The ship’s log for this period presents a monotonous repetition of vain attempts at boating, as the following short record of our proceedings for the first eight days will show. It will be remembered that we arrived off the island and hove to on the evening of January 29.
January 30.—Sailed into Southwest Bay after breakfast. Though we saw the camp standing as we had left it, could not perceive any men, neither had we done so on the previous day. Wonder if, for some reason or other, the shore-party have left the island, and been carried away by a passing vessel? Drift out of bay and heave to. In afternoon sail into bay again. This time are glad to see all the men walking down to the beach. We signal for news. They reply, “All well,” and “Too rough for boating.” We signal, that we have brought them some letters from Bahia. When outside bay heave to for night.
January 31.—At dawn ten miles off island. Tack towards island. Sea high; squally. Sail into bay. No signals from shore. We conclude it is too rough for boating, and that the men are at work in the ravine. In afternoon sail again into bay. No signals. Heave to for night, as before.
February 1.—Sail into bay in morning. See the men on shore taking the cover off the whaleboat, as if with the intention of coming off. They drag her down to the edge of the sea. We cannot now distinguish them, so cannot tell whether they have launched the boat or not, or whether they have capsized, or what may have happened. All is hidden from us for some time; then we see them hauling the boat up the beach again. They have evidently abandoned the attempt as too dangerous. Very squally. While hove to, drive a long way from island. In evening, sail towards the bay again and heave to for night.
February 2.—Heavy showers of rain obscuring island from our view. Enter bay in morning. It being Sunday no work is done in the ravine, but the shore-party make many fruitless attempts at launching the boat during the day. We stand in and out of the bay all day, watching the proceedings of those on shore through our glasses. On several occasions the men draw the boat down to the edge of the sea, disappear from our sight for a time, and at last reappear hauling the boat up again. They persevere despite repeated failures. Think they have capsized once at least, as they are baling the boat out on the beach. At last, at 4 p.m., they give up the attempt as hopeless, and hoist the signal: “Impossible to launch lifeboat.” We exchange several signals, but find it difficult to distinguish their small flags from the yacht. At sunset we sail out to sea and heave to. Choppy sea. Tumble about a good deal. Stormy-looking sky.
February 3.—This morning very clear; so see distinctly for first time the three rocky islets of Martin Vas, distant about twenty-five miles from Trinidad, bearing east. Sail into bay. Again several vain attempts to launch boat. Heave to. Drift this night upwards of fifteen miles from island.
February 4.—Sail into bay. Still high surf. A signal flying on shore which we cannot distinguish, so sail somewhat nearer in. Are becalmed under Sugarloaf. Then a squall—then taken aback by another squall—then calm again. We drift towards Noah’s Ark, up whose face the sea is breaking fifty or sixty feet high. Another squall; wear vessel and clear out of bay. A very squally day, with baffling winds making it more than usually dangerous to enter the bay.
At last, on February 5, after having made three vain attempts to cross the barrier of tumbling surf, the whaleboat was successfully launched, and we saw her come out safely from the line of breakers at the end of the bay; then the men pulled away towards us, visible one moment as the boat rose to the top of the swell, and hidden the next moment from our sight by the rollers as she sank into the valleys between them.
We sailed into the bay to meet her, and hove to abreast of the Sugarloaf. The boat came nearer, and we saw that the doctor, Powell, Pursell, and the two black men, were in her. It was now thirty-eight days since we had last seen our companions. They all looked gaunt and haggard, and were clad in flannel shirts and trousers, ragged and earth-stained from the work in the ravine.
But they were the same cheery boys as ever, as I discovered by the jovial manner of their greeting as soon as they were within hail. “Hullo!” sang out the doctor, “what vessel’s that, and where do you come from? I am the doctor of the port here. Hand over your bill of health, that I may see whether you can have pratique.”
“And I am the governor of this island of Trinidad,” cried Powell, with affable pompousness from under an extraordinary hat that had been manufactured by himself, apparently out of the remains of old hampers and bird’s-nests; “will you do me the honour of dining with me at Government House tonight? I shall be glad to learn from you how the revolution is progressing in our neighbouring State of Brazil. I was just on the point of sending out my squadron here”—patting the whaleboat on the side—“to Bahia, to look after the interests of any of our subjects who may be there.”
It was startling for us to find that these dwellers on a desert island had already heard of the Brazilian revolution, and we were still more amazed when they proved to us that they were well informed as to all that had been going on in the outer world. We had been looking forward to
