Letters from India Volume I/To the Hon Mrs Eden 1
My dearest Mary,—I wished very much for time to write to you from Rio, but could not make it; and, besides, we are all very shy of writing a quantity of letters home, because it is past the wit of man to make variety out of a sea voyage. There must be a great sameness in our letters, and when you are all assembled within reach of each other, you must all be bored with our repetitions.
It sounds comfortable to be ‘within reach of each other.’ It seems to me that I am in reach of nothing (God help me!) but the pole of my cot, or an albatros; which is not much better than a gull. We got out of Rio harbour with wonderful celerity. It is generally a tedious job, but we made eighty miles the first day, which was Saturday, the 22nd of November, and went on with great success till Thursday the 27th, when all went to wrongs. There was what they called ‘a heavy swell,’ which turned everything topsy-turvy, and that went on till Saturday afternoon, when there came on a regular gale of wind, which made the sea ten thousand times worse, carried away two of our sails, filled all the cabins with water, and, in short, was just what a gale of wind always is—the most awful and unpleasant thing in the world. And yet it was impossible to help laughing at times from the ridiculous things that happened.
As you told me to give an account of a day every now and then, that Saturday would be a good one to begin with. I had been very sick since Thursday, and had not got up, but was so tired of the noise of my own cabin that I put on my dressing-gown and rolled into George’s cabin on Saturday afternoon, and, by a lucky combination of lurches, was pitched on to his sofa. He came to see me, and tucked himself up on the other side of the sofa by way of steadying us. Just then the ship took one of her deepest rolls; the spar that kept in his books gave way, and the books all poured out on the floor; two of his heavy boxes broke from their lashings and began dancing about among the books, and all George’s shoes and boots. Chance was jerked off the sofa into the middle of the room, and began crying; George was thrown upon me, and we both laughed so that he could not get up again. We made a grab at the bell and Mars came in, sitting down, which was the only way of moving that day. ‘Encore un déménagement!’ he said, as he tried to pick up the books. ‘Eh bien! c’est une manière de voyager, mais si c’est la bonne . . . . ?’ The next roll brought sliding in—in the same position—saying, ‘More fun! No dinner to-day; that last lurch sent the cook into the sheep pen, and the sheep are too frightened to help him out; and there’s the hatchway ladder unshipped as H was going down’ (he is an immensely fat young man) ‘and he fell under it, and four marines on the top of him.’
It was quite true, and it was wonderful Mr. H was not killed.
These sort of things went on all day. Even in the cockpit (which was supposed to be quite secure) the midshipmen’s chests broke loose, and, as there was a foot-and-a-half of water there, half their things were destroyed.
The waste of property in a gale is one of the worst parts of it. This lasted till one the next morning. Even Fanny could not go in to dinner, and she and I had some macaroni in George’s cabin, with Mars sitting on the floor helping us. Of course the dinner was put on the floor like everything else. At twelve at night, when I was in my cot—which grazed the ceiling every time it swung—the carpenter and three sailors marched in to put in the dead lights in the stern windows. There are no curtains to the cots, and on shore it might have seemed odd to have all those men carpentering in that little cabin; but I could not help laughing when the head carpenter—after knocking and nailing for ten minutes—walked up to me and said he was afraid it was very annoying, but it was the captain’s orders; and I went swinging backwards and forwards, and saying in my civilest tones, ‘Oh, never mind, Mr. Nan Carrol—no annoyance at all; only make it all safe. It’s a shocking night; don’t you think so?’
‘Rather rough,’ he said; and then came another man to say the first lieutenant’s cabin was full of water, and he wanted the carpenter.
In short, the sea is an ugly customer. But we had five days’ beautiful smooth sailing after this; and I hope this gale may count for our share of bad weather.
I have quite got over my sea-sickness on common occasions, and have been finishing up my Rio sketches; and now that I can draw and read, I am not so unhappy as I was. We are all very well; Mars is rheumatic at times, but is better now.
For fear I should not have time to add it at the Cape, I charge you to tell me quantities about the children: If Willy says, ‘How d’ye do, Lena?’ I shall like to know it; and mention Miss Ridley—in short, everything. Say what work you are about. I care about it all, and get lumps in my throat when I think of any of you; even that last pat on my shoulder which Robert gave me at Portsmouth I think of with pleasure and pain. I am always thinking. I have just finished Robert’s ‘Schwarz,’ and have liked it very much. Tell Willy I have not worn his sash yet, because the sea spoils ribbons; but it is safe in my drawer. Mind you write enough. George bears the sea with great philosophy. Fanny has taken it in great aversion. I always hated it, but do not say much now. is in spirits for a day or two, then wretched, and then bursts out into violent abuse, without minding who hears him: ‘I wish I was second pot-boy at the Pig and Whistle,’ he says to the captain and the officers who think there never was anything like the luxury of the ‘Jupiter.’ ‘A man who had the offer of two good crossings to sweep in London, or of good stone-breaking in the Edgeware Road, must have been mad to come out as I did.’