Richard Woodman - In Distant Waters

'Oh… no, sir… no. But as you said, 'tis likely to be a damnably long voyage.' Quilhampton's answer was evasive and he avoided the captain's eyes, searching the horizon with an expression of despair.

He wondered if it were an accident caused by the violent motion of the ship as Drinkwater went below, or whether the slight pressure against his shoulder had been a gesture of commiseration.

The islands of Juan Fernandez bear no resemblance to my impression of Crusoe's refuge…

Drinkwater wrote in his journal, then laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair and stared rapturously out of the stern windows. The sashes were lifted and the gentle breeze that wafted into the cabin bore the sweet scent of a lush vegetation dominated by the sandalwood trees. He closed his eyes and drew the air in through his nostrils, a calm contentment filling him. For the first time in weeks his cabin bore a civilised air, being upon an even keel. Drinkwater turned back to his journal, rejected the idea of an attempt to rival Defoe and continued writing.

We sighted the peak of El Yunque on the 3rd instant, a fair landfall but occupied by the Spaniards, and, unwilling to advertise our presence upon the Pacific coasts of America, took departure for Farther-out Island, thirty leagues to the westward where we found anchorage in nine fathoms with a sandy bottom, wood and water in plenty, an abundance of pig and goats. There are seals and sea-elephants and several species of humming-bird. The men have been exercised at their leisure, a circumstance which gives me great heart after our recent difficulties …

He laid his pen down again and rose, stretching. They lay at anchor within half a mile of the beach and he could see the launch drawn up on the sand, the two boat-keepers paddling like children in the shallows. The warmth of a sun almost overhead lay over the anchorage like a benediction, filling the ship with a languorous air.

'Lotus-eating…' he murmured. Leaning his hands on the sill of the window he looked up at the rugged volcanic summit of the island rising precipitously from foothills that were covered in rich vegetation. Unlike the main island of the archipelago, Mas-a-Fuera, Farther-out Island, did not possess the anvilpeak of El Yunque, but it was impressively beautiful to men whose eyes had been starved of the sight of green leaves.

An occasional shot echoed up the ravines, evidence of Mount's hunting party flushing the wild pig from the undergrowth. The thought of dining that evening on roast pork brought the juices to Drinkwater's mouth in anticipation and further enhanced his feeling of contentment. They could take a short break here, give the men a run ashore, replenish their wood and water, dine all hands in the very lap of luxury and even, perhaps, if they could find someone among the crew conversant with the process, make some goat's milk cheese.

He returned to his table, picked up a pen and began to write again. The breeze ruffled his shirt and through the skylight the sunshine beat down, warming the old ache in his mangled shoulder.

The mood of the people is much improved since our arrival. Their faces wear smiles this day and I am sanguine that the outbreaks of sporadic drunkenness, of petty-theft and brawling that accompanied our passage of the Atlantic, will cease now that we are brought into better climes and the men become resigned to their task…

He looked up and saw the launch coming off, its waist full of filled barricoes of sweet water. Through the skylight he heard orders being given to the watch on deck in preparation for hoisting the casks into the hold. If they worked well today and tomorrow he would give each watch a day's leave of absence and they could scramble about the island like children on holiday.

By noon they had reached the tree-line. Quilhampton in the lead gave a great whoop, like a Red Indian, for it was to be the halting point of the expedition. Drinkwater was panting with the unaccustomed exertion, watching Frey and Belchambers scamper about the increasing number of rocky outcrops that made their appearance as the valley had narrowed and risen.

As behoved the intelligence of naval officers it had been considered necessary to make some purpose of the day. Not for them the wild and aimless wandering of the men, whose liberty infected them like quarts of unwatered rum. Far below they could hear the shouts and laughter of their unconfined spirits as they chased about the ferny undergrowth. Besides, if the men were to give vent to their pent-up emotions, it was incumbent upon the officers to make way for them. So it had been Quilhampton who had decided the walk ashore should become an expedition, and Drinkwater who had suggested they traced one of the streams upwards to its source.

Accompanied by the second lieutenant, the two midshipmen, Mr Lallo the surgeon and Derrick the Quaker clerk, they had set off after breaking their fasts and parading divisions. Those left aboard had worn glum expressions, despite promises of their turn tomorrow, such was the liberating infection of the island upon those destined to run amok today.

The officers began their expedition at the watering place where the stream ran sluggishly out over a bed of pebbles and sand, spreading itself into a tiny delta and carving miniature cliffs and escarpments through the foreshore. But it soon narrowed, its bed deeper and its current swifter, passing beneath a cover of sandal-wood trees which already showed evidence of the axe marks of man.

'The oleaginous qualities of this species,' pronounced Lallo, patting one of the dark red tree-boles with a proprietorial hand, 'produce an oil which may, I believe, be substituted for copaiba oil as well as forming an admixture for Indian attars…'

'What the deuce is an attar, Lallo?' enquired Quilhampton.

'Perfume, perfume, that fragrance so often necessary to the fair sex in warm weather to render them desirable to men. I should have thought you would have known that, Mr Q, given your strong desire to become a benedick.'

Quilhampton flushed scarlet and Lallo cast a mischievous glance at Drinkwater. 'Is that not so, sir?'

'I fear you embarrass Mr Q, Mr Lallo, but perhaps you would tell me to what use you would put such an oil.'

'Well, as for copaiba, it is a specific in certain complaints of the urinary tract… it occurs to me that the sandal wood tree might provide us with oleaginous matter with similar properties.'

'Very well. We can gather some chips on our return, but our young friends here are anxious to continue, I suspect. They are too young for complaints of the urinary tract.'

'Very well, sir. Adelante !'

Laughing, they pressed on, ever upwards. The trees thinned to scrub, the ferns that grew prolifically alongside the stream now sprouted from rocks and mosses and the water, no longer dark under the trees, sparkled and ran white, leaping and boiling over rocks and into deep, mysterious pools.

After an hour they came to a waterfall, where the stream dropped almost thirty feet over a sheer lip of grey rock. The silver trail roared downwards, sending up a cloud of spray through which a rainbow curved. On either side dense foliage grew, pierced by the heavy heads of several exotic blooms.

'Sir! Look!'

Drinkwater turned to where Mr Midshipman Belchambers, a bright-eyed and excited child, pointed. Frey was beside him, his pencil already racing over the sketch-block he was rarely without.

'God's bones, a humming bird!' Drinkwater recognised the tiny bird from a print he had once seen in Ackermann's, the extravagant result of the print-maker capitalising on the public interest in such exotic subjects roused by Captain Cook. The blurred whirring of the bird's wings as it held its head motionless at the bell of a flower, was a jewel of pure cinnamon.