And here to make an end are a few random bits about the cruise
to Pernambuco:—
‘Plymouth, June 21, 1873.—I have
been down to the sea-shore and smelt the salt sea and like it;
and I have seen the Hooper pointing her great bow
sea-ward, while light smoke rises from her funnels telling that
the fires are being lighted; and sorry as I am to be without you,
something inside me answers to the call to be off and doing.
‘Lalla Rookh. Plymouth, June
22.—We have been a little cruise in the yacht over to the
Eddystone lighthouse, and my sea-legs seem very well on.
Strange how alike all these starts are—first on shore,
steaming hot days with a smell of bone-dust and tar and salt
water; then the little puffing, panting steam-launch that bustles
out across a port with green woody sides, little yachts sliding
about, men-of-war training-ships, and then a great big black hulk
of a thing with a mass of smaller vessels sticking to it like
parasites; and that is one’s home being coaled. Then
comes the Champagne lunch where everyone says all that is polite
to everyone else, and then the uncertainty when to start.
So far as we know now, we are to start to-morrow morning
at daybreak; letters that come later are to be sent to Pernambuco
by first mail. . . . My father has sent me the heartiest sort of
Jack Tar’s cheer.
‘S. S. Hooper. Off Funchal,
June 29.—Here we are off Madeira at seven
o’clock in the morning. Thomson has been sounding
with his special toy ever since half-past three (1087 fathoms of
water). I have been watching the day break, and long jagged
islands start into being out of the dull night. We are
still some miles from land; but the sea is calmer than Loch Eil
often was, and the big Hooper rests very contentedly after
a pleasant voyage and favourable breezes. I have not been
able to do any real work except the testing [of the cable], for
though not sea-sick, I get a little giddy when I try to think on
board. . . . The ducks have just had their daily souse and are
quacking and gabbling in a mighty way outside the door of the
captain’s deck cabin where I write. The cocks are
crowing, and new-laid eggs are said to be found in the
coops. Four mild oxen have been untethered and allowed to
walk along the broad iron decks—a whole drove of sheep seem
quite content while licking big lumps of bay salt. Two
exceedingly impertinent goats lead the cook a perfect life of
misery. They steal round the galley and will nibble
the carrots or turnips if his back is turned for one minute; and
then he throws something at them and misses them; and they
scuttle off laughing impudently, and flick one ear at him from a
safe distance. This is the most impudent gesture I ever
saw. Winking is nothing to it. The ear normally hangs
down behind; the goat turns sideways to her enemy—by a
little knowing cock of the head flicks one ear over one eye, and
squints from behind it for half a minute—tosses her head
back, skips a pace or two further off, and repeats the
manœuvre. The cook is very fat and cannot run after
that goat much.
‘Pernambuco, Aug. 1.—We landed here
yesterday, all well and cable sound, after a good passage. . . .
I am on familiar terms with cocoa-nuts, mangoes, and bread-fruit
trees, but I think I like the negresses best of anything I have
seen. In turbans and loose sea-green robes, with beautiful
black-brown complexions and a stately carriage, they really are a
satisfaction to my eye. The weather has been windy and
rainy; the Hooper has to lie about a mile from the town,
in an open roadstead, with the whole swell of the Atlantic
driving straight on shore. The little steam launch gives
all who go in her a good ducking, as she bobs about on the big
rollers; and my old gymnastic practice stands me in good stead on
boarding and leaving her. We clamber down a rope ladder
hanging from the high stern, and then taking a rope in one hand,
swing into the launch at the moment when she can contrive to
steam up under us—bobbing about like an apple thrown into a
tub all the while. The President of the province and his
suite tried to come off to a State luncheon on board on Sunday;
but the launch being rather heavily laden, behaved worse than
usual, and some green seas stove in the President’s hat and
made him wetter than he had probably ever been in his life; so
after one or two rollers, he turned back; and indeed he was wise
to do so, for I don’t see how he could have got on board. .
. . Being fully convinced that the world will not continue to go
round unless I pay it personal attention, I must run away to my
work.’
