Читать книгу Into the Frozen South онлайн

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Not an heroic day this Sunday, my first at sea, by any means. We were at once initiated into that shipboard creed which dictates that, even if your ship be sinking, she must sink clean. Cleanliness aboard the Quest, as aboard most other ships flying British colours, ranks ahead of godliness. Mooney and I washed dishes, washed floors, washed everything that could be washed, by way of justifying our existences. We made the little ward-room, where ten of us all told eat and sleep and generally have our being, shine like silver. By tea time—still washing something—we reached Sheerness.

Now, a voyage such as lay before us is not a trifling affair of days or weeks, with the assurance of thoroughly equipped ports and dockyards under one’s lee to comfort us. The Quest must needs be prepared for any hazard that might arise—and there were many to be anticipated. Divers came off and busied themselves with fitting copper plates to our hull, to form a suitable “earth” for the wireless installation. Oddments had to be secured from the shore, other oddments were returned. A new bowsprit was shipped. There was abundance of work for all hands; scant time for homesickness. So that the evening was upon us almost before we realized it; and since, even aboard ship, men must rest and take their pleasure, the cook accompanied us ashore to see the sights of Sheerness. The principal one was a picture house. We saw it, and when we’d seen it it was high time to renew friendship with our bunks.