uncommon bleak, ain’t it?’ said Keppel, staring at the cruel black cliffs through the rain.
‘What a coast to be to the windward of,’ said Ransome, ‘in a strong nor-easter. I never seen a single place you could run for, all the time we been coasting here, nor a single place where you could land a boat, not if it was ever so.’ He poked his telescope towards the unbroken line of surf. ‘God give us sea-room on a coast like this,’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Peter, turning up his collar. ‘I think it looks rather like home.’
‘Then you must come from a damned uncomfortable place,’ said Keppel, judiciously. But the wrangle was cut short by a hail from the quarter-deck. ‘Mast-head, there. What do you see on the larboard bow?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ bawled the mast-head. ‘Only cloud and rain.’
‘They are looking for Staten Island,’ observed Keppel; and in a low chant he sang, ‘For Staten Island ho, for Staten Island hee.’
‘Deck,’ hailed the look-out. ‘There’s something white in them clouds on the larboard bow. Three points on the larboard bow. I think it’s snow,’ he added in a private voice, ‘for it’s cold enough, I’m sure.’
As the day wore on there was no doubt about its being snow: the appalling desolation of Staten Island drew very close indeed, so that without moving from the deck one could see the towering cliffs and mountains of Tierra del Fuego on the one hand, and on the other mountains and cliffs that made the first look mild; for those of Staten Island soared black and naked up to eternal snow, with never a tree or a kindly beach to alleviate their malignity.
Rain swept across the face of Tierra del Fuego: from Staten Island a squall brought a drumming of hailstones into the sails.
The Commodore never left the quarter-deck: this was barely charted land and sea, rarely traversed by Englishmen except for a few buccaneers, and they too busy keeping afloat to make accurate observations. Beside him Mr Brett worked diligently at his easel, drawing the coast-line—a strange implement aboard a man-of-war, and a strange occupation for the acting first lieutenant. The seamen stared, and exchanged covert winks; but their respect for the Commodore kept them from despising this lady-like accomplishment, and they did no more than deplore it as a break with tradition.
At night the squadron lay to, for to all appearance the two islands were now one, joining in the distance: no strait between them could yet be found. There was a feeling of tense expectation throughout the squadron, and in the midshipmen’s berth of the Centurion at least, a babel of conjecture, a poring over charts and a din of heated talk that went on until it was almost entirely quelled by the news that the ship’s entire company would spend the night bending a complete new set of sails. Mr Brett might paint pictures at an easel; he might be gently spoken and hardly ever shout or curse; but he was an exceedingly capable officer, and those who expected to find him at all soft in the execution of his duties were horribly mistaken. He intended that the new sails should be bent that night, and that night the new sails were bent.
Two minutes after eight bells in the middle watch found Peter dead asleep, worn out with struggling with an obstinate foretop
mast staysail by the fugitive light of the waning moon. But the forenoon watch saw him on the quarter-deck before his time, bubbling with anticipation.
The squadron had opened the Straits Le Maire with the dawn: it was plain now, a wide and obvious gash that had been hidden before by a false fold in the land, and now the crew (a resilient body of men, as sailors must be to survive) was waiting with wholly renewed delight. The wind was fair; at the mizzen flew the signal for Pearl and Tryal to take station ahead; and after what appeared to be an interminable wait, the Commodore said, ‘Very well, Mr Brett; we will make sail, if you please.’
The Centurion paid off before the steady east wind, half a gale and more; the hands at the braces moved as one; and she entered the Straits Le Maire.
‘I never, never seen such a tide,’ said Ransome, watching the creamy lines that snaked along the strait. ‘Portland race is a gutter to this.’
The Centurion was racing through the strait with the wind and the tide at twelve knots. She was foul, as all the squadron was, and from a little way below the water-line to far below her keel she carried a clogging mass of weed, but now the sea was running with her with a prodigious force, and the lowering shores fled by on either hand. Now and then there were stifled cheers from the men crowding the fo’c’sle and waist, shivering but unconscious of the cold, and all looking steadfastly towards the rapidly approaching end of the strait and the open sea.
Peter begged a moment’s leave and raced below to drag Sean on deck. ‘Look at the sea, you omadhaun,’ he said, elbowing through the men at the falls.
‘Where?’ cried Sean, gazing wildly into the sky.
‘There, you mooncalf,’ shrieked Peter. ‘There. It’s the Great South Sea itself, the golden ocean, and we sailing upon it, joy.’