Transcriber’s Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.






INTO THE FROZEN SOUTH




PUBLISHER’S NOTE


In the beginning it was the intention of Sir Ernest Shackleton to
give Scout Marr the benefit of his guiding hand in the writing of this
book; and indeed up to within a few days of the great explorer’s death,
he spent many moments in talking it over with Marr, and incidentally
gave valuable hints as together they went over the Scout’s notes of
his observations. In this way the framework of the book may be said
to have been laid down by Sir Ernest, and the earlier chapters bear
the impress of his kindly advice as well as the reinforcement of his
wide and wise experience.

From the sad moment of his death the narrative was continued by Scout
Marr, and then when the MS. was completed, the young author’s work
was given the valued editorial overlook of so experienced a writer
of the things of the sea as Captain Frank H. Shaw.

In this way the book grew into its present form, and may be considered
the more acceptable insomuch as it reflects the personality of the
“Boss,” and is, moreover, just one more instance of his comradely
spirit toward one on the threshold of life.




     Into the Frozen South

     By SCOUT MARR, of the Quest
     Expedition With Twenty-nine Half-tone Illustrations

     [Illustration]

     CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
     London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
     1923




     First Published, September 1923
         Reprinted, October 1923
         Reprinted,  November 1923

     Printed in Great Britain.




     To
     JOHN QUILLER ROWETT




CONTENTS


     CHAPTER                                        PAGE

     1. HOPE REALIZED                                  1

     2. LONDON’S GOOD-BYE                              6

     3. THE VOYAGE BEGINS                             18

     4. LISBON TO MADEIRA                             33

     5. EXPERIENCES AFLOAT                            44

     6. ON THE WAY TO RIO                             55

     7. CHRISTMAS IN SOUTHERN SEAS                    71

     8. WE RUN INTO ICE                               93

     9. THE GREAT BLOW FALLS                         102

     10. FRANK WILD TAKES COMMAND                    106

     11. ALL ICE WHERE EYE COULD SEE                 117

     12. THE GREAT STRUGGLE BEGINS                   131

     13. GOING DOGGEDLY ON                           145

     14. WE MAKE FOR ELEPHANT ISLAND                 160

     15. A ROUGH TIME WITH ICE AND WIND              177

     16. SOUTH GEORGIA AGAIN                         186

     17. A SPELL ON TRISTAN DA CUNHA                 198

     18. AMONG THE ISLANDS                           213

     19. ASAIL FOR HOME                              224

     INDEX                                           241




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


     Raising the Union Jack given by King George V to the
     _Quest_ (Scout Marr is hoisting the left Signal
     Halyard)                                   Frontispiece

                                                  FACING PAGE

     Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. John Quiller Rowett      4

     The _Quest’s_ Goodly Company of Adventurers            5

     On the Way: The _Quest_ in the Trades                 58

     The Ship’s Pets:
       Query, the wolfhound                                59
       Questie, the cat, on Marr’s Shoulder                59

     South Georgian Whaling Station: At Work on Blue
     Whales                                                94

     Some Finny Spoil from St. Paul’s Rocks                94

     Launching the Kite for Aerial Observation             94

     Sir Ernest’s Cabin on the _Quest_                     94

     Penguins at Home                                      94

     Dead Whales in Prince Olaf Harbour                    94

     View from above a South Georgia Glacier               94

     Cape Pigeons at South Georgia                         95

     Gentoo Penguins                                       95

     The _Quest_ Narrowly Escapes an Iceberg              120

     The Midnight Sun in the Land of Ice                  120

     Finding the Magnetic Dip: Jeffrey and Douglas at
     Work                                                 121

     Taking the First Sounding in the Frozen South        121

     The _Quest_ is Frozen In                             140

     Forging Ahead through Loose Pack Ice                 141

     In the Antarctic: The _Quest_ a Mass of Frozen
     Spray                                                141

     The Wake of Loose Ice as seen from the Crow’s Nest   182

     A Close-up View of the Pack                          182

     Entering the Pack                                    183

     Collecting Ice for Replenishing the Water Tanks      183

     Scout Marr presents Sir Robert Baden-Powell’s
     Flag to the Tristan da Cunha Troop                   204

     We go in Search of Fresh Food                        205

     The _Quest_ off Inaccessible Island                  205




  [Illustration: Raising the Union Jack given by King George V to
    the _Quest_.

    (Scout Marr is Hoisting the Left Signal Halyard.)

    _Photo: Topical._]




INTO THE FROZEN SOUTH




CHAPTER I

Hope Realized


It was difficult to believe that I stood a fighting chance of being
chosen as one of that band of gallant adventurers bound for the Frozen
South. Hope ran high when it was made known to me that I was among the
ten candidates who were to be inspected by Sir Ernest Shackleton; but,
even so, my heart misgave me. True enough, we ten had been weeded out
of thousands who had applied, in response to the wide appeal published
in the early summer of 1921, for volunteer Scouts to accompany the
famous explorer on what promised to be an ideal adventure; but that
such good fortune as came would be mine was wellnigh incredible.

Yet the miracle happened. A dream grew into reality. Together with
Scout Norman E. Mooney, of the Orkney Islands, I was selected as one
of the crew of that famous _Quest_ which, driven by the compelling
determination of Sir Ernest Shackleton, was to attempt to penetrate
the Antarctic fastnesses, and to explore not only those icy wastes,
but also certain little-known islands in the sub-Antarctic seas.

Imagine how my heart leaped when the news was told! Here was romance
personified. I think that any youth of my age would have felt with
me that all the adventure books ever written were but tame affairs
as compared with what the future promised. We were to follow in
the footsteps of brave men who had dared much; of men who had died
because of their love of perilous adventure. Anything might happen;
imagination filled in the coming years with pictures that set the
mind alive with delight.

Oh, yes, it was good to be young and ambitious—and chosen! The doors
were to be closed for indefinite years on England—commonplace England,
as I thought it then—and our ship was to bear us, high of heart,
clear across the threshold of adventure.

Often and often had I thought how splendid it would be to visit those
wastes of snow and ice and furious seas. Like every other healthy
British lad, the hot blood of desire to achieve ran in my veins.
And here were my biggest dreams coming true. Fill in the blanks for
yourselves.

I was glad to think that my lot was to be cast amongst such tried
and proven men as Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. Frank Wild. Every
boy has his private heroes. Shackleton was one of mine. Moreover, I,
a landsman, was to learn the craft of the sea, and under the most
fascinating circumstances imaginable. I thought of Drake, Hawkins
and all those hardy adventurers of the past. I was one of them!

My first meeting with Sir Ernest Shackleton did nothing to lessen my
enthusiasm, for he satisfied my imagination most completely. Here was a
man to be followed anywhere—everywhere; a man whom it would be a great
thing to serve. A tall, broad man, with a strong, determined mouth,
a man whose smile gave confidence, whose voice seemed always to be
laughing at danger. A full-sized man, judged by any standard, though
his great shoulders carried a just perceptible bend, as token of the
heavy burden laid upon him by his gallant struggles and endeavours
of former years.

Naturally enough, when face to face with him this first time, I had
little to say. But he possessed the ability to size one up almost at
a glance.

“Why do you want to go?” he asked crisply.

“I want to _do_ something,” I said. It was a period when every
right-thinking boy felt he must do something to be worthy of the
sacrifices of Britain’s dead in the recently ended war. I wanted to say
all this, yet words failed to come; but Shackleton read right enough
and smiled. I was chosen, and even to this day I cannot understand
why. My lucky star had climbed into the zenith, I suppose.

There is really no need for me to record that I counted myself the
luckiest fellow on earth, nor to declare how strenuously I vowed
myself to loyal and helpful performance of all such duties as should
come my way. I wanted to be worthy of my companions. Here were men
who had flocked to a well-loved leader’s standard from all the ends
of the earth; and I was chosen to stand beside them!

Once the decision was made, the days were full of anticipation.
They seemed tedious and endless, because, being committed, I wanted
to tread the _Quest’s_ planking and feel that it was all really
true. There were so many things that might happen, so many chances
of misadventure. However, fortune stood my friend; the appointed
hour arrived. Not that those final farewells to loving friends were
pleasant, but high resolve made light of them. Others had dared the
long out trail that’s everlastingly new; and homesickness is no fatal
disease.

Nevertheless, let me be honest and say that my first sight of the
_Quest_ somewhat tarnished the gilt of the gingerbread. She seemed
so very tiny to be destined for so great an adventure—merely a minnow
amongst whales compared with other craft. Still, I doubt if any power
on earth could have tempted me to draw back.

Mooney and I joined ship on September 15, 1921, and I was allotted a
bunk in the little mess-room in the ship’s after-end. Cramped quarters
enough, make no mistake on that head. The _Quest_ was no leviathan,
and personal comfort was a thing that seemed to have been left out of
her controller’s calculations. So much for first impressions. If I
had had previous sea experience I might, at that first glance, have
counted my quarters almost luxurious. For in addition to the actual
sleeping-place, at least as roomy as a coffin, I was granted a locker
beneath for clothes and a shelf for the careful stowing of trifling
personal belongings. This was my stateroom de luxe. At first it seemed
so tiny, so stuffy, so generally uncomfortable, that I wondered how
any human being, not to mention a well-grown youth of my proportion,
could exist there; but the time was to come when I should consider
this corner of a seagoing ship the most desirable spot in all the
world for my seagoing requirements, and count the minutes until I
was able to fling myself full-length into that seven-by-two sleeping
shelf to sink into the dreamless slumber that rewards hard toil.

Aboard a Polar exploration ship there is scant room for luxury. Every
available inch of space must needs be crammed with gear that is to
further the expedition’s interests. The human side of things is apt
to be lost sight of by those who have the greater vision, and who
understand, as our leader understood, the amazing adaptability of
mankind.

  [Illustration: Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. John Quiller Rowett.]

Not that Mooney and myself were called upon at once to “render down”
into these cramped quarters. Probably with an idea of tempering the
wind to the shorn lamb, Mr. John Quiller Rowett, who, by reason of
his personal admiration for Sir Ernest Shackleton, was responsible
for financing the expedition, took us under his comforting wing and
gave us a great time at his Sussex home, Ely Place, Frant.

  [Illustration: The _Quest’s_ Goodly Company of Adventurers.]

In my opinion Mr. Rowett deserves a high place in the records of Polar
exploration. The bravest adventurers imaginable cannot fare forth in
quest of the unknown without monetary backing; born adventurers, by
reason of their very indomitableness, seldom have sufficient capital
to finance their expeditions. If the _Quest_ was to be a cannon ball
designed to thrust herself into the frozen fastnesses of the South,
Mr. Rowett unquestionably supplied the powder that fired her on that
lengthy journey. Expecting nothing in return for his very considerable
outlay, satisfied to know that he was helping a courageous man towards
the realization of his ambition, Mr. Rowett cheerfully provided the
major part of the funds for this, Shackleton’s last adventure, out
of considerations of personal friendship for our leader and in the
general interests of scientific research.




CHAPTER II

London’s Good-bye


On Saturday, September 17, precisely at one o’clock, Sir Ernest
Shackleton gave the word to cast off, and the _Quest_ started from
St. Katharine’s Dock, Tower Bridge, on her journey across the foamy
leagues. Enthusiastically she endeavoured to celebrate the occasion
by a stentorian blast on her whistle; but no matter how diligently
the lanyard was tugged, nothing beyond a hoarse moan resulted. The
watching crowd, realizing the intention, cheered resoundingly; and
as if put on its mettle by this tribute of farewell, the whistle made
another and more successful effort; a fairly creditable note resulted
as the _Quest_ was towed and warped out through the dock-heads into
the open river. With the great Tower Bridge opened for us, as if we
were a liner of repute instead of one of the stormy petrels of the
sea, we passed up to London Bridge, where we swung about and then
dropped down-stream under our own power.

We had a wonderful send-off. To me, unaccustomed to crowds, it was
as though all London had conspired together to bid us a heartening
farewell. Crowds and bigger crowds massed on the quays and the banks
of the Thames. Both the Tower Bridge and London Bridge were packed
with cheering people who clustered like flies. The bigger shipping
in the river roared welcome and farewell to the little _Quest_; every
siren was bellowing at its fullest blast, and our ineffective whistle
was hard-set to make even a decent showing in reply, since the custom
of the sea ordains that every signal given shall be scrupulously
answered. Naturally the Press was strongly represented, writers and
photographers alike; and since, in a way, we were public property, the
whole ship’s company posed for the pointing lenses, whilst Shackleton,
desirous that those at home should hold a pleasant final record of
us, kept us laughing broadly at his swift shafts of wit.

So much for the picturesque side of exploration; but as soon as we were
fairly in the river, work began. Shifting stores is no pleasant job.
Gunny-sacks that hold hard-tack rub the neck and arms unmercifully;
cask-chines cut the fingers; every muscle in one’s body collects
its own individual ache, which joins with every other ache to create
one enormous agony of pain; but it’s a proud horse that won’t carry
its own nosebag, and during the journey down to Gravesend we put our
backs into the commonplace but very necessary job. Probably enough,
Nelson himself had shifted similar stores in his younger days, and
he died an admiral! We realized—I know I did—that we were necessary
to the general welfare of the cruise.

Anchored at Gravesend, Scout Mooney and myself were permitted no
easement. That’s the way of the sea, I found. She breaks in her
disciples thoroughly at the beginning, so that none of her later
surprises can astonish. Helping the cook prepare supper mightn’t seem
heroic, but it was necessary, for these shipmates of ours depended
on us for their creature comforts on this occasion. Maybe enthusiasm
overreached itself a little, for, serving the prepared meal at
table, I contrived to spill hot coffee over the hand of one of our
members. Scout lore teaches one early to be a philosopher, and here
was an excellent opportunity of acquiring a working knowledge of
the ready-for-use language employed on shipboard, to which we were
initiated by the injured explorer’s remarks. You don’t hear language
like that every day of your life!

Having served, Mooney and myself ate, and did it heartily. The sea
creates an appetite all of its own; and I have not the slightest doubt
that our attention to the victuals caused some concern in the minds
of those responsible for the supplies of the ship. Then, full-fed and
happy, we washed up the dishes and turned into our narrow berths and
quickly fell into sleep, though the day had been memorable and full
of mild excitements. Just before I dropped off, just as the varied
aches and abrasions with which I had afflicted myself began to get
in their fine work, I remembered those stentorian cheers that had
wafted us down-river.

“Some of those were for _me_!” I thought. It made the labours seem
light.

“All hands on deck!” was the cry that wakened me in the early morning
of the Sabbath. There was a note of purpose in the cry, and no
wonder. The _Quest_ was dragging her anchors and running down to foul
the rigging of a near-by steam hopper with her bowsprit. Darkness
everywhere; a medley of men in pyjamas, and not yet familiarized with
the geography of this, their latest home, some shouting; then a twang
of snapping wires, a vast looming shadow sliding away into darkness,
and we were clear, at cost of two of the steamer’s stays, cut through
by some opportunist. Evidently the sea did not permit of long, placid
reveries; there was always something happening or about to happen
once you got afloat. But after the moment’s breathlessness my bunk
seemed doubly inviting, and I was just getting accustomed again to
being asleep when—six a.m. happened, four bells in the morning watch,
and up we youngsters were roused to get breakfast for our seniors.
By seven-thirty the _Quest_ was already under way, and my first real
misgivings troubled me. I, a landsman, had to minister to the needs
of tried and tested seamen! Something of an ordeal, believe me; but
it’s a poor scout who fears to climb! I overcame my tremblings by dint
of sheer determination, and no crockery was broken by being thrown
at my devoted head that meal. Maybe the good spirit that animated
all the company permitted them to overlook my crass deficiencies.

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.

Early in the voyage Mooney and I found the worth of systematic
co-operation in our labours. In cramped quarters, over-packed with
humanity, there must be a place for everything and a definite time for
every duty. We put on our thinking-caps. At present we were having
allowances made for us; but—even a youngster may be allowed to look
into the future. A small ship, many men of varying temperaments,
these might make for friction, and human nature being what it is,
friction under such conditions is inevitable. I had heard of the chaos
that can result aboard ship from discordant elements being present,
and I decided at this early hour that blame for discord should not
rest on me. Mooney and I seemed to have it in our power to lighten
irksome days by swift and diligent service. We accordingly drew up
a programme of duties, which answered very well. I attended to the
table, Mooney washed up as the dishes came away from the board. All
the ward-room crowd being fed, I assisted in that endless washing up;
then, all utensils snugly stowed away in proper Bristol fashion, we
combined to carry out such further duties as were required of us. In
a surprisingly little while we’d reduced the thing to a fine art; and
I firmly believe the senior members of the expedition hardly realized
our presence, so automatically did the work proceed.

One good thing I discovered about hard work faithfully performed:
it teaches you to enjoy pleasure. Tuesday evening found me ashore in
Sheerness at a whist drive, with a dance to follow. There was room to
breathe, room to stretch oneself. I enjoyed that evening very much.
Ordinarily I might have been bored; but I’d earned the relaxation,
I fancied, and I went into it with all my heart and soul. Yes, you
can play very hard when you’ve worked hard to earn it.

On Wednesday morning the ship was taken out to the buoys to be swung
for compass adjustment. Not posing as an experienced navigator, I am
unable to describe this very necessary operation in detail; but I
gathered that a ship’s compass is about as uncertain an instrument
as can be imagined. About the one place to which a compass needle
doesn’t point is the Pole. There are so many opposing forces at work
to defeat—or is it deflect?—that slip of magnetized metal that the
wonder is it doesn’t give up the task in despair and point straight
upwards to the spot where Paddy’s hurricane came from. Apart from
the wide difference between the magnetic poles and the true poles—and
that is called variation—there are the wonderful effects of the metal
contained in the ship—the immovable metal of her structure—and every
shroud and every barrel hoop is some sort of a magnet; the other no
less wonderful effects created by the ship’s heeling and pitching, when
what was previously horizontal magnetism becomes vertical magnetism;
and a multitude of chancy irregularities that bewilder me when I think
of them. However, the experts concerned in the matter contrived to
reduce all these warring elements to something approaching order, and
we left Sheerness with the conviction that whatever happened to the
ship her compasses wouldn’t fail. It was after lunch when we finally
got our ground tackle and slid away towards the Channel, across a
sea as flat and smooth as the ice of which we were later to see so
much. Under such conditions, being at sea was about as pleasurable
an experience as one could hope for. It was possible to get familiar
with the thousand and one details of shipboard life which at first
sight seem so baffling. Already, short as had been my time aboard, I
had a sneaking belief that I could pass some sort of examination in
seamanship.

Here’s a chance now, with the _Quest_ in open water, to say something
about her. She was to serve as a stage for all the comedies and
tragedies of the coming months, and she is worthy of as good a
description as I am able to give. I said before she was no leviathan.
In your mind’s eye, you who read my impressions, please don’t create
a fancy ship, equipped with such gadgets as make ordinary seafaring
a picnic. The _Quest_, originally a small Norwegian wooden barque of
125 tons, was mighty little bigger than a Thames barge. Her auxiliary
steam engines developed one horse-power per ton, 125 h.p. in all.
Ketch-rigged as she originally was, she was supposed to be capable
of steaming seven knots per hour in smooth waters. Being originally
intended for the Arctic sealing trade, she was naturally very strongly
built in every respect, even at a sacrifice of room inboard. Her bow
was solid oak sheathed stoutly with steel—capable of taking a very
severe ice nip; her timbers were doubly reinforced by massive beams
with natural bends. Give her an overall length of 111 feet from bow
to taffrail, a beam of 23 feet or thereabouts, sides 24 inches in
thickness, and there you have her, this twentieth-century Argosy of
ours, as Shackleton bought her from her original owners.

She underwent a thorough overhauling prior to my joining her. She
might have been much more thoroughly made-over but for the fact of
certain strikes and restlessness amongst the dockyard workers. She
might have been ridded of her steam engines and been fitted with
Diesel oil engines; but this alteration was impossible. Consequently
her already limited accommodation was still further limited by the
creation of new bunker space—the forehold suffered here—which was
estimated to give the _Quest_ a working radius, allowing for the use
of sail and economical steaming, of something like five thousand miles.

Her rigging was altered to a considerable extent. She was square-rigged
forward, her mizenmast was lengthened, really in order to give the
wireless aerial a chance; her ’thwartship bridge was thrown clear
across the deck from rail to rail, and completely enclosed with
Triplex glass windows. Her foredeck developed a curious growth in the
shape of a deckhouse as big as an average dining-room, twenty feet by
twelve. This house was partitioned off into four small cabins and a
room for housing special scientific instruments. New running rigging
was fitted, also new canvas; and as Mr. Rowett was determined that
every detail of the ship must be as perfect and safe as was possible,
no matter what the expense might be, nothing was left undone that
would assure her being eminently seaworthy.

Within her diminutive hull, twenty hands, picked from innumerable
volunteers, were bestowed in very limited space, as might be imagined.
She was, indeed, so packed with gear of one kind and another that
I still wonder how her timbers stood the strain. Piecing together
a jig-saw puzzle was child’s play compared with the stowing of her
equipment and stores; not a single inch of space was wasted anywhere.

She was fitted with two complete wireless installations; not merely
receiving sets, but also transmitting gear. Moreover, she was lit
throughout by electric light, at all events during the earlier stages
of the voyage, but the need to economize in fuel later compelled the
use of oil lamps everywhere. A great quantity of her sea stores and
the equipment that would be required when in the Antarctic was sent
ahead of her to Cape Town, to be kept in store, awaiting our arrival;
but even so she was packed full; and the port alleyway was pretty
completely blocked by the seaplane which we were carrying. Everything
that human ingenuity could devise or demand was there in that little
ship.

I have forgotten to mention the spirit of loyal determination of all
aboard. There was enough to equip a whole armada of Dreadnoughts.
What did cramped space and minor discomfort matter? We were going
South with Shackleton, and that was enough for us. Everyone possessed
good temper and the determination to rough it without outcry—about
the most desirable qualifications for a crew on such a voyage.

Throughout the easy run to Plymouth there was nothing to disturb
us; voyaging under these fine-weather conditions was glorious. We
were all in high heart, adapting ourselves rapidly to the existing
conditions; and the time flowed by with that curious smoothness so
noticeable at sea.

By half-past nine on the morning of Wednesday, September 23, we
sighted Plymouth and passed up through an almost empty Sound. Here
the _Quest_ was welcomed by the mayor and other notables, including
Captain Gordon Campbell, V.C., the man who made himself such a terror
to German submarines during the war. There were speeches—stirring
speeches that exalted the courage and, so far as I was concerned, made
me feel even more heroic than before, so that once again I thanked
my lucky stars for the good fortune that had fallen my way.

Mooney and myself were given an extra special send-off on our own
account, being invited ashore to a meeting of Scout officers of
Plymouth, where a stirring address was given by Mr. Parr, who is chief
of the Wolf Cubs in London. Then there was tea—we were the served, not
servers! It was a thoroughly good blow out, and afterwards a sing-song
worth thinking twice about, though all through the festivities Mooney
and I were being pestered for our autographs in such a fashion as
threatened to give us stiff wrists and swollen heads. Then they took
us round Plymouth in taxi-cabs and showed us the place from which
the _Mayflower_ sailed on a journey that promised to be even more
difficult than ours; yet Mooney and I thought scornful of _Mayflowers_,
as Mulvaney thought scornful of elephants!

Until Saturday we lay at Plymouth. Prior to sailing we embarked two
passengers, one temporary, Mr. Gerald Lysaght, who was invited to
accompany us to Madeira; one permanent, in the shape of a very fine
Alsatian wolf-hound puppy, presented to “The Boss” as a mascot.
“Query,” we called this pup, and, as usual aboard ship, he became
a firm favourite with all hands. So now we were all complete. Mr.
Rowett came down from London to see us off, and he gave us a joyful
dinner. We moved off into the Sound, where our compasses underwent
another careful testing; and as the ship swung round the circle she
was surrounded by such swarms of small boats as seemed impossible of
belief. We were a magnet to draw all water-going Plymouth that day,
believe me. Drake himself never had such a send-off as we had, I swear.

This day was memorable for two reasons. First, the _Quest_ made her
real start on her southward journey; second, I took my first spell
in a ship’s stokehold, not as a spectator, but as a genuine working
member of the black squad! There are some men, I believe, who consider
stokehold work almost a pastime. I didn’t. To learn to become an
efficient stoker you must first acquire the art of coal-trimming.
You go down into bunkers packed tight with coal, breathless caves
below the waterline, where the stench of bilge is thick and clogging,
and you shift coal to within easy reach of the men who are tending
the fires. You breathe coal dust and you absorb coal dust at every
pore. In a little while, if you persevere, you actually begin to
_think_ coal dust—it’s everywhere. Coal is a very fine thing in its
proper place—and that is on a fire—but the getting of it to the fire
is an overrated sport. Coal dust as food leaves much to be desired;
my mouth was full of it; so were my eyes and my ears and my hair
and my nose and my lungs. Still, they say that ship’s firemen are a
healthy race, so there must be _some_ good in coal dust after all.
But, having shovelled and breathed and eaten sufficient of the black
and unpalatable stuff, I was deemed qualified to serve the fires, and
contrived to get on well enough for a beginner, though the heat was
excellent preparation for a future existence. Not that I’m grumbling,
observe; I am merely trying to set down my early impressions as they
came to me. I registered a solemn vow during those hours that my
ambition should carry me higher than a steamer’s stokehold, or I’d
know the reason why.

It was during this 12 to 4 engine-room watch of mine that the _Quest_
got properly under way. Her second send-off, and a good one it was.
Plymouth excelled itself that day. An Admiralty tug helped along
the first lap of the journey, a comforting sight, for she was very
much bigger than the _Quest_. Mr. Rowett and Mr. Stenhouse, who had
remained aboard till the last possible minute, now left us with cordial
farewells that made one feel uncommonly lumpy about the throat, and
all hands manned ship to reply. We gave them our fiendish war-cry,
its “music” devised, I think, by Captain Worsley: “Yoicks, tally-ho!”
and gave it them again and again, until our throats were sore. Then
quite suddenly, so it seemed, we were all alone, trudging down-Channel
through a perfect evening, with a sea as smooth as polished glass,
and busy porpoises welcoming us to the glory of deep water. And so,
with the English land dimming into the evening mist, we were really
up and away at last.




CHAPTER III

The Voyage Begins


There was a great deal to be done before settling down, however. The
ship was so deep-laden with stores and equipment that every precaution
was necessary in the event of our meeting bad weather. Our decks were
still littered with every imaginable object under the sun. Lifeboats
were crammed with supplies; ropes in coils, ropes in flakes, canvas
in bolts, innumerable gadgets connected with science, art and the
human stomach filled the planking. So it was “Lash up and stow” with
a vengeance; for all this clutter had to be brought within reasonable
bounds of safety, and until this was done steady rest was out of
the question. My chief concern, I found, was to keep out of the way
of more skilled seamen than myself. I was uncommonly willing, but a
trifle lacking in ability, like the Irishman who tried to sound the
depth of water in the ship’s boilers by dropping a stone down the
funnel at the end of a rope!

At midnight I went down to the stokehold again for another watch
amongst the coal dust. They told me that the ship had been literally
bombarded with wireless wishes from our countless friends. But for
the coal dust I should have been as happy as a sandboy; but you can’t
have everything, even when you’re Antarctic-bound.

In the morning we saw the last of England, or rather the foam that
guards old England, for the big seas breaking on the Scilly Isles and
the Bishop Rock practically hid them from view. As a fair wind was
blowing we stretched our canvas, and I tried to familiarize myself
with the mysteries of a sailing-ship. I decided that I had a lot to
learn that even scouting hadn’t taught me. Ropes are queer things;
they always seem to turn up where least expected; they always foul
something just when they are most needed. Try for the first time to
coil down a split-new rope that hasn’t had its kinks taken out, and
you’ll understand what I mean.

I should like to draw a thick veil over what happened next. But even a
Scout, selected for such an eventful experience as this, must bow his
head to certain circumstances. Perhaps Neptune didn’t quite understand
how important an individual I was. At all events, the smell of the
engine-room when next I went on watch at noon began to be afflicting.
It hadn’t been attar of roses before, but now——! They said it was
because the _Quest_ was so deep-laden that she rolled so much, but
I wasn’t concerned so much with causes as with effects. Those rolls
seemed unending. At first I was afraid the ship would sink; later I
was afraid she wouldn’t!

More seasoned men—I wonder why seasickness is always considered
amusing?—advised various remedies. To drink hot salt water steadily
was one; to swallow salt pork at the end of a string was another.
The best remedy proposed was hard work, so I clenched my teeth and
resolved to stick it out. I had to be one up on Mooney, who had thrown
up the sponge by now, as well as practically everything else. I will
draw the veil.

Yet even when seasick it was possible to realize something of the
splendour of the sea. Big ships went past, thrusting white water
grandly before their bows, with gay-coloured bunting streaming from
their spans to wish us the best of fortune. A noble windjammer, clothed
in shimmering canvas from truck to rail, overhauled us, leaning to
the strenuous breeze, with the dark shadows playing mysteriously in
her bulging canvas and the foam flicking over her catheads. I was
one of that goodly brotherhood, even though a sick one. It was my
right to laugh at the whipping white-caps, though I hardly felt like
laughing at anything. Never mind! Nelson was sick every time he left
port, so who was I to complain?

At midnight I went down below again and got to work, though my stoking
would not have won a prize. Since no one likes to admit that Neptune
has beaten him, I deluded myself into believing that I had caught a
chill by sitting in the cold air on deck after the stifling heat of
the stokehold. Any excuse serves a victim to _mal de mer_! Then, too,
there was the question of sea-legs. There were so many things to fall
against, and most of them were either very hot or very sharp. The
things one tried to grab when the ship took one of her soul-shifting
rolls floated away out of reach; the floors were mostly on end, so
that, without exaggerating, I decided that death could hold no greater
terrors. Limp and sore and miserable, I found it difficult to stick it
out through the watch; but by assuring myself that it wasn’t really
seasickness at all so much as that chill, I managed it, and crawled
bunkwards feeling several times more dead than alive. No doubt I
could have succumbed, thrown up the sponge, and let the unkindly sea
have its way with me; but already, short as had been my sea service,
I was beginning to learn the deep-water lesson that aboard a small
ship every man counts, and that if one man shirks his job that same
job must be divided amongst others who already have enough to do.

In my bunk I lay for eight forlorn hours, and then it was up again
and down to that pestiferous stokehold, where the same programme was
gone through. I told myself that I wasn’t the only victim; others
were perhaps even more miserable than myself. And here’s a curious
fact: if you think that it helps you to carry on. Queer, I admit, but
it does. You have a sort of pride in your own powers of resistance.
It gives you something to think of; and as they tell you that _mal
de mer_ is more a mental ailment than a physical, your mind can’t
concentrate quite so closely on its own woes. That’s my opinion,
anyhow, whatever others may think.

About now all available hands took part in coal trimming, and my
labours were consequently lightened. Scout Mooney was clean out of
the running, suffering ten times as much as I was. And then, by way
of a bracer, came a welcome change in work. Instead of shovelling
coal I was set on to scrubbing and cleaning, part of every ship’s
everlasting programme. Inside and outside I scrubbed the engine-room,
and like the First Lord of the Admiralty in the play: “I scrubbed that
engine-room so thoughtfully that soon I was”—well, not the ruler of
any navee, but at least granted the boon of joining the deck squad
and ordered to take my first trick at the helm, from eight o’clock
at night. After a bit of instruction they handed the wheel over to
me, and I had the ship between my own two hands. That was something
worth while. I counted in the scheme of things. The wind had dropped
somewhat and the ship’s motion was easier. The topsail was furled, and
I found that once I’d got the hang of things steering was enjoyable.
A ship is as responsive to her helm as a horse is to its bit. You
can do practically anything you like with her. And the clean, strong
air up there cleansed me more than I can tell; the shuddering misery
of seasickness lessened. I had the ship to watch and to learn to
understand; she was given to little restive tricks that had to be
guarded against; and when your mind is so closely occupied, your own
woes diminish amazingly.

It was a quiet, placid night, very enjoyable, with the ship noises
joining together into a chorus that was rather thrilling. Ropes flapped
in the wind, for all the world like distant drums calling to action.
The gently parted water gurgled past our sides and seemed to chuckle
a welcome to the _Quest_. Mysterious lights loomed up through the
growing haze—red, white and green. The magic of the sea was closing
its grip on me, and I took that strumming as applying to myself. It
was my battle call.

During the rest of the night—I got to my bunk at midnight—we ran
down into fine weather. Coming on deck at eight in the morning, I
saw a bluer sea than I’d ever seen. It was wonderful, beautiful, and
the air was caressingly warm. The wide horizon was flawless, there
was never a cloud in the serene blue sky. Everyone’s spirits vastly
improved; there was laughter and the hearty note of a high endeavour
in the voices of nearly all hands. Because the wind had dropped,
all sail had been taken in, and the ship was proceeding under steam
alone, and, I fear, not making much of a job of it. At her best the
_Quest_ was no ocean greyhound. The top speed we were able to make
under engines alone was about five and a half knots an hour—a little
quicker than we could have walked! But, judging by the stern pounding
of the engines below, we might have been breaking records.

I was standing the morning watch, 8 to 12, the watch when most of the
ship-work is done; and always there is a lot, even in a little ship.
Before I trod a deck-plank I had a notion that being at sea consisted
for the most part in sprucely pacing the decks and pointing a telescope
at the horizon, hoisting my slacks and singing thrilling sea chanties.
The reality was very different. Apart altogether from taking a regular
trick at the wheel—the easiest part of seafaring in many ways—there
are look outs to be kept, decks to be washed—if the ship is going
down you give a final scrub to her planks, remember!—paintwork to
be wiped over, sails to be loosed and set and furled and overhauled;
old ropes to be spliced, whipped and served; new ropes to be coiled
and recoiled and trailed out astern in order to remove the annoying
kinks that take up so much space on a crowded deck; the cook demands
assistance, there are always errands to go, and so the time slips by
so rapidly that almost as soon as a watch begins it is ended. Then
you go below, where you are at liberty to do what you like—in reason.
Your time is more or less your own, and it is wonderful how many odd
jobs you can find to occupy that time. Of course, you sleep a lot;
that’s the sailor’s favourite recreation, according to my way of
thinking. Sleep aboard ship is a very sacred thing; you never disturb
a slumberer unnecessarily.

But apart from sleep you’ve got innumerable “chores” to perform in
your own interest. There are your clothes to be washed and mended,
since laundresses don’t form part of an Antarctic ship’s crew;
also, if you are interested in cleanliness, there is yourself to
be kept immaculate, though in none too much fresh water. At first
I didn’t believe it when I was told by one of the crew that he and
seven others had enjoyed a perfectly sumptuous bath apiece in one
half-pannikinful of warm water; but afterwards I quite understood.
They used a shaving-brush!

Keeping a diary, too, always occupies a certain amount of time, and
from the outset of the voyage I kept as faithful a record of the
little happenings of every day as I could. Of course, I missed many of
the most important happenings that were the property of the seniors
of the expedition; but I have hopes that this casual record of the
life we lived may prove of interest to those who have never braved
the frozen South in a 125-ton cockboat.

Already, although only a couple of days out, we seem very remote from
ordinary life. We’re a little self-contained community all on our
own, bound together by the bonds of a common determination, aware of
the dangers and discomforts that await us, but cheerfully resolved—at
least, I was—to make the best of anything that came our way.

I went on watch again at four o’clock—the first “dog.” Good times
and decent health returned: life lost a lot of that brownish-yellow
tinge that had hung at its edges lately. At four a.m. I was roused
out for the “graveyard watch,” turning out into darkness, cold and
reluctant to leave “Blanket Alley.” At daylight I was put on the
general housemaid’s work of the ship: scrubbing decks, polishing
brasses, washing the paint.

A strong breeze was blowing during this watch, and the ship was more
than a little lively. She shipped a little water, too, wetting us
to the skin; but we were all cheerful and there were no complaints.
We were, as the Boss said, shaking down, dovetailing ourselves into
our allotted places and rubbing off the awkward corners, for aboard
a little ship there’s no place for corners.

To-day Captain Worsley, the sailing master, gave me the job of
lamp-trimmer, and in pursuit of my duties I went forward to find some
oil, since even Antarctic lamps won’t burn without fuel. I had just
unlashed a drum and was in the act of opening it, when Sir Ernest
Shackleton, who was near by, gave me a needed lesson in common-sense
sailorizing.

“Don’t try to do too many things on your own until you’ve got the hang
of them,” he said. “If any accident happened and that drum fetched
away, the boatswain would be blamed, because safe stowage is his
job. When you mix in with another man’s job, always remember that he
might have to take blame that’s rightly due to you.” Consequently I
lashed the drum up again; and the Boss, watching closely with those
eyes that always seemed to see everything down to the last little
detail, said: “I see you’ve made it good and fast; but you’ve put on
a slippery hitch. Here’s the right way, and it’s the right way that
counts at sea.” Then he explained carefully how the thing should be
done, and afterwards gave me a lesson in whipping frayed rope-ends.
With all the weight of responsibility he carried on his shoulders,
and all his worries—for he had many—he still found time to interest
himself in an obscure Scout. But he was like that; I think that was
one of the qualities that made him great. The ship was already proving
something of a disappointment to him. Her speed was far short of what
was expected, and there seemed a probability of our reaching the ice
too late; but he still had time and consideration enough to teach me
my job personally.

Of course, with the freshening wind we had set sail again to help
along our insufficient engines. Under her press of canvas the ship
made fairly good weather, but the amount of water she brought aboard
was considerable, and gave the Boss some concern. We were so stacked
and cluttered with important gear that any sea might seriously damage
our equipment. Sir Ernest wondered what was likely to happen when
we got into the Roaring Forties; but even so, when next day we had
to take in sail he was still able to interest himself in my progress
and safety.

In taking in sail it was my lot to help make fast the staysail, and
to do it effectively I got into a somewhat precarious position in
the bows. When I went aft Shackleton called me to him and said: “I
saw you right forrard just now, youngster. I like to see you do it—it
shows zeal; but just remember that a sailor isn’t made in a dog-watch.
I don’t expect you to do that sort of thing until you’ve got your
proper sea-legs.” He was always like that; always considerate of his
people, anxious for their safety and comfort and general well-being.
Then he gave me to understand, without a lot of flapdoodle, that I
wasn’t shaping so badly; and I left him in a glow of satisfaction,
because it is something to please such a leader of men.

We got shortened down in time, but none too soon, because before
very long a real gale, that had got up with astonishing rapidity,
was blowing. In five minutes or thereabouts the ship was rolling
alarmingly, taking such heartful sweeps that I, who knew little of the
capabilities of a ship, wondered how soon she would capsize. She put
her whole soul into that rolling, swinging her yardarms to the water
on either side. White water piled over our rails, and the strumming
and harping of the wind in the stripped spars was awe-inspiring.
Everywhere the sea was whipped to white-capped anger; the sky was
lowering, covered with black-edged clouds; and the rattle of the
hurled spindrift was deafening. You’d never think there could be
so much noise as during a gale at sea. At ten o’clock I went, not
without trepidation, I admit, to take my trick at the wheel; but the
Boss interfered here. I can’t say I was sorry. The ship that in fine
weather seemed friendly and docile under my hands, promised in this
flurry to be more than a bit of a handful. Shackleton told me that
I hadn’t enough experience as yet to handle the _Quest_ in a seaway,
so I got busy with other work.

I dare say that from the deck of a forty-thousand-ton Atlantic liner
this gale might have seemed a trifle, nothing more than a capful of
wind and a very slightly disturbed sea; but seen from the _Quest_
it was an eye-opener. Big seas came cascading over the bows in an
unceasing procession, and at every roll the ship seemed eager to bale
half the Atlantic aboard over her rails. I found this everlasting
erratic movement very tiring; the wind sort of confused one, and
the annoyance at the unending slashing of the sprays was great. To
steady her we tried to set the mizen; but almost as it was sheeted
home there came a ripsnorting squall that split it badly, so all our
work went for nothing. The sail was taken in, and the steadiness that
might have resulted from the weight of wind it could have carried
was denied us.

Officially, this breeze was termed a moderate S.W. gale; at the time
I wondered what a real storm was going to be like. To me the waves
seemed to pile up like mountains, towering high and very high above
us, swinging down towards the shivering hull as if determined to
overwhelm it, only to swing us up and up to a watery, noisy crest,
on which we perched like the Ark on Mount Ararat, to stare down into
vast caverns, veined with milky white and noisy to a degree, until
down we swooped, with a curious, unsettling corkscrew motion that
made one’s middle-part seem like water, to wallow and riot in a very
pit of anger.

Well, later on I was to learn to my satisfaction what a real gale
was. This was only a fleabite; but it served to give us all some idea
of the seaworthy qualities of the gallant little _Quest_.

So lively was the motion that it was an impossibility to pretend to
serve a meal below; the dishes and plates refused to remain on the
tables, in spite of the fiddles and the devices seamen use at sea.
Consequently we were supplied with meat sandwiches on deck, which
we ate as best we could, and counted ourselves lucky if we found
our mouths. In my pride of recovery—for seasickness was now little
but an unpleasant memory—I felt sorry for Mooney. He was having the
thinnest of times, but game to a degree with it all. He tried his best
to overcome the complaint, but it was too much for him; during this
snatch of bad weather he was incapable of stirring hand or foot. He
made no outcry about it, but his face told more than many words could
have done. And there was no comfort to be found for him anywhere; he
simply had to stick it out and make the best of it.

We were making no headway worth speaking of all this time; the wind
was foul, and the lop of the seas undid any useful work the engines
might have done. On account of the slamming and pitching, something
went wrong with those engines; and though, during the afternoon,
the wind lessened and the sea began to smooth itself out rather
agreeably, there was a curious knocking note down in the engine-room
that convinced us all that things were not as they ought to be.

Later this disorder down below became so pronounced that Sir Ernest
Shackleton decided to put into Lisbon for overhaul, even at the cost
of wasted time.

During the night the gale decreased into nothing, and in the morning
the weather was quite decent. Very decent, I called it; but that was
possibly by way of contrast—you have to weather a blow before you
can appreciate good times. Sunday though it was, the ordinary work of
the ship had to be performed, and the grimy disorder resulting from
the gale removed.

We managed to get into wireless touch with Lisbon, and asked that a
tug might be dispatched to help us in our limping progress. We needed
it, for though the weather was growing gloriously fine and the sea
was smooth, we were hardly making headway. A tug was promised, and
we began to look forward to the joys of the land.

When I went on deck at midnight to stand the middle watch, the lights
of the Portuguese coast were already invitingly in sight. Sir Ernest
Shackleton was in charge, peering anxiously ahead. The Portuguese
coast is not a particularly friendly one, especially at night, for
the Burlings are an awkward reef, on which many a good ship has come
to disaster. At the wheel I was constantly busy, obeying orders to
alter course as this light and that hove in sight. To me there was
a fascination in this creeping through the night that is hard to
describe. But by two o’clock the Boss decided that I had had enough of
it, and sent me below to prepare some food, whilst Mr. Lysaght took
my place at the helm. At four o’clock I answered the frantic call of
my bunk and lost all interest in everything for four gorgeous hours.

Turning out again, with a thrill of expectancy, I found the ship some
two miles off the coast. Because of the clearness of the atmosphere I
got a very good view of Portugal, which from the sea is very beautiful
and quaint. The land rose steeply out of the placid, colourful
sea, and the green slopes were plentifully dotted with red-roofed,
whitewashed houses. A bright sun bathed the picture radiantly, and
the discomforts of the recent storm were immediately forgotten. Here
was something new, something foreign to occupy attention; now it was
a cluster of smiling houses, again it was a frowning castle perched
high on a mighty peak. We crawled along at slow speed, envying—oh,
how we envied!—the big, powerful liners that steamed vigorously
past; all of which, recognizing in the little, dishevelled cockboat a
ship that was to fare farther and see greater marvels than they had
ever seen, signalled us greetings. An enormous P. and O. boat came
charging up, ran so close alongside us that we swung and cavorted
in her wash like a dinghy, and, with bright bunting slatting from
her span, raced out of sight ahead. She could have carried us on her
deck with the greatest ease, yet we flattered ourselves that we were
proper sailormen and not merely steamboaters!

Watching the shifting panorama of the coast was not the only
occupation, however. The ship, in preparation for her visit to
civilization and the far from remote possibility of her again
becoming a show-ship, must needs undergo her spring-cleaning; and so
sougee-mougee became the order of the day. Everything washable was
washed, until we shone from stem to stern; and the deck-hamper was
shifted so as to present some appearance of tidiness. But at noon
we got a wireless from Lisbon to say that the ordered tug found it
impossible to face the short, steep seas that were then running, and
consequently we crawled into Cascaes roadstead, at the mouth of the
Tagus, and anchored there on the advice of the pilot who boarded us.
Portuguese pilots like their comforts, I think, and cordially dislike
night navigation; but this one found little to his liking on board
the _Quest_. If the ship was uncomfortable in open water in any sort
of a sea, she was doubly so at anchor, for instead of being permitted
her free, even rolling, every time she started one the anchor-cable
fetched her up with a short, agonizing jerk that seemed to lift a
man’s spine up through his skull and threatened to throw him clean
out of his bunk. So little did our gallant Portuguese pilot like this
motion that he found a means to secure a tug, and at eleven o’clock
we were piloted into quieter water in the river’s mouth; after which
we got what was really the first decent rest since leaving the mouth
of the Channel.

That was a good sleep; the only trouble was that it was far too short.
At 6.30 in the morning we got up our anchor, and, escorted by the tug,
moved serenely up the Tagus. A very fine panorama of Lisbon unfolded
itself as we progressed. Backing the general view was the high-thrown
Pena Palace, where ex-King Manoel fled to join his mother during the
revolution; almost alongside it was the old Moorish castle built in
days when the Antarctic was unknown to human ken.

Lisbon being built on several hills, the streets are consequently
steep for the most part. Most of the buildings are white, with red
roofs, showing up finely against a background of olive-green; and the
general effect is one of almost Oriental quaintness. But over the city
there hangs an atmosphere of forlornness and decay, as though this
place, from which set sail explorers as intrepid as those contained in
the _Quest_, in search of unknown lands, had Ichabod written largely
across its clustered roofs.

At nine o’clock we made fast to a buoy, about which the muddy waters
of the Tagus swirled greedily, whilst a suitable berth was found for
us. Lying there, bathed in sunshine, almost oppressed by the warmth,
we indulged in the glory of a bathe, a privilege which, after long
abstinence, must be experienced to be appreciated. All the caked
salt of our voyaging was washed away, our pores were given a chance;
and the ensuing sensation of vigour and well-being was almost too
delightful for description. In the late afternoon we were taken in
hand by fussy tugs and punted and hauled and wedged into our berth.
During all the working hours of this day I was on duty with Green,
the cook, an enterprising man who thoroughly revelled in his job.
His ability to contrive and make shift was remarkable; and there
were those aboard the _Quest_ who solemnly vowed their belief that,
given an ancient pair of sea-boots, Green could serve up a dinner
that would leave the Ritz or the Carlton amongst the “also rans.”

On this night we began to understand wherein we differed from the
Elizabethan voyagers. Times have altered since Francis Drake set
forth from England with a high heart and an abounding ignorance,
intent on discovering a short cut to India. Such entertainment as his
ships were provided with was meagre; musical instruments for the most
part. This, our first night in Lisbon, was enlivened by a remarkable
cinema exhibition in the ward-room. Not that we were given hectic
Wild West pictures; we were shown our own hazards during the gale
of October 1—realistic pictures enough, taken on the spot without
any suggestion of faking, and developed and completed aboard. Not a
few of us, seeing how the _Quest_ looked to the camera, came to the
conclusion that we were bigger heroes than we really were, for the
seas appeared so enormous that it was a miracle to us to know how
our ship remained afloat. One thing is certain: had I seen those
pictures before sending in my application to join the expedition,
that application would never have been written. Even the blood of
an enthusiastic Scout turned cold at thought of the dangers he had
passed! But it all gave us confidence in our floating home when we
saw how doggedly she met the big grey seas and trudged resolutely
forward on her southward way.

Amongst white seafarers the word Dago stands for mild dishonesty.
With a genuine thrill, as one tasting the real salt of adventure, I
heard the order given for the night-watchman to arm himself in order
that the countless valuables aboard the _Quest_ might be properly
safeguarded; and with a big revolver bulging his pocket the selected
man took up his duties, whilst we, more fortunate, went below and
coiled down for the sweet delight of an all-night-in.




CHAPTER IV

Lisbon to Madeira


Our stay in Lisbon was prolonged by reason of the engine-room defects.
No wonder the engines had knocked; the shaft was found to be badly
out of alignment. As a natural consequence the bearings heated, and
this, coupled with the fact that the high-pressure connecting-rod was
bent, accounted for all our woes. The work of repair was set in hand
at once, and our people began to readjust the ship’s stores in order
to make her more weatherly, having learnt much during the passage
out across the Bay.

Certain alterations in the ship’s rig were also put in hand; but as
all work and no play makes Jack but a dull boy, in the afternoon of
this first real day in Lisbon certain of us went ashore to see the
sights, including a bull-fight. We forgathered at a café, and from
there were motored to the bull-ring. Looking back on the past, I
have come to the conclusion that I would sooner go ten times to the
Antarctic than take one motor ride in Lisbon. Their motor-drivers
seem to run mad immediately the engines begin to revolve. In Lisbon,
so far as I could see, there is neither rule of the road nor speed
limit. The streets are blocked, for the best part, by slow-moving
bullock-carts, three, four and even five abreast. Through this welter
of sluggish traffic the cars charge like six-inch shells; and if the
road isn’t wide enough they use the pavement. Our driver performed
motoring miracles, and I firmly believe that if the pavements had not
helped him he would have climbed the sides of the buildings along the
way. You’d think it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye
of a needle than for a high-powered motor to navigate the streets of
Lisbon, but our driver did it without turning a hair, and deserved
a V.C. every minute of the time he was driving. Of course, accidents
happen, and the tale of dead dogs must be enormous. If our driver so
much as saw a dog he let out a yell and charged straight for it, and
lucky was that dog if it escaped. As for the ordinary, unconsidered
pedestrian, he never troubles to look round when a motor-horn blows—he
just jumps for it; up a convenient lamp-post if necessary, and then
shouts thankfulness to all the saints for safe delivery from the
perils of the streets.

A Portuguese bull-fight is not quite so bloodthirsty as those held in
the neighbouring land of Spain. In Spain the main idea is to get the
bull killed, after suitable tortures have been inflicted; in Portugal
the bull’s horns are padded thickly at the tips, and the principal
scheme seems to be to show the agility of the bullfighters.

As soon as the bull, always a magnificent animal, is admitted into the
ring he is annoyed and excited by the waving of gaudily-coloured cloaks
and flags. Being only a bull and not a philosopher, he naturally gets
angry and promptly puts his head down and goes for his tormentors,
who, after risking as much as they dare, leap over the barricades
into safety. These cloak-wavers are merely pawns in the game; for all
the time they are busy the genuine hero of the hour is in the ring,
either afoot or on horseback, showing himself off to an admiring
audience. A successful bull-fighter on the Tagus is a very much more
important personage than the captain of a Cup Final team or a hero
who has knocked up a couple of centuries in a county cricket match.

Presently the bull gets angrier—very angry indeed. His bovine nature
impels him to cast about for something on which to wreak his spite.
I don’t blame the bull. Even a Scout would be annoyed if a crowd
of yelling idiots waved coloured blankets in his face for half an
hour at a stretch! Seeing the idol of the audience proudly prancing
about, the bull quite naturally lowers his head and goes for him.
Here’s where the sport begins. The bull-fighter, with a twirl of his
moustache and a sort of hand-kiss to the ladies, promptly retreats
and turns, and as the bull slithers past he plants a dart in his
hide. It is a sign of skill and daring to get that dart as near the
animal’s head as possible. As soon as it is embedded in the skin the
bull-fighter, in case anyone didn’t see him, unfurls a paper flag
and waves it exultantly in the air. Then the people cheer and the
ladies kiss their hands, and the temporary hero bows and smiles and
pretends that he is the identical man who won the Great War. Then he
goes to get another dart; a shorter one this time. The shorter the
dart you plant in the unfortunate bull’s neck the greater the glory
that comes your way, it seems. True enough, it is a sign of agility
and courage, even though the bull’s horns are padded; and to hear
the spectators cheer you’d think it was what the Americans call “the
cat’s pyjamas.” To my way of thinking, though, football is streets
ahead of bull-fighting for downright thrills.

If the toreador happens to be dismounted, he is given even shorter
darts than if he were mounted. The footman’s weapons carry no paper
flags, and he usually sticks them in two at a time, because he’s only
got two hands, I suppose. It must require a bit of nerve to do it,
even though it doesn’t quite come up to a Britisher’s idea of sport.
The bull charges like an avalanche, and I fancy, from the ring, must
look about as big as a landslide. He looked gigantic from where we
sat, with the wine sellers offering us heady Portuguese drinks every
time we breathed; and to the toreador that bull must have seemed as
enormous as the P. and O. boat did to the little _Quest_ outside the
Tagus. I held my breath more than once during those charges, I assure
you, for I was certain the bull-fighter was going to be smashed to
smithereens; but just at the critical moment the man stepped aside,
took a short run, plunged in his two darts fairly into the back of
the animal’s neck, and got clear before he bellowed and turned. Yes,
it was very dexterous indeed; but it didn’t please the bull. He swung
about, scuffling the sand and roaring, and the toreador streaked for
the barricade like greased lightning.

Another took his place and did the same thing. Instead of trying to
knock up a century in Portugal you try to plant a dart shorter than
any other dart in the back of a mad bull’s neck! And you go on doing
it until the bull begins to look like an animated pincushion. If
Stephenson’s first locomotive was “bad for the coo,” bull-fighting
must be very bad for the bull!

Folks tire of this exhibition, so presently a whole crowd of
funny-looking fellows in red and yellow are let into the ring. One
of these steps forward as if he intended to be properly introduced
to the bull; whereupon the bull promptly goes for him, because he
thinks he’s responsible for the pain he is suffering. But the man
of the moment leaps fairly between the lowered horns, gets one of
them under each armpit, and then starts a wrestling match with his
four-footed opponent. His object is to throw the bull, and to do so
requires more skill than most of them possess. There’s the indignant
bovine doing its best to throw the man off and stamp him or gore him
to death; there’s the red-faced man working as hard as you like to
pitch the bull over on his side. It seemed rather a waste of energy
to me, but it is the national sport down there, and we Britons must
live and let live. Anyhow, this wrestling was uncommonly exciting.
It would have been even more so if the bull’s horns hadn’t been padded.

Not that the sport is as bloodthirsty as might appear from the
foregoing description. The darts which are employed have only very
tiny barbs, not much bigger than fish-hooks, intended merely to pierce
the skin and not draw blood. And the bull is not killed, as I’ve
said; it is simply baited. All the same, my sympathies were with the
bulls all along. Get about fifty fish-hooks stuck through your skin
and you’ll understand what I mean.

Those of our party who had seen genuine Spanish bull-fights, where
the bull’s horns are not padded, said this show was only a mild
imitation of the real thing. In Spain the horses—shocking screws,
taken out of the trams after they’re used up—are gored savagely, and
when they scream with pain they are spurred and lifted clean on to
the murderous horns for another dose of the same medicine. Sometimes
even the toreadors and matadors and picadors get gored in their turn.
I won’t say “Serve them right,” but it’s my own affair what I think.

We _Quests_ kept our end up so far as cheering was concerned. Whenever
anything really exciting occurred we got up and yelled our famous
war-cry of “Yoicks! Tally-ho!” which naturally aroused interest and
amusement amongst the general run of the spectators, who got to their
feet and cheered back at us very heartily, and no doubt described
us to their friends at a later hour as “Those mad English!” This
bull-fight was particularly honoured by the presence of the President
of Portugal. I’ll say it was an unusual day, very different from an
average day in England!

Naturally enough, during our stay in Portugal we were swarmed with
visitors. The British and American Ministers were shown over the
_Quest_ by our leader. Like the sight-seers in London and Plymouth,
these visitors seemed to imagine we had joined a sort of suicide
club; they were astonished at the tiny proportions of the ship and
expressed grave doubts as to her future safety.

The day after the bull-fight was nothing out of the common. I was
detailed for galley duty with the cook, who was now revelling in still
waters, a stove that would burn, and grub that a man could take a
pride in cooking. In the evening I went ashore with some Portuguese
Scouts, who insisted on giving Mooney and myself a truly top-hole
welcome. That’s what Scouting does—it makes you firm friends wherever
you go. But being a Scout, and especially a kilted Scout, makes you
a bit too conspicuous, so I shed my uniform whenever possible and
tried to pass along with the crowd. All the same, the Lisbon Scouts
were good pals and showed us all the sights of the place. In return
we showed them the sights of the _Quest_ and got the debt squared in
some measure. They were keenly interested, and there were so many of
them that we could have filled in all our time in explaining things
to them in such language as Scouts can understand.

The ship during these days was a hive of activity, for the repairing
gangs were extremely hard at work straightening the shaft and refitting
generally.

There was so much to be done by all hands that time went by very
quickly during this halt on our voyage, but beyond bull-fighting and
sight-seeing there was nothing extraordinary to recount. I missed
the trip to Cintra, being busily engaged in work, but those who went
told me the view from the Pena Palace was rather gorgeous. Everything
is left exactly as it was when ex-King Manoel had to seek fresh
pastures; even the papers of that day are still lying on the tables;
and the view from the palace top is superb. You can see all Portugal
lying as a map at your feet, they said. But the horses that tug you
up the final steep of the mountain make you gnash your teeth with
sympathetic rage, they are so overdriven and half-starved and brutally
ill-treated. It’s queer how few people beyond Britishers know how to
treat a horse!

On Monday, the 10th of October, we left our berth, repairs having been
completed, and made fast to a buoy in the stream. Here we restocked
our tanks with fresh water, and made such final preparations as were
necessary for a continuation of the voyage; and after all hands were
well worked up we had another cinema show in the evening, and then
turned in for the last long night’s sleep for a little while. Just
after lunch on the 11th we left Lisbon.

I’d prided myself on overcoming the woes of seasickness before we
reached the Tagus, but, alas! I boasted too soon. Once outside the
river we hit up against a nasty kind of a sea, worse than anything we’d
hitherto experienced, I think; so the old familiar qualms possessed
me more vindictively than ever. But I had the poor satisfaction of
knowing that others were in as bad case as myself, for very few of
the crew escaped on this occasion. They blamed the smallness of the
ship and her pronounced lack of comfortable accommodation. Maybe it
was so. I wasn’t in a mood to argue, anyhow. So ill were Mooney and
Mason that Sir Ernest Shackleton reluctantly decided that, failing
an improvement, they would have to leave the ship at Madeira. So far
as I was concerned, I think the Boss was quietly giving me a thorough
“trying-out” to see if I could endure the still greater rigours that
were promised us farther south; for I was set to work very hard—with
the cook, stowing stores, in the stokehold, everywhere. It wasn’t
pleasant, but I wasn’t going to let the Scouts down if I could help
it, so I gritted my teeth and went at it for all I was worth. Praise
was not too lavishly bestowed by Sir Ernest Shackleton, because his
own standard of efficiency was so high that a man had to be pretty
good even to be tolerated; but as he seemed pleased with the way I
was carrying on I was satisfied.

There’s one thing about the sea, I find—it either makes you or breaks
you. You get salted through and through, and in some cases it toughens
you, whilst in others it rots all your pluck away and makes you feel
you’d like to live in the very middle of the Sahara desert and never
see salt water again in your life.

But during the passage from Lisbon to Madeira I didn’t feel like
keeping a very exhaustive diary. Anyhow, there was nothing exciting
to recount, for the weather wasn’t alarmingly bad; it was only the
vicious run of the seas that made the little vessel so lively.

On the 15th, however, we had a reward in a brilliantly fine day, with
smooth water and not much wind, and this brightened the spirits of
all aboard, though Mooney and Mason still continued under the weather
and longed for the peace of dry land.

Notwithstanding the exhaustive overhaul we’d been given at Lisbon,
the engines developed trouble once more; the knocking began again,
and it seemed as though the days spent in Portugal were completely
wasted. Madeira promised to be another welter of refitting.

During this stage of the voyage Major Carr and Captain Hussey started
in with meteorological experiments, sending up kites and balloons
for observations of the upper air for the first time.

When I came on deck on the morning of Sunday, October 16, I got my
first sight of Madeira, and that glimpse of beauty seemed to atone
for all previous discomforts. Madeira is a beautiful island, with its
rich vineyards, its noble gorge of the Wolf that literally splits the
island in two halves; its typical semi-tropical houses, with red roofs
and blue or white walls and vividly painted shutters to keep out the
fierce noontide heat. The clarity of the atmosphere is so remarkable
here—indeed, I believe it is the clearest in the world—that you feel
you could toss a biscuit ashore even when you are miles away. We
came to anchor in Funchal Harbour, about a hundred yards from the
shore, and breathed deep sighs of relief as the fretful motion of the
_Quest_ ceased and she lay once more upon an even keel. We promptly
went overboard for a bathe in that amazingly clear water.

The day after our arrival Mooney and Mr. Mason left the _Quest_ for
home. I know it was with the greatest reluctance that Sir Ernest
parted from them; but both had been very ill during the entire trip,
and Mr. Mason had, indeed, been seriously ill, developing a high
temperature and alarming symptoms. Both were loth to go; their natural
grit prompted them to remain and stick it out to the bitter end. They
made no unseemly fuss about their tribulations; but things promised
to be worse rather than better as the voyage progressed, and it was in
their own interests that they were relieved from further suffering. I
know how elated I felt that I’d been better favoured by fortune, so
I think I know how depressed they must have been. Poor Mooney was a
full-sized brick throughout; he showed all the best characteristics
of the best sort of Scout, and there was not the slightest fault
attaching to him in his inability to endure the rigours. But knowing
that the whole weight of Scout responsibility rested on my shoulders
was rather a startling realization. Still, I was managing to get
hardened by this time, and I hoped for the best.

This afternoon the cook and myself went ashore, on shopping bent.
Our principal desire was to find fruit, which shouldn’t have been a
difficult matter in an island famous for its fruits; but somehow we
contrived to lose our bearings and wandered into the filthiest parts
of the town—and Funchal can be very filthy in places. We managed to
count at least one hundred and thirty-five different smells—Green
said there were two hundred and fifty, but perhaps he exaggerated—but
all were vile. Every alley corner we passed, every open window,
discharged its fresh offensive; and we seemed to walk for miles and
uncounted miles before eventually we touched down in the market. There
we ordered what we needed, and afterwards went on to see the sights.

Madeira is interesting. Its foreign note is very marked, for here the
foliage is definitely approaching the tropical; hibiscus flowers are
everywhere in the greatest profusion, and the vivid crimson poinsettias
strike a warm and enlivening note. Huge clusters of wonderful blooms
met our gaze at every turn, and drew our attention from the little
cobblestones of the streets, which are uncommonly hard to walk upon.

There were not very many wheeled conveyances visible, for the island
doesn’t lend itself to them overmuch; the few motors we saw were
ancient and honourable members of the fraternity. The principal
means of conveyance are the bullock-cars—wooden sledges, drawn by
bulls, fine, big, sleek animals, though very leisurely in all their
movements. One sees these cars going everywhere about the streets
on well-greased runners. Some of the cars are very tastefully got up
and drawn by bullocks as white as snow; and the motion when one gets
inside is far from unpleasant. Of course, the streets are so rutted
and worn in Funchal that ordinary wheels would soon come to grief;
but the long sledge-runners sort of bridge the worst of the holes,
as a big liner crosses from wave-crest to wave-crest without diving
too deeply into the troughs, and consequently you don’t realize how
ill-kept the roads really are.

As practically all Funchal is built on the side of a hill, you may be
sure the streets are steep. We didn’t try to climb them unnecessarily,
but contented ourselves with standing at the bottom and looking up, a
much more restful occupation than working to the top and looking down.
Then we had tea, where they apologized for a little meal with a big,
an astoundingly big, bill. Still, although the little cakes they gave
us were evidently relics of the ancient Portuguese travellers, the
tea was wet and damped the dry, sawdust-like confectionery excellently.

A lot of sugar-cane grows in Madeira, and the sight of the groves is
very pleasant. And all amongst the soft green of the young canes you
see those marvellous splashes of colour from the poinsettias and the
hibiscus, so that your brain, refusing to take in the full effect,
perceives only a blur. They told us that the roads and paths between
the groves were constructed by Portuguese convicts, and we believed
them. Honest men could never have made such fiendish roads!

In the evening we were invited as guests to the mess of the Western
Telegraph Company, who have a cable station here and who publish
the only newspaper in English on the island. Our hosts were very
cordial and did us nobly; they apologized for the general atmosphere
of poverty that characterizes the island by saying that the Lisbon
Government taxes everyone so heavily for Portugal’s good, that when
the taxes are paid there’s nothing left for home improvements.




CHAPTER V

Experiences Afloat


Next day we hove up anchor and started off for Cape Verde. You’d
hardly think a small ship so full of men could feel lonely, but the
_Quest_ seemed to me to miss our late shipmates. We still carried
our passenger, however—Mr. Lysaght, who had intended to leave us at
Madeira, but who was so well liked aboard that he was persuaded to
stay on a little longer. Immediately on leaving Madeira we picked up
the fine north-east trades, and with every stitch of canvas we could
carry, bowled along nobly toward the South.

No doubt many interesting things happened aboard that never came
under my immediate notice, though you might think it was impossible
for anything to transpire within such narrow confines as those of the
_Quest_ without all hands immediately securing the fullest information;
but other better qualified pens than mine have dealt with them. I
am trying to give my own impression of this astonishing voyage as
it appealed to me: a raw landlubber and a somewhat young one. And
I suppose that to a mole, its own burrow is of much more importance
than even a European war.

What chiefly concerned me about this time was the cook’s mishap. Prior
to leaving Funchal, Green had run a fishbone into his hand, causing
him considerable pain, and rendering him useless during the rest of
the day; but with true pertinacity he stuck it out until the morrow
found his hand in a much worse condition; whereupon Mr. Douglas, our
geologist, volunteered to replace him in the galley. For, although all
hands had specific duties allotted to them as regards the expedition
proper—that is: one was meteorologist, another geologist, another
flying-man, and so on, when not actually engaged in scientific duties,
all took part and lot with the general crew. There was a good deal
of the Drake spirit about our leader: “I should not care to see the
gentleman who would refuse to hale and draw with the mariners” was
one of his mottoes, and so—the geologist became acting “Doctor,”
and celebrated his appointment by heaving the disabled cook from his
sanctum sanctorum, as, being a new broom, he wanted to make a clean
sweep. Let’s say Green’s hand recovered rapidly; we won’t blame the
breakfast; but at all events, Green returned to duty after that meal
was served, and so a possible mutiny was averted!

Beyond washing my clothes, this was about the only incident of the
day. Next day brought us sight of a noble Royal Mail boat snorting
magnificently along; and those who watched her regaled themselves
with moving accounts of the comforts and luxuries to be had aboard. As
Mr. Mason, our original cinema photographer, had returned to England,
Mr. Wilkins, the naturalist, deputized for him, and managed to secure
some very good shots at the moving monster. Daily duties, necessary
and time-absorbing, filled in the hours not unpleasantly, and the
usual even glide of day and night set in after its break in port.
There is no way of eating time so thoroughly as by keeping regular
watch-and-watch at sea: days slip into weeks, weeks into months, so
very smoothly as to be well-nigh imperceptible.

The summery weather conditions now necessitated something of a
change in our regular mode of life. The little wardroom, snug and
warm farther north, was growing unpleasantly stuffy; and the scorch
of the sun on the decks did nothing to mend matters. Consequently,
awnings were rigged on the poop, and meals were served beneath it
in alfresco fashion; a welcome change from the tinned atmosphere
of down below. So genial were the weather conditions that I felt
it incumbent upon me to celebrate the occasion, which I did to the
extent of a much-needed shave: the first for ten clear days; though
the private opinion of some aboard, I believe, was that I was growing
unnecessarily dandified! Others thanked me politely and vowed that
I had raised the water-line of the ship by a full two inches, thus
guaranteeing her seaworthiness if further bad weather came our way.

We began, now, to use the deck much more than down below; it was not
only our messroom and our music-room, but also our bedroom. Even the
gramophone seemed to appreciate the change to open air, for it did
its noblest this evening under the awning, when Shackleton’s favourite
airs were played all through and a spirit of mirth and cheer animated
all hands. Excellent amity prevailed: we were shaking down into our
places, fitting ourselves into corners, and determined to make the
best of these present good times in preparation for the prophesied
bad times ahead.

Turning-in on deck was an enjoyable experience: free air blowing
about your face makes for enjoyable rest; and it is possible, lying
under open sky, to study and marvel over the radiant glory of the
stars. There are no stars like those of the tropical skies; they are
bigger and brighter than seen in English skies, and seem not so much
to be set flat on a board as arranged in proper perspective. Why
anyone should frowst below decks when there is room above, I fail to
understand. Query, the wolf-hound, shared my opinion, for he slept
at my head all night and aroused me at daybreak by licking my face.
He showed promise of growing into a fine dog, and was already a good
friend to all aboard. You’ve simply _got_ to make a pet of something
at sea; and you are lucky if you are given so excellent an object
for your affections as was Query.

Fine weather at sea means—so I was told by those more experienced than
myself—an orgy of painting. The craze bit the ship’s company now,
and some wonderful decorative effects resulted. And the weather was
really fine—sunny sky, sea like glass, and never an awkward movement
to the ship, save for the long, even swell that was more like a steady
breathing of the ocean than an actual heave.

But lest too much fresh, sweet air should harm us and increase our
appetites beyond all reason, it was decided that now was the day and
hour to trim bunkers; so all hands turned to to chew coal-dust. The
engines were stopped and all sail was set. Once more our mechanical
heart was showing symptoms of valvular disease; and the engineer was
loudly of opinion that only extensive repairs and alterations could
save the situation. During the day the breeze freshened somewhat, so
that the good, clean rustling of the distended canvas sang a note
of striving; but fair though the breeze was, we made indifferent
headway; and in the evening the engines were started up once more.
It appeared as if the ship was annoyed at this interference with her
placid progress; for the first turn of the screw caused the hull to
give such a fiendish lurch that the entire galley did its best to
turn a somersault and capsized, spilling everything worth while over
the deck. A big can of boiling cocoa plentifully bathed the cook’s
legs; a tin of melted fat smothered the floor; and for an hour we
were as fully employed as we had any desire to be. Cooling fat leaves
much to be desired in the handling; and I was glad that I was over
my seasickness! All that troubled me now was toothache, and that was
getting better. But we mopped up the débris and scoured everything
white again, and turned in with the sweet consciousness of work well
done. Thinking it necessary, no doubt, to take his share in the common
toil, Query contrived to discover a flying-fish which had blundered
aboard in the blind fashion these fish have of doing things. It was
a very toothsome morsel—but not for Query!

My own individual duties during these days lacked nothing on the
score of variety. Turning-to at six o’clock, I proceeded to assist in
scrubbing decks—as they call it in the Navy; washing down, as it is
designated in the merchant service. A hose and a broom are in demand
for this sea-ritual. Having satisfactorily completed this sanitary
duty, I went aft and got all things in order for breakfast, and
served at table whilst my seniors ate. Simple enough in the telling,
but when the sea got up a bit, as it did about now, and the ship
grew lively, not so simple in the actuality. Since no right-thinking
man cares to have his breakfast spilt down the back of his neck, it
behoved me to be careful, as I had no wish to figure as principal
character at a coroner’s inquest. Another of my daily duties was to
scrub out Sir Ernest’s cabin. Don’t, please, carry away from these
pages an impression of a sumptuous stateroom. This sea-bedroom was
little better than a glorified packing-case: it measured seven feet
by six, and when you were in it you felt half-afraid to draw a full
breath in case you carried something away or burst the bulkheads
apart. The door of this cabin opened on the afterside; and on the
port side was the bunk, stretching the entire length of the room,
with drawers beneath and a single porthole above. A small washstand
stood against the forrard bulkhead; shelves well-filled with books on
the starboard side, and a small, collapsible chair completed the more
elaborate furnishings. In addition, fixed to the forrard bulkhead,
was a small, white-enamelled cabinet fitted with an oval mirror in
the door, and an emergency oil-lamp for use when the electric supply
gave out. That’s as good a description as I can give of this tabloid
apartment, where you could do everything humanly possible without
leaving one spot!

After daily breakfast I did whatever I was told to do—helped the cook
to clean the galley and prepare the meals, took a trick at the helm,
trimmed coal, gave a hand with the sails and rigging, and made myself
generally useful. As one of my shipmates said: “It was a pity we had
no clay aboard because I might have spent my leisure in making bricks!”

Wednesday, October 26, was a red-letter day: one to be recorded with
all due solemnity. I had my wages raised! When cleaning out his cabin
on this particular morning the Boss asked me what I had been doing
in Aberdeen in addition to scouting. I told him that I had been at
the University. Whereupon he laid the accolade upon my shoulders by
saying, in that deep, pleasant voice of his which seemed designed
to beat up against the fiercest gale that ever blew: “Well, you’re
pleasing me very much so far, and I want to increase your pay to
£12 a month. That will help pay your fees when you get back to the
Granite City.”

I was enormously pleased. It wasn’t so much the increase of pay as the
kindly words that accompanied the promise. I was giving satisfaction
to such a judge of humanity as Sir Ernest Shackleton! That was what
warmed my blood. I’d passed severe tests and was qualified to count
myself properly one of the adventurous brotherhood! It seemed to me
as if this honour had been bestowed on all Scoutdom, and I was glad.

Cape Verde Islands greeted my sight this morning, looming dimly into
view. By noon we were closing the coast, rugged and inhospitable.
Absolutely nothing but bare rock was visible; sun-scorched and lacking
entirely in verdure; bare rock rising majestically some fifteen
hundred feet into the clear air, never a tree to break its monotony,
apparently no soil in which a single blade of grass might grow. St.
Vincent has few charms at the best; it is used for little else beyond
a coaling station and a connecting link in the world’s submarine
cable system. Rain seldom falls in St. Vincent, and it is too remote
from the rest of the world to be fertilized by passing birds. Its
harbour, though, is a fine, natural roadstead, being composed of an
assortment of smaller islands, and the native divers beat anything
I have ever come across, though they are reputed to be as light of
finger as they are deft of movement in the water, and occasionally
they are apt to become truculent and peevish if interrupted in their
favourite hobby of abstracting such movables as they can lay hands
on. Not that it was necessary for an article to be movable. I was
solemnly assured by one who should have known that these same modern
buccaneers had on one occasion endeavoured to steal the funnel out
of the ship that harboured him!

Bathing off the ship was vetoed on account of rumoured sharks, which
did not appear to trouble the natives overly; but it was permissible
closer inshore, and we only too gladly took full advantage of this
opportunity. It was a delightful experience, for the water was so
balmy as to be like a continued caress.

At night a farewell dinner was given to Mr. Lysaght, who was to leave
us here and return to England, home and beauty. Throughout the journey
he had quitted himself in most manly fashion, refusing to succumb when
hardier men than himself went down, bearing part and lot in all that
happened with the greatest good cheer. His principal wish seemed to
be to continue aboard the _Quest_, indifferent to the call of home
and comfort; but this was not to be. The ship did herself well that
night: giving of her very best in food and drink, and the occasion
was one to remember.

Next morning I dressed myself decently and went ashore in company
with the geologist and the naturalist, Mr. Wilkins. At sea, I may
mention, we dressed as convenient and studied our personal appearance
very little, so that we often looked like a gang of scarecrows. The
nigger population of St. Vincent turned out to greet us—not out of
admiration for our noble selves, but with an honest—or dishonest—desire
for gain. They literally mobbed us as we set foot ashore: snatching at
our bags, thrusting diminutive donkeys under our noses, clamouring to
be permitted to show us the sights, and generally buzzing about like
gigantic flies. What they lacked in reserve they made up in enthusiasm;
but we considered ourselves quite able to look after ourselves. We
collected various tiny donkeys, and I found myself very greatly at
sea when I boarded my noble mount. Steering the _Quest_ was child’s
play as compared with navigating that ass at first, but one got the
hang of it after a while and contrived to make some progress ahead
instead of sideways.

Nothing I saw ashore here altered my first impression of the Cape
Verdes. They are, without exception, the barest, poorest lumps of
land I’ve ever seen. St. Vincent, like the other islands, is purely
volcanic in character, and what is not bare, vitreous rock is simply
dry, reddish volcanic earth that contains no fertilizing qualities,
so far as I am aware. There had been no rain for two years prior to
our arrival; there was naturally no herbage growing, all was sheer
sun-scorched rock and blazing heat, tempered only a little by the sea
breezes. As nothing will grow ashore beyond a few miserable stalks of
maize on the higher slopes, the inhabitants, set down there for their
sins presumably, would starve but for another island in the group.
From this island they secure water, which is ferried across in boats,
and also all their cereals and fruits, though these are nothing to wax
eloquent over. Even this water is not very palatable; it is obtained by
boring down to a great depth, and as there had been no rain to liven
the springs, the general result was stale and unlikeable. Until it is
boiled and sterilized it is practically undrinkable. So that, taking
one thing with another, it is not surprising that occasionally quite
large numbers of the native population die off from sheer starvation.
Their staple food is ground maize, and when it becomes scarce, as it
so often does, they are in a bad plight.

We travelled up into the hills quite a distance, thanks to our donkeys.
Joining Mr. Wilkins I went bug-hunting; we successfully pursued
butterflies, caterpillars and other creepie-crawlies. Mr. Wilkins added
a small lizard to his bag, and seemed delighted; whilst Mr. Douglas
contented himself with his own particular hobby: studying the dykes,
and hills, and volcanic formations of the island, collecting certain
specimens that interested him on the way. Some of the butterflies,
which we bagged in considerable numbers, were rarely beautiful,
and seemed, in my opinion, to be wasting their time at St. Vincent.
There’s a Scots lament called “The Barren Rocks of Aden,” but the
man who composed it had never seen St. Vincent, or he’d have decided
that Aden was nothing to make a song about.

Coming back, we seemed so much too big for our donkeys as they braved
the precipitous slopes that out of sheer humanity—to say nothing of
respect for our necks—we dismounted and proceeded afoot along the
scorching rocks which seemed to burn through our boot-soles as if we
walked across red-hot lava. The impression I received was of a weary
plodding through a hopeless desert, and this suggestion was increased
by the great swirls of vultures that were everywhere overhead. How
they lived on St. Vincent I do not know; maybe, like the Maltese,
they took in each other’s washing, or fed on one another.

Here, again, the Western Telegraph Company gave us warm hospitality:
a rousing good evening with dinner and a sing-song to follow. By
way of a leg-stretcher, and in order, I suppose, to rid ourselves
of the superabundant energy accumulated in the close quarters of the
_Quest_, we then let ourselves go; had a go-as-you-please rugger match
in the passage—much to the consternation of the nigger servants—and
generally took the place apart. When a score of hefty Britishers feel
within them the spirit of movement things are apt to get smashed.
But a rough-house is a good thing occasionally, and I dare say we
should have had one or two aboard but that we were too much afraid
of bursting the ship apart.

Whilst we sported others toiled, for we found to our unbounded
satisfaction on returning in the ghostly small hours, that the
_Quest_ had been coaled and we were saved the grimy irksomeness of
that unpleasant labour. I was glad enough, I assure you, for though
I don’t profess to be any more afraid of work than the next fellow,
there’s a lot of fine, heartfelt joy in knowing that someone else has
done your job! Late aboard never meant late abed under Shackleton;
six o’clock found me resuming the daily task. A homeward-bound liner,
by which Mr. Lysaght travelled, replenished our lockers with fresh
provisions—much better than the stringy goat obtainable ashore—and also
granted us the inestimable boon of a ton of ice for the freezer. Ice
counted for a lot there near the Line; but the time was to come—yet
why anticipate?

During our enforced stay in St. Vincent our engines were once more
tuned up, in the hope that the usual discords they played would cease.
Visitors naturally came and went, for anything the least little bit
out of the ordinary is an event in that sun-baked wilderness; but,
with the engines reported fit and ready again, we once more put out
to sea.




CHAPTER VI

On the Way to Rio


We steamed out on the Rio de Janeiro route on October 29. Endless
numbers of albacore welcomed us to the open water, leaping vividly
in the startling blue sea, crisping it with snowy foam splashes. The
Boss drew my attention to them first—he was always very decent that
way in pointing out such details as he considered might interest a
somewhat ignorant first-voyager. That was one of the traits in his
character that drew men to him I think; his infinite interest in the
little things; no detail was too small for him, no trouble too great.
Albacore are fine, plump fish; some that I saw must have measured
quite five feet from nose to tail—perhaps more, for they’re as quick
in the water as the sheep the Irishman couldn’t count by reason of
their liveliness; you only get a fleeting impression of them as they
leap clear into the air then splash back with a noble flurry into
their native element.

Everything seemed propitious as we went rolling down to Rio;
everything, that is, except our engines. No, it wasn’t the man-made
machinery that played us up this time, but the precious St. Vincent
coal—dust and such poor steam-making stuff that it was impossible to
maintain a working pressure for long at a time. As a consequence,
we crawled; but this lazy fanning along across a sapphire sea is
an enjoyable experience enough. Down in the bunkers loud cheering
announced the finding of an occasional lump of coal by way of a change
from the dust, and after a while a better pressure was secured,
thereby quickening our pace. Flying-fish were very plentiful, and
the feeling now was that we were merely embarked on a yachting cruise.

Now, to detail each day as it passed would be but a reiteration,
monotonous in the extreme. I find that during certain portions of
this Rio run my diary reads much as Mark Twain’s did when he, as a
boy, endeavoured to keep one. “Got up, washed, went to bed,” about
describes it. And though the routine work aboard a ship at sea can
be uncommonly interesting to the worker, as I always found it, it
can also, in its description, be very boring to those who desire
other things than a plain tale of plain, unexciting happenings.
Daily I got up, did my work, went to bed. True, there were events
which, unimportant in themselves, yet served to interest us who were
dependent on the chance incidents of sea travel for our amusement. What
pleased me personally was the continued keen interest the Boss took
in me. When it would appear that my duties were somewhat monotonous
and irksome he was there to console—not that I needed it, for duty
aboard the _Quest_ was always a pleasure—but the thought that he, with
a brainful of responsibility, aware that his ship, secured after so
much planning, lacked in many respects the perfection that was really
necessary for a thoroughly successful expedition, with all his great
plans constantly seething in his mind, could still take so lively an
interest in the thoughts and feelings of the least-to-be-considered
member of his crew, gratified me and bound me to him with bands of
steel. His desire was that all aboard should be happy, for he knew
how small a mite of the leaven of unhappiness can affect the entire
personnel. The yarns he used to spin of his own youth at sea, too,
were entertaining beyond the power of description; his bluff, hearty
personality infused a happy content into the daily round.

Through the blazing days and the gorgeous nights of the Tropics we
slid smoothly towards Rio: sleeping out in the open constantly, by
reason of the stifling heat of down below. These nights on deck are a
pleasant memory. No covering was needed save something thrown across
the eyes, lest moon-blindness might result. Shackleton had some yarns
to tell of careless boys in his sailing-ship days suffering from this
curious complaint, as a result of sleeping in the full glare of a
white, tropical moon, that rides like a silver cannon-ball in a purple
velvet pall spangled bewilderingly with myriad stars. Boys, perfect
of sight by day, became as blind as bats by night; they developed
twisted necks and drawn faces, all through the baleful influence of
this beautiful night illuminant, which can be an enemy as well as a
friend to those who go down to the sea in ships.

Sleeping in the open air, I discovered, was infinitely more refreshing
than sleeping in a cabin below-deck: one wakened instantly, with
every sense fully on the alert, instead of the usual slow heaving up
from the chasms of sleep. But, occasionally these restful slumbers
on deck were rudely interrupted. A rain-squall fetched me from my
plank couch one morning at five o’clock; brilliant lightning was
searing the sky, and the wind, freshening in squalls, was whipping up
a considerable sea. Thus we began genuinely to roll down to Rio, for
the _Quest_—of which no ill be spoken!—could always hold her own at
that rolling game, and seemed as much in earnest about this part of
her work as she did about any other. The big square-sail had to be
furled on account of these quickening squalls, and the staysail set
instead; but the rolling continued; and there were those who vowed
that even in dry dock our ship was capable of liveliness.

By this time we were learning the value of fresh water during a
prolonged voyage. In every case where salt water could be used in
the ship’s cleaning, it was used; and even our ordinary washing was
reduced to the minimum. Aboard a small sailing vessel with a limited
tank-capacity, fresh water is permissible for only two purposes:
drinking and cooking. All rain-water that falls must needs be carefully
conserved, too: and from the oldsters I received not one but many
serious lectures on the value of economy in this precious fluid.

One outstanding event was the harpooning of a giant porpoise. Mr.
Eriksen was our harpooner: taking advantage of a shoal of these
sea-pigs being very much in evidence about our bows one morning, he
grew animated, felt within him the northern desire to kill something,
and equipped himself with a harpoon and line, with which he crept out
on the boom-guys forrard and lay in wait. Presently he saw his chance:
a porpoise, more daring or careless than the rest, shot within his
distance. It was a good throw he made: clean into the back-fin went
the steel; and away like a flash of lightning shot Master Porpoise.
It went aft, towing the line with it. Every available hand promptly
clapped on to the whirring line: one man endeavoured to snatch a
holding turn round a bollard; but Mr. Eriksen yelled: “Steek! Steek!”
in a perfect frenzy of excitement—I think he was surprised at the
fairness of his aim!—and those on the rope hung on for dear life;
the swing of their arms and bodies giving enough play to the line
to prevent the harpoon being torn from its holding. But even so, the
helpers seemed to apply too much strain to the light line; for Eriksen
was far from pleased, and, English failing him in his dilemma, he
had recourse to his native Norwegian, which, volleyed forth as he
volleyed it, is a most expressive language. But though expressive it
was not illuminating: confusion grew, until some of Eriksen’s meaning
penetrated to our minds, and the line was slacked off sufficiently
to permit the stricken fish to be brought to starboard, where we
were able to see how truly Eriksen had struck. Blood poured from the
wound; the blowing of the porpoise was fearsome; its strength was
nearly spent, and it was wallowing somewhat pitifully when we drew
it close alongside; so, in order to put a period to its misery, Mr.
Wild promptly shot it. Then we got it aboard and gazed satisfiedly
at our kill. Seven feet seven inches long he was, and seemed to weigh
a ton; but we had no means of verifying that estimate.

  [Illustration: On the Way: The _Quest_ in the Trades.

    _Mr. J. Lister._]

  [Illustration: THE SHIP’S PETS.

    Query, the Wolfhound. Questie, the Cat, on Marr’s Shoulder.

    _Photo: Topical._]

Query and the cat betrayed curiosity mingled with awe of our catch.
Especially the cat: it completely failed to understand the queer body
with its piglike snout and its scaleless skin; and when, by way of
hardening it to the realities of the sea, the cat was thrown on the
porpoise’s back, you would have thought it had landed on india-rubber,
so actively did it bounce into the air from the unpleasing contact.

But after a bit of skylarking, the porpoise was taken into stock:
the best parts of the flesh, cut into steaks, were handed over to
the cook, together with the brains and tongue; the tail was cut off
to be used as a trophy of our prowess, and the rest of the carcass
was returned to the sea.

On the day we killed the porpoise we discovered a new hobby:
coal-sifting. It was necessary, in order to maintain a working head
of steam, to separate the dust from the lumps—much dust to very few
lumps—and all the useless stuff was hove overside. A messy, gritty
job! But the rain helped us somewhat: and it did rain! Solid sheets
of it came cascading down, so that to keep even a semblance of dryness
was out of the question; but the weather was so warm that the downpour
was more in the nature of a blessing than a curse. We were now fairly
in the doldrums.

Just before lunch the sea presented us with a picture: one that is all
too seldom seen in these days of mechanical progress and stern utility.
A noble sailing-ship: a vast five-masted Frenchman, _La France_, hove
in sight. She was becalmed, a painted ship lying still on a painted
ocean; with her enormous spread of canvas and the beautiful tracery
of her rigging reflected in every tiniest detail in the mirror of
the sea. So taken with the sight she presented was Sir Ernest that he
altered course in order to pass her at close quarters; and so we not
only got an excellent view of this famous Horn sailing-ship, but also
some really fine photographs. Moreover, as is the custom of the sea,
we spoke to her and gave her information such as might appeal to a
windjammer: telling her where we had lost the North-East Trades and the
strength of them as they deserted us. Quite an animated conversation
was carried on between ship and ship: and the amusing part of the
business was that whereas the French skipper was compelled to use a
megaphone to make himself audible, the Boss, simply by funnelling his
hand about his mouth, made himself perfectly well understood across
the intervening space of lifeless sea.

“She looks peaceful enough now,” said one of the crew to me; “but
you ought to see her as I’ve seen her: ratching round the Horn under
her topsails, scuppers awash, and the big fellows piling aboard as
if determined to overwhelm her. Then you see a windjammer as she
really is: a sea-fighter, depending not at all on machinery and the
ingenious contrivances of this present-day civilization; but just a
conglomeration of steel and wood and wire and hemp, built to “euchre
God Almighty’s storms and bluff the eternal sea”; then you’d begin
to understand a thing or two. Seafaring isn’t what it was—it’s a
pastime instead of hard labour; but so long as such packets as that
keep afloat there’s hope.”

And, alas for his enthusiasm!—we were to hear at a later date that
the splendid fabric had been totally wrecked on a reef fifty miles
off New Caledonia: that Ocean Graveyard might reasonably be called,
“The Port of Missing Ships.”

Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley! The Boss, after informing the
Frenchman that the North-East Trades had not entirely gone out of
business, complimented him on the appearance of his ship—which
was well-deserved—and so, with mutual good-feeling, we trudged
past her into lowering cloud-masses that soon developed into noisy
squalls—little wind and much rain, until we hit one squall with more
wind in it, and were compelled to shorten sail to combat the breeze
on even terms.

We had decided to call at St. Paul’s Rocks—a lonely outpost of Mother
Earth almost exactly on the Line—and as we had no desire to overrun
the land, engines were slowed down in order that we might sight the
rocks at daybreak. There was nothing the matter with the _Quest’s_
navigation; and soon after daylight we sighted our immediate haven,
with the sun shining whitely on the barrenness of these deserted
islets.

They are not in any way large: being merely the ultimate peaks of a
deep-sunken mountain range, jutting up through the placid waters of
the equatorial seas. The biggest of them is not more than two hundred
yards long with a maximum altitude of sixty feet or thereabouts; and
from one end to the other they are smothered in guano, thanks to the
sea-birds that rest there in unbelievable clouds. In the frequent
squalls that rage about them, the wind-flung sprays leap high over
their insignificant bulk; and the hot tropical sun at once dries the
spindrift into dazzling crystals of salt; it is these crystals and
the guano combined that make the islands look, at a distance, as if
they were covered with newly-fallen snow.

Arriving within easy pistol-shot of the largest island, all sail
was taken in and the surf-boat lowered. Shoals of ravenous sharks
swarmed about the _Quest_ as she lost her way: the water was whipped
to whiteness by their quick movements. Without loss of time the first
exploring party loaded themselves into the surf-boat, with gear for
observations and provisions for the day, and moved off from ship to
shore. I counted myself fortunate in being included in this party,
which comprised Mr. Douglas, Major Carr, and myself, with a notable
crew of Dr. Macklin, Mr. Jeffrey, and Mr. Eriksen, Mr. Wild being in
charge at the tiller. We were landed, through the sullen surf, on one
of the smaller rocks, and the boat returned to the _Quest_ for a fresh
load. Mr. Wilkins, with Mr. Hussey and Mr. Dell, the electrician,
landed on the largest rock; and by the time this difficult landing
was effected Mr. Douglas, who was entrusted with the duty of making
a comprehensive survey of the place, discovered that our small islet
was not suitable for this purpose; consequently it was necessary to
hail the boat, load in all our gear, and proceed to the big island.
During the reloading process Douglas was so keen and zealous that he
allowed himself to be soused repeatedly by the grumbling surf. It
was, indeed, a matter of no little difficulty to get anything into
the boat, since its motion was so lively; every time it came within
reachable distance and we began to swing the load towards it, the
backwash licked it out of reach again; and so it was for all the
world like playing a somewhat exasperating game of cup and ball. To
beach the boat was impossible, for the simple reason that there was
no beach: the rocks being steep-to, so that the first part of the
boat to touch land was her stem. However, we managed the transhipment
after a fashion.

Enormous numbers of crabs were a prominent feature of the island when
we reached it; they scuttled away with queer suggestions of terror
at our arrival. Moreover, it was as though the rocks actually lived
and breathed, by reason of the vast quantities of sea-birds that were
everywhere, and so tame as to be ludicrous. You could go right up to
them without their stirring, save to advance threatening beaks; and
only when they were actually touched did they fly away, and then not
very far. If they were sitting on their nests, as many of them were,
they stayed put, contenting themselves with squawking and flapping
their wings, which was their idea of defence.

So far as I could see—not being a naturalist—there were two kinds
of birds common to the islands: the one was rather larger than an
ordinary duck, brownish in colour, with big, webbed feet and a long,
yellow, pointed bill. This bird—species unknown to me—emitted, when
disturbed, a wild, squalling cry like an hysterical woman robbed of
her only child: an infinitely pathetic sound. It made a fellow feel
absolutely inhuman to touch these birds, once the queerness of it
all had passed.

The other type was smaller, no bigger than an ordinary seagull,
brownish-black in colour, and lacking webbed feet.

The young of the larger species, almost until reaching years of
discretion, boast fluffy coats of white feathers of downy softness,
and made one anxious to secure sufficient of their plumage to stuff
a mattress that might be more kindly to one’s projecting bones than
the “donkey’s breakfast” with which I was provided. The young of the
smaller kind were quite ordinary: being, if anything, a shade darker
than their parents. Flying-fish appeared to comprise the major portion
of the larger birds’ dietary, for we found many of these curious
fish lying about the rocks in the vicinity of the nests. Not that
these nests were architectural masterpieces by any means: they were
merely rough scrapings in the ever-present guano: trifling bowls just
sufficient to contain the eggs or the downy young.

Mr. Wilkins soon found material for his cameras. He was keen on
securing impressions of life on St. Paul’s Rocks; and quested about
like a newspaper reporter in the silly season. He was fortunate enough
to run upon what can only be described as a piscatorial drama: a huge
crab that had discovered a dead fish and was working overtime to get
it stowed inside. With all the stolidity of an Aberdeen granite-hewer,
the crab was ripping off enormous chunks from its odoriferous catch
and tucking them away. You’d have thought he was a small boy—not
a Scout, of course—bagging apples from a forbidden orchard, with
the owner of that orchard coming round the corner. Something like a
score of smaller crabs were anxious to share his prize, but he had
no intention of making a common cause of his salvage. Every time
they advanced he dragged the fish bodily away; and when the smaller
fellows showed a nasty, greedy disposition, he thought nothing of
kicking them away to blazes-and-gone with his scrabbling hind-legs.
Very evidently that apple “wasn’t goin’ to have no core!”

Throughout the interesting morning Mr. Wilkins took photographs, both
still and moving, of the life of the island: birds, crabs, even the
fish swimming in the rockpools; and Mr. Dell and I assisted him to
the best of our ability. We were all busy according to our capacity.
In the afternoon Mr. Wilkins killed such birds as he required for
specimens, and went on with his picture-making in order that those
who only Britain know might learn somewhat of the outlying pickets of
the earth. Mr. Douglas made a comprehensive survey of this largest
island, taking Mr. Hussey and Major Carr to assist him; the latter
also did some useful meteorological work, besides helping me in the
bug-hunting labours relegated to me by our naturalist. Spiders and
moths formed the greater part of our bag; and all were of interest,
because they were so entirely different from the spiders and moths
of home.

As for the boat’s crew, they fished throughout the greater part of the
day, catching small sharks and varied finny victims in considerable
quantities. As sharks are not particularly appetizing food, they were
thrown back into their native element after certain operations had
been performed upon them which guaranteed that they, at any rate,
would never more trouble harassed mariners.

All this work was done under a baking sun, striking with merciless
savagery down from almost directly overhead. Our moving bodies threw
no shadows whatsoever, but the glare from the rocks caused our skins
to flame and burn with unbelievable thoroughness, so that when we
returned to the _Quest_ we looked more like a party of half-cooked
negroes than white men.

That our observations might be thorough and of use to civilization,
when once we were all embarked and the surf-boat housed on deck,
the _Quest_ steamed slowly round the entire group of mountain peaks,
taking soundings as she went. Not until seven o’clock at night did
we move off finally and wave farewell to what is, in my opinion, one
of the most forlorn clusters of rock in all the world.

Forthwith we resumed the even run of shipboard duties: I myself
acting as cook’s mate when required, standing watch, taking the wheel,
trimming and sifting coal; and all the time the sea was running high
and the _Quest_ doing herself proud in the matter of rolling. Such
of us as did the tedious bunker work, in ten-minute shifts because of
the stifling conditions below, cursed that St. Vincent coal heartily
enough to set it on fire on its own account, but felt high reward when
we were granted an afternoon’s easy as a solace to choked lungs and
aching limbs. There were no class distinctions among us, let it be
known. I, the loblolly boy, worked side by side with the leaders of
the expedition at what, ashore and in civilization, might have been
considered menial tasks. The ship was absolutely a commonwealth, all
hands working all-out for the common good; social distinctions were
thrown overboard almost as soon as we left Plymouth. Thus were formed
the bonds of a proved comradeship destined to stand us in good stead
in the coming days of common peril, when every man might be required
to depend upon his nearest neighbour for the boon of continued life.

Major Carr, during these days, conducted a series of meteorological
experiments, although the uneasy motion of the ship rendered such
work difficult in the doing. He sent up balloons and kites to
test the currents of the upper air and secure the temperatures of
those remote strata, all of which information is of great value in
weather-forecasting and the like. One kite was lost. This work is
rather interesting because, to one not versed in its complications,
it is so infinitely mysterious. You send up a big kite, say, getting
it up as high as you can, or as high as you wish; and then, up the
same wire you dispatch a smaller kite—just as we used to send up
messengers, as we called them—which messenger kite carries with it
the complicated instruments by means of which the records are taken;
afterwards these are tabulated day by day.

Infrequently, during the run to Rio—though it was more a crawl—I
indulged in the luxury of a shave. I make a special point of mentioning
this, because shaves were amongst the rarest events of existence those
days. A memorable day; the Boss gave me further praise. I told the
cook, because sometimes it is well to give others a correct estimate
of yourself, as seen through eyes that are not biased by long and
close companionship.

“The Boss asked me to make his tea for him this afternoon,” I said.
“And when he tasted it he said it was the best that had ever passed
his lips.”

“He always says that,” said the cook with a dreadful sneer, “when
anyone makes it but me—who’d be a cook, anyhow? All the dirty work,
none of the fat! Who’d go to sea at all, if it comes to that?” But
I made allowances for his liver suffering from the constant nearness
to our stove, and forbore to press home my triumph.

Occasionally becalmed, not infrequently labouring in high seas, we
trudged along the long and uneventful road to Rio, and early on the
morning of November 21 sighted the South American coast. It is bold
in its outline hereabouts, with the Sugar Loaf hill at the entrance
to Rio Harbour striking a dominant note, and as we progressed and
closed the land we secured exceptionally fine views of the scenery, a
welcome spectacle to eyes long used to staring out over the unbroken
horizons of the sea.

It had not been the Boss’s original intention to make any call until
we reached South Trinidad Island; but the engine-room defects were
developing so rapidly, despite the overhaul at St. Vincent, that
Sir Ernest discovered it absolutely necessary to secure further
engineering assistance, and, moreover, the topmast and rigging were
also giving no end of trouble, which it would not do to risk further.
As Rio de Janeiro offered an excellent harbour of refuge, to that
port we steered, and arriving off the harbour at midnight, cruised
about until the dawn, for South American ports are all alike in the
respect that no vessel may enter or leave between the hours of dark
and dawn. I suppose this rule is enforced in order to prevent surprise
revolutions taking place too often. The hobby of Latin America, so I
was solemnly informed by those much older and wiser than myself, is
revolutions, and there is a definite season for hanging Presidents
to their own flagstaffs. I do not vouch for it; I only record what I
was told. Apparently, when bored after a too long siesta, some South
American will say: “It’s a fine day; let’s have a revolution!” And
the others agree that life is lacking in excitement, so a revolution
they have, and no one makes much ado about it, not even the late
President, because he’s generally past caring one way or the other.
Only sometimes it is the usurper and not the up-to-the-moment occupant
of the Presidential chair who decorates the flagstaff—it all depends.

On a brilliantly sunny morning, with the sky and sea rainbow-like in
a welter of vivid colouring, we passed up amongst the little network
of islands, and ran beneath the frowning sheer of the Sugar Loaf into
what is surely the most beautiful harbour in all the world. Jealous
Australians will tell me that I am wrong, and that Rio cannot beat
Sydney; but as I’ve never seen Sydney, and I wager most of them
have never seen Rio, I’ll hold to my opinion. Rio is beautiful—with
its richly clad slopes on either hand, its majestic size, and its
clustering white-walled buildings along the cliff-tops. The water is
as blue as sapphire; the sky above is radiant; and—there are worse
places than Rio to visit, when one is wearied of much seafaring.
And yet, not so very long ago, the very mention of Rio sent shivers
through the spinal cords of honest sailormen. The place had an evil
name for Yellow Jack, that most dreaded of plagues, and ships going
there would lose every man of their crews; fresh crews would be sent
out, these in their turn would die, and gradually the ships rotted away
helplessly at their moorings for want of man-power to set them into
open water. But those tragic days belong to past history. A progressive
government, shaking off the apathy and lassitude of the South, drained
the pestiferous swamps in which the fever-bearing mosquitoes bred,
destroyed a few millions of the humming pests and made the port as
healthy as any other port of the Southern hemisphere, perhaps. But
here and there, in the backwaters of the harbour, they will still show
the mouldering hulls of what once were proud ships—charnel houses of
empire, I called them—which had failed to return to their homeland
by reason of that dreaded “El vomito.”

Already, though the sun was not far above the horizon, it was growing
amazingly hot; and when the port doctor visited us at 7.30, the heat
was well-nigh unbearable. Until his visit took place the _Quest_
was in quarantine, with the yellow flag flying at her foremast. No
one might board her, none might leave, though boats swarmed about
us as soon as we trudged up through the harbour-mouth and past the
frowning forts that guard the entrance and make the bay well-nigh
invulnerable. But the doctor surged up alongside in his speedy launch;
there was an inundation of gilt-edge officials who all seemed to talk
at once and very rapidly, so that our deck was like a fish-market;
salutations were made, and—thanks to the magic of the White Ensign
which we flew astern—the formalities of giving “pratique” were not
overlong drawn-out. You begin to get some clear impression of the
worth of the White Ensign when you stray beyond your own coastline.
It is a veritable Open Sesame; bureaucratic difficulties melt away
before the sight of it, and instead of doing all they can to hinder,
the foreign Jacks-in-office bow and salute and oil the wheels to some
effect.

Prior to making Rio we had treated the _Quest_ to another
spring-cleaning, painting her thoroughly inboard and out. She was
now no longer white and yellow as to upperworks and funnel, but
battleship grey, and her appearance was enormously improved. No one
could ever call her beautiful, even at the best of times, but in
her new clothing she certainly looked dignified and what she was: a
pioneer ship embarked on a hazardous cruise. Even the country that
owned the White Ensign had no cause to be particularly ashamed of
her, I thought, as I saw her reflection mirrored in the crystal-like
waters of the harbour.

We passed up the harbour and anchored off the city: a city of terraces
and palms and much rich foliage. Many anchored craft dotted the surface
of the water: handsome sailing ships, their spars a black forest
against the eye-aching blue of the sky; powerful steamers, coastwise
craft—there was no end to the variety. And now we were treated to real
tropical fruits and vegetables—luxuries that were trebly enhanced
in value by reason of long abstinence. Sink your teeth into a juicy
pineapple, bought for a penny, if you want to know what I mean. Or
wolf a few of those queer, turpentiney mangoes, which disappoint you
so much by reason of the big stone with its tough fibres, to which
clings all that’s best and sweetest of the pulp, until, in your
aggravation you seriously contemplate getting into a filled bath—the
best place by far wherein to devour mangoes—and indulging in a very
orgy.




CHAPTER VII

Christmas in Southern Seas


The _Quest_ was subjected to a very thorough overhaul during her stay
in Rio. Judging by the opinions of the experts Sir Ernest called into
consultation, she needed it—she seemed to be wrong everywhere; and to
venture down into the icebound South with her in her then condition
was practically suicide.

First of all, her engines were surveyed, and the crank-shaft, which was
the cause of most of our troubles, was properly aligned. The marvel
seemed to be that we’d managed to come as far as we had done without
meeting disaster. We’d met with a certain amount of it, anyhow—and
we’d treated that impostor, as Kipling calls it, contemptuously.
How we should treat triumph when that appeared we hardly knew. Did
I mention that what are, in my opinion, the most stirring lines in
English poetry, Kipling’s “If,” were posted up aboard us conspicuously
as a sort of chart by which to steer our daily course?

Then, too, it was discovered that the propeller, which had churned
astern so uncertainly, was far too heavy for the ship and her shaft;
she was being racked to pieces by the violent vibration; and so a
smaller, more complaisant propeller was shipped in place of our old
friendly enemy. The scarfed topmast, that had caused more bad language
than I like to remember, was condemned, and a new one furnished by
the Brazilian Admiralty, who offered us every courtesy throughout, was
shipped in its place. I should like to give a detailed description of
these operations, but must leave the task to one better equipped with
nautical knowledge than myself. But, as well as repairs, we recaulked
and tarred the hull, which, like all wooden hulls, was disposed to
leak consumedly. When a wooden ship is sailing on a wind, her weather
side heaves out of the water a good deal, and, in tropical seas, the
sun scorches down on the exposed timber with such merciless effect
that, as soon as the vessel is put about and the once-high side is
below the water-line, her open seams permit the water literally to pour
in, and this keeps all hands busy at the pumps. Moreover, it makes
the bilges extraordinarily unpleasant, for the stench of putrefying
sea water is about the most stomach-turning odour I know.

We also enlarged our existing accommodation to the extent of erecting
a new deck-house forrard of the old one, to serve as a dining-room,
as the after mess-room was far too small to accommodate all hands.
Since the _Quest_ was to be our home for an indefinite period, we
thought we deserved room in which to stretch ourselves.

Naturally enough, whilst these alterations were in progress, the
ship became too small by far for us to live aboard; too, she was so
uncomfortable when careened for caulking that we thought it no shame
to live ashore, and accepted the ready hospitality that was offered
to us on every hand. Slight changes were made, too, in our personnel;
Mr. Eriksen returned home, and three new hands were shipped, one of
them to carry on my old job of cook’s mate.

We explored Rio pretty thoroughly during the month we were there.
For it demanded a whole month to effect sufficient repairs to make
us weatherly, in spite of the Boss’s growing impatience. No wonder he
was impatient: the odds had been against us from the beginning. Here,
and simply on account of defects, we were fully six weeks behind our
programme, and that programme promised to need considerable amendment.
We marvelled at the beauty of Rio itself: a city of really stately
buildings, broad boulevards, and thoroughly up-to-date improvements.
We admired the very wonderful mosaic pavements, which are everywhere,
a tribute to the patience of those who had laid them in this age when
beauty has so constantly to give place to utility, and the labour of
love seems to be becoming a thing of the past.

Furthermore, we climbed the famous Sugar Loaf, Vao d’Assucar being
its Brazilian title. As I mentioned, this curious peak, ridiculously
like one of the old sugar loaves that I understand used to decorate
grocers’ windows, dominates the entrance to Rio Harbour on the southern
side, and towers vertically out of a placid sea a sheer two thousand
feet into a cloudless sky. At one time its ascent was considered a
feat second only to the conquest of the Matterhorn; and I remember
reading a breathless story dealing with a young midshipman’s conquest
of the problem; but now modern ingenuity has effected a solution,
and we modern adventurers ascended by means of a cable-car running
to the summit. I suppose that if Julius Cæsar suddenly came back to
life and decided to invade Britain again he would do it by aeroplane!

Even if we had been required to make the ascent in the primitive
manner, our trouble would have been well rewarded, for, at night,
staring out towards the city from the ultimate summit, seeing the
countless lights reflected gloriously on the bay, I viewed what I
consider to be the most enchanting scene I have ever clapped eyes
on: a very City Beautiful, unreal and mystical, as it were a vision
of Fairyland itself.

Rio heat can be very trying; but Nature has provided a remedy.
Punctually at four o’clock in the afternoon, just when the soggy
heat is becoming absolutely unbearable, when even to think requires
impossible exertion, and to stir one’s littlest finger calls for
lengthy meditation and preparation, there suddenly comes a refreshing
coolness in the air, pleasant wind-currents stir, the oppression
lifts as if by magic and a tingling suggestion of well-being fills
the veins. This wind is known as the “Rio Doctor,” and its qualities
are undoubtedly medicinal. But for that “Doctor,” I fancy prolonged
existence there for a white man would be unbearable.

Amongst other diversions, I visited a small troop of British and
American Scouts, and amongst them spent a memorable evening. It is
very gratifying to an enthusiastic Scout to see with his own eyes
how far-flung is our movement, and what benefits it confers on those
who are in it. Apart from the white Scouts there are many troops
amongst the Brazilians; but, unfortunately, the movement amongst them,
as in Germany, is, to my way of thinking, too much imbued with the
military spirit, which in these days is being revealed as a worthless
anachronism.

Owing to our long delay it was not until December 17 that we left
Wilson’s Island, where we had lain throughout the period of our
overhaul, and dropped anchor again on the city side of the harbour
in order to take aboard stores, water, and the other necessary
impedimenta. Not that our alterations were by any means complete;
but the Boss’s impatience was growing to such an extent that he was
firmly resolved to make shift with what was already done and chance
his luck. Once the stores were aboard, we moved off again and dropped
anchor in a lovely little bay on the Nictheroy side, not far from the
harbour entrance; and here we found ourselves with as much work to
tackle as was convenient. During refit all our past careful stowage
had been necessarily disturbed, and as we had to prepare ourselves
to face any kind of weather that might come along, we were as busy
as bees, lashing, stowing, jamming, wedging, contriving innumerable
ingenuities, and trimming the ship into a weatherly condition. A
bathe was very welcome when daylight died.

Next morning work continued. We got something of a scare when an urgent
message was received aboard, requiring Dr. Macklin to go ashore at
once to see Sir Ernest, who had been taken suddenly ill. Off went the
doctor, post-haste, but on arriving at the house where the Boss was
staying as the guest of hospitable friends, he found him completely
recovered and apt to make light of his temporary affliction. Sir
Ernest was always the sort of man who made light of trouble: he merely
stated that he had been troubled by a slight faintness and that he
had actually sent for the doctor to make inquiry about stores; but
afterwards we knew that this attack was an advance messenger to our
gallant leader, warning him that the sands were running low in the
glass of his life.

The shipping of a new cook’s mate left me free for deck duties, and
I saw an excellent chance of qualifying myself as a seaman. I started
this Sunday morning by keeping an hour’s anchor-watch: 2-3 a.m. Very
quiet and wonderful the ship was during that hour of darkness, with
those unforgettable stars blazing nobly in a sky that was for all the
world like velvet. Then, during the forenoon, I helped Mr. Dell to
set up a stay and rig halliards for the jib; proper sailorizing work
this, and enjoyable. For, however enthusiastic a man may be, peeling
potatoes can lose its interest and fail to convince the peeler that
his labour is an essential aid to Polar exploration work! Whereas,
when you’re working with the gear that actually means the ship’s
safety and progress, you feel you’re something that definitely counts
in the scheme of things, and your pride swells enormously.

What with stowing and restowing, trimming and retrimming, it was
four in the afternoon before we finally got under way and, under easy
steam, proceeded towards the entrance. A most invigorating “send-off”
was ours as we departed; our Brazilian friends seemed determined
to “do us proud”; they accompanied us in boats for a considerable
distance, cheering themselves hoarse, firing salutes from guns they
had thoughtfully brought with them. We answered with high-soaring
rockets and our famous “Tally ho!” war-cry, and the scene was a very
pandemonium of enthusiasm, invigorating to a degree. But we left the
clamour behind, and, quickening speed, steamed out past the Sugar
Loaf and the forts, down through the chain of islands, and so to open
sea once more; and glad enough we were to feel the swing and lift
of the gliding keel beneath us; for though our stay in Rio had been
memorable, chockful of pleasure, and revealing the jovial thoroughness
of Under the Line hospitality and encouragement, when you’re embarked
on a definite quest you want to get on with the business in hand, and
lying tugging at your anchors won’t help you to overcome the troubles
of open sea.

I had the wheel during the second dog-watch, and the Boss was on the
bridge. Knowing how terribly he had worried throughout our stay in the
Brazilian port, it was invigorating to discover him so cheerful and
enthusiastic; he had shed the burden of his woe, and talked to Wild
and Worsley very animatedly about his experiences ashore. An accident
to Jeffrey—his leg was injured—promised to keep him more or less
_hors-de-combat_ for a considerable time; Macklin said three weeks in
bed was absolutely necessary. Jeffrey, a man of action and the exact
opposite of a shirker, grumbled ferociously at this sentence; but
the doctor knew best, and instead of three weeks it was six before he
was fit for the fighting line again. Sir Ernest volunteered to stand
his watch for him. Here, again, he gave evidence of his thought for
others and his unwillingness to add to their burdens, no matter how
weighty those he took upon his own shoulders might be. Had he done
as some men would have done, and required his officers to share sick
Jeffrey’s work between them, he could have given himself greater
easement; maybe averted the tragedy that was already touching him with
the shadow of its wings; but no, he acted up to his motto throughout
and played the man to the very end.

During the night the sea began to get up more than a bit, and
tested our recent stowage work to the full. The decks became almost
impassable by reason of the confusion. Drums of oil, crates of fruit,
heavy packing-cases, everything that was not actually bolted to the
ship’s framework seemed on the run. It was like chasing excited pigs
to secure many of the loose articles, for the oil splashed about in
earnest fashion, and even when you got a grip on a wallowing cask
your fingers would slide off its chines, and away would go the cask,
as the ship saucily hove herself up on end, for all the world like
that runaway gun in Victor Hugo’s book. So that, what with one thing
and another, it took us all day to get things set to rights and the
decks squared up.

One part of my work consisted in clearing the chart-room for action.
The Boss summoned me at 7 a.m. to do this, and seemed peeved about
the prevalent disorder. No wonder; his orderly soul must have been
in utter revolt against the chaos that reigned. Everything that had
been overlooked, everything that had come aboard at the last minute
seemed to have been heaved into the chart-room. There were bundles
of clean washing on top of the chronometer lockers, oddments of all
kinds littered the place. Most of these belonged to Mr. Wilkins and
Mr. Douglas, who had started off three weeks before for South Georgia
to make scientific observations. Owing to our long delay in Rio our
meditated call at Cape Town was ruled out, and it was necessary to
alter the original plan of campaign. It should be remembered that
much of our gear had been sent on in advance to Cape Town, which was
to be our base. Shackleton, accordingly, made up his mind to wash out
Cape Town, and avail himself of the resources of South Georgia, where
dogs and impedimenta might be obtained, thanks to an ill-fated German
expedition that had left much of its equipment there in pre-war days.

“Carry that gear down below into the fo’c’sle, and treat it kindly,”
said the Boss. “Always remember that you think twice for an absent
shipmate where you’d think once for yourself.” So I gradually
brought order out of chaos, thereby easing Shackleton’s not unnatural
peevishness, and then got out on deck to make myself generally useful.

We were carrying a full press of canvas, but as the wind was falling
light, notwithstanding the boisterousness of the sea, it was decided
to shorten sail, and the topsail was accordingly clewed up. Dr.
Macklin and myself went up aloft to make it fast; and this was my
first experience on a topsail yard. It was rather like being tied
to the end of a piece of elastic. You’d never think one small ship
could be so vigorous in her motions as was the _Quest_. One minute
I was sliding down an apparently unfathomable chasm, the next I was
perched high aloft, staring down with mingled scorn and apprehension
on my opposite number who was busily engaged in furling the other
side of the sail. “One hand for yourself and one for the expedition,”
was the maxim that had long ago been instilled into me, so you may
believe me when I say that the hand for myself was busily employed!
It was a nightmarish experience, but the topsail was ultimately made
fast, and the ship’s liveliness seemed to diminish as a result.

It was a relief to turn in after all these adventures and win some
sleep; but at midnight I was out again, to find the engines stopped
and the ship rolling as if she intended to have the masts out of
herself, for her headway was stopped and she had fallen off into
the trough of the sea. Once again our engines were causing trouble:
the circulating pump had gone “phutt,” and it was necessary for all
hands to turn out and pump the bilges clear. A lovely job, there
in the darkness, with the ship trying to tie knots in herself! And
bilge water is so pleasant! Pumping is a back-aching job at best,
but when you’re performing nautical gymnastics throughout your spell
it exercises every muscle in your body, and you marvel at the number
of muscles you possess, when they’re all aching at once! Still, the
engine-room staff quitted themselves like men, repaired the damage,
and got us under way once more; and the day broke fine with a calming
sea and enough of a breeze to warrant the setting of all plain sail.
This eased matters considerably, the erratic motion subsided, and
all was well. In the afternoon, by way of variety, I was instructed
to trim coal for the stokehold. Rio was hot; we are led to believe
that there is even a hotter place, but if it is no worse than in the
_Quest’s_ bunkers down here in the tropics, I have no fear of the
future. The particular bunker selected for my attention was situated
quite close to the boiler. It left a baker’s oven ridiculously behind,
so far as heat was concerned, and the coal-dust—phew! Not that I’m
grumbling, mark you, the job had to be done, and there was no reason
why I should have been excused; but it is my way to relate impressions.

I found out a way to make even this existence tolerable—man, especially
a Scout man, being an adaptable animal. I threw down exactly sixty
shovelfuls of coal, that being my extreme limit; then I dived for
the stokehold, with the enthusiastic eagerness of a Bromley-kite
after a dead Malay, and emerged into that comparative ice-chest in
an avalanche of dust, small coal, and bigger lumps, with the shovel
clattering triumphantly between my legs. In the stokehold I got a
breath of air that was not entirely solid, remembered that mine it
was to do or die, and got back to the bunker just in time to satisfy
the demands of the stoker on duty. A great game!

Evidently my success at this ploy was so conspicuous that I was
employed throughout the following day in the bunkers as a reward of
zeal. But the weather was cooling somewhat now, and the conditions
were not so irksome; yet sleeping on deck was becoming more of a pain
than a pleasure, and I found my bunk in the wardroom quite inviting.

Then, on the next day, I completed my bunker work, to my great
satisfaction, and resumed duty on deck. The weather overhead was fine,
the sea was growingly vigorous. On this day I saw my first albatross.
It was sitting on the water, and at first sight looked to be nothing
more important than a large gull; but when it took wing and skimmed
away, I got an impression of perfect and amazing flight. It took
things in most leisurely fashion, obtaining the greatest amount of
result with the least expenditure of energy—circling our mastheads
with supreme insolence, without so much as the quiver of a wing. It
was one of the Wanderer class, I was told; but its wanderings ceased
when it came upon us, for it accompanied us south with the greatest
pertinacity, living on the scraps thrown overboard from the cook’s
galley.

Also, we saw a “Portuguese man-o’-war”—a nautilus; a flimsy,
bewildering, beautiful sea-curiosity, with its sails that looked
like mother-o’-pearl all fairly set to the breeze. Albatrosses
and nautiluses are seldom seen in company—but we were favoured by
witnessing this remarkable combination.

It was amusing to watch the envy and admiration with which our two
flying men—Carr and Wilkins—studied the manœuvres of the albatross.
Both of them, apparently, thought that if they possessed ingenuity
sufficient to enable them to construct a heavier-than-air machine
that would duplicate that effortless motion, their fortunes would be
made and their undying fame assured. They talked throughout the day
in a jargon that was entirely unintelligible to me about vol-planing,
and stalling, and banking, and at the end resolved that Nature was
a greater inventor than mere man.

Just about now, too, there was a certain amount of merriment in the
ship owing to Carr being required to improve the accommodation below.
It takes very little to arouse a laugh on shipboard, where stern hard
work is the prevailing note; and we were grateful to our amateur
carpenter for permitting us to laugh at his well-meant efforts,
which, though rough and crude, suited the conditions. Despite the
alterations that had been made at Rio, the down-below accommodation
was still limited, and every man had to stow himself away in as small
a space as was compatible with continued existence. If in a future
state I am ever destined to become a sardine, I shall know that I’ve
had good training in the art of close stowage!

As the wind was coming away fair and with a force that promised added
speed, the foresail and staysail were taken in and the square-sail set.
The promise was fulfilled, and now we romped along in an inspiring
manner through a quickening sea that slapped happy little wavelets
against our quarter and threw occasional wisps of spindrift aboard.
In the main the day was somewhat misty, and there was a heavy swell
running as though promising an increase of the wind—what Kipling
calls “The high-running swell before storm, grey, formless, enormous,
and growing.” It’s astonishing to me how Kipling, himself no sailor,
understands the sea so well! He seems to have got right down to the
very inwardness of open water, and if he’d been a trained sailor he
couldn’t understand the sea’s mysteries and wonderments better than
he does.

The day of Christmas Eve broke to show us a moderate sea and a
refreshing west-south-west wind. During the entire day this breeze
increased, with frequent squalls and a gloomy, lowering sky, and
the wiseacres amongst us prognosticated bad weather. Of course it is
always safest to prophesy bad weather at sea, because you naturally
make up your mind that it is coming and prepare yourself for any
emergency; and then, if it doesn’t eventuate, you thank your lucky
stars for continued good times. But on this occasion the portents
proved correct: before night a big sea was running, and the wind, from
menacing whistle, increased to that deep thunderous note of striving
which indicates the nearness of a pukka storm. We began to ship
water—nothing to worry about, but still enough to drown out the dynamo,
as a result of which catastrophe our lights were extinguished and we
were compelled to resort to the oil-lamps by way of illumination.

While shortening sail one of the clews of the squaresail, carrying
heavy block and shackle, whipped sharply across the deck and caught
Carr a sickening blow in the face. He was literally clean knocked out,
but contrived to come back to time, and with his hands to his face,
and the blood flowing all too freely through his fingers, tried to
carry on. But this wasn’t to be permitted; he was sent below for the
attentions of the doctor, who diagnosed a broken nose. The doctor and
his assistant worked assiduously to restore the unfortunate’s nasal
organ to its pristine beauty, but though they satisfied themselves
they failed to satisfy the sufferer, who did his best, in front of a
mirror, to flatter his own mild vanity. He made such a poor attempt
that the work had all to be done over again, and during the operation
Hussey consoled him with impertinent remarks concerning the effect
his face would have upon the women of England if he tampered with it
any further.

This was a funny Christmas Eve, however, far different from those
of the past. To palliate our present uncomfortable conditions, we
endeavoured to create a vicarious atmosphere by remembering previous
Christmases. Here were we, a congregation of desperate adventurers,
collected from all the corners of the world, isolated for our sins
in a little, tossing ship that seemed pitifully small to engage with
the massed forces of the southern seas; all of us separate entities,
dependent upon our imaginations for recreation. We talked about
Christmases past, and groaned in spirit when we reflected upon their
glories; and then, as nothing was to be gained thereby, we went on to
picture the ideal Christmas we would wish to spend. Opinions varied
very considerably. Sentimentally, we mostly drew passionate sketches
of snow-covered fields and church spires pointing upwards, and waits
and skating and honest Christmas fare, carefully omitting, needless
to say, the consequent, inevitable indigestion! It is rather queer how
the exile invariably pictures Christmas as a snow-smothered festival,
whereas the average Christmas, according to my experience, is chiefly
remarkable for its entire lack of snow!

Anyhow, we all decided unanimously that the Christmas dinners of
the past were to be mere shadows as compared with the Christmas
dinners of to-morrow; for Mr. Rowett and his considerate wife had
made their arrangements well in advance, and the ship was excellently
well supplied with rich and luscious fare. Certain cases, carefully
stowed and treated with exaggerated respect, were rumoured to contain
turkeys, hams, puddings, and all those ameliorations which go to make
Christmas what it is; and on this note of gastronomical anticipation
we welcomed the Day.

Alas! alas! we builded our hopes on foundations of shifting sand!

Christmas Day, down there in southern latitudes—where it was officially
midsummer—dawned bleak and grey and threatening. The wind during the
night had increased to a very good imitation of a real gale, and the
ship was showing precisely what she could do in the way of uneasy
motion. A cork could not have been more lively in the sea that was
kicked up by the droning velocity of the unleashed winds. So far as
I myself was concerned, a happening occurred that threatened to make
me entirely indifferent to this Christmas Day, or indeed any others
that might gladden the world. My job was to maintain a look-out on
the bridge—the forecastle by this time being so constantly washed by
whole water that the normal look-out position had become untenable. The
officer of the watch sent me below for a tin of milk wherewith to make
more palatable his morning coffee, and off I started, full of zeal.
Crossing the poop I felt the _Quest_ poise and quiver preparatory to
taking one of her solar-plexus-disturbing pitches. A big, formidable
grey-bearded comber swung up out of the obscurity, gathering weight
as it came; it towered high, growing—always growing. Then it fell,
right atop of me, washed me clean off my feet and promised to wash
me overboard; but with a natural desire for a long life as well as a
merry one, I clung to what came handiest, a bit of the covering-board,
and held on. Noisy water covered me, I felt myself drowning; but the
ship kicked up her stern with a saucy irresponsibility, the water
receded, to the accompaniment of thunderous growls, and I continued
to exist. But I was as nearly overboard as a toucher; and considering
the sea that was running it is doubtful if a boat could have been
launched to the rescue. However, all’s well that ends well, and the
watch-officer got his tin of milk in the long run.

Let it be recorded here and now, how wonderful a sea-boat the _Quest_
is. I have probably mentioned the fact before, but it cannot be too
strongly emphasized. She seems designed to stand weather that would
make the biggest Atlantic liner quail. Small and light, she rises
triumphantly to the noisy crest of the biggest waves, and stares down
in supreme scorn at the welter of disturbed water beneath her. Always
she seems to be laughing in her sleeve at the clamorous immensity
of the combers, as though deriding their efforts to overwhelm her.
She is wonderful, a ship to be proud of, a ship to trust! She seems
to look on the whole business as something of a game; and, instead
of shipping vast masses of destructive water as a bigger vessel
would, dodges the big fellows, kicks them under her keel, and roars
up splendidly to the foamy summits to twiddle her fingers at the
Atlantic’s worst. Of course, even the _Quest_ shipped water, but not
in sufficient quantities to tear away her bulwarks, stave in her
hatches, and generally tear her timbers apart, as might well have
happened in the case of a bigger ship.

But what she gained in seaworthiness she atoned for in her liveliness.
By breakfast-time she was heaving herself about in an unimaginable
fashion, so much so that it was impossible to keep anything on the
table. Everything was thrown about, and the fiddles proved worthless as
a safeguard; and, for this reason, the actual ceremonial of Christmas
was wisely postponed. To cook a satisfactory meal was a problem beyond
even the cook’s skill and resourcefulness, though there is no doubt
that Green was the hero of the day. He did his best; but when the
kettle hits a man in the eye, and the soup-pot empties itself into his
waistcoat, and the stove thoughtfully discharges its hissing embers
on his feet, and every now and then a wave slaps in and extinguishes
the newly-kindled fire, and the floor is swimming knee-deep in greasy
brine, what can a man do that would not cause derision in the mind
of a Parisian chef? The Boss gave orders that the impossible was not
to be attempted, and lacking turkeys and the kindred delights of
Christmas, we satisfied ourselves with heroic sandwiches of bully
beef and bread, eating them as best we could manage, stowed away
in the alleyways for the most part, with our feet and bodies well
braced for steadiness against the soul-stirring rolls of the ship
to which we had entrusted our fortunes. Green, like the hero he was,
unexpectedly provided us with piping hot cocoa, and considering how
thoroughly drenched and chilled we were—for there was no shelter worth
the name to be found—the steaming beverage was better to be desired
than nectar and ambrosia and all the fabulous delights of the gods.
What though its flavour was reminiscent of the bilges! It heartened
us and stimulated us to a nicety, and we asked for nothing better—at
least, we might have asked, but with scant prospect of receiving.

Notwithstanding all seafaring difficulties, Green, determined that we
should have some sort of a hot meal for dinner. A thick stew resulted,
which we did not attempt to analyse too closely, but ate and were
thankful for. Such as wished it were also served with a tot of grog,
wherewith to drink the healths of the promoter of the expedition
and his wife; and then we compared notes of Christmases past again,
and discovered what a queerly assorted company we were. From Central
Africa, Iceland and Singapore, from New York, Harburg and Lithuania,
from Mauritius, Rio and Cape Town, from London and Aberdeen, and,
seemingly, all the cities of the world, we’d drifted towards this
restless speck now wallowing in the run of a South Atlantic sea, as
a witness that the call of adventure can never overpass the widest
limits of the world.

And that all things might be finished in real slapdash style, a big
sea lolloped aboard, insinuated itself down the after-companion and
saturated my bunk. Truly a merry, merry Christmas; but what of it!

And this Christmas Day brought us many greetings, if not from absent
friends, at least from the birds of the air, which were about us in
great numbers: albatross, mollymauks, whale-birds, Cape pigeons—their
name was legion.

Boxing Day brought an improvement in our conditions; the wind
was lessening, although the sea still ran high, and with only our
fore-and-afters set, we logged an even six knots, which was to us
almost a racing pace. As an offset to improved circumstances outboard
we developed inboard defects again—and the chief of these promised
to be really serious, for our main fresh-water tank sprang a leak,
and before it was discovered the tank was dry and our precious store
of drinking water was washing nastily about the odoriferous bilges.
The Boss took this accident very much to heart; it seemed as though
ill-fortune had dogged him throughout the voyage; but all the worrying
in the world could not mend matters, and the only thing to do was to
practise the most rigid economy in using what little fresh water still
remained, reserving it for drinking and cooking only, endeavouring to
satisfy all our other needs with sea-water pure and simple, though a
little oily water was being distilled from the engine-room exhaust
tank. Fortunately the weather was growing considerably cooler, and
our thirsts were slaked automatically.

Next day, though the wind was still blowing fairly hard, it was fair,
and we set the squaresail to take full advantage of it. No luck!
Hardly was it set than the out-haul carried away, and down came the
canvas for repair, which was effected with commendable swiftness, so
that by breakfast-time the sail was again set, and in obedience to
the weight of wind in it the _Quest_ began to romp along like a cup
winner. The number of albatrosses accompanying us now was growing;
they are wonderful birds, and well worth watching. Gigantic, too, some
of them are, with a stretch of wing somewhere about fourteen feet,
and an ability to fly untiringly without any perceptible exertion.
As the day progressed the wind freshened, and by four bells in the
middle watch a full gale from the W.N.W. was rioting about us. Coming
on deck at this time I was greeted with the awe-inspiring sight of
a favouring gale, with big seas galloping in our wake like hungry
monsters eager to overtake and devour us. Dark though the night was,
the phosphorescent gleam of the foam was so vivid as to give one a
fine impression of the elemental tumult that raged outboard. The seas
were being kicked up with truly astonishing velocity, and the hissing
rumble of them as they piled along our rails was a sound to remember
for many a long day.

As the wind was well away on the quarter the engines were unnecessary,
so under squaresail and topsail alone the _Quest_ flashed merrily
southward. We were logging a steady nine knots by this time—better
than we’d ever done before, even with engines working and all sail
set; a mightily invigorating sensation it was, I must admit.

At four o’clock I went to the wheel, not without a certain amount
of trepidation, for the ship appeared a lively problem to tackle,
rioting about as she was. This was by far the most strenuous trick I’d
experienced, for the following sea played the mischief with her stern
and threw it so recklessly about that only by dint of constant twirling
of the spokes was it possible to steer even an approximate course.
The helm was hard a-port or hard a-starboard all the trick—there
was none of that old easeful turning of a spoke either way. The ship
seemed to go mad; she took the bit in her teeth, and fretting at the
control, simply reared, and capered, and plunged, and bucketed until
you’d think she was incapable of further exertion; but just as you
satisfied yourself that she was quietening down, away she went again,
taking the whole circle of the compass to play with, so that my heart
was in my mouth most of the time for fear she might broach to and,
coming broadside on to the threshing combers, capsize and finish the
matter once and for all.

Yet it was thrilling, magnificently so, to realize that I’d got this
boisterous vessel between my hands and was master of her destinies.
The clamour of the gale was nothing, the level drive of spindrift as
the roaring wind clipped off the wave-crests and hurled them aboard
was but a challenge to war. Mr. Wild, who had the watch, was not at
all anxious to rid us of the benefit of this good fair wind; and he
cracked on for all he was worth, in regular, old-fashioned clipper
style, and imagined he was back in his younger days when steam
seemed a poor servant and spray-washed canvas the one great thing
that counted, and when he was relieved at four o’clock he passed the
word to keep on carrying on. This we did until six, when the Boss
decided that we’d run quite far enough, and that now was the time to
heave-to, since a ship making no headway at all is better than a ship
plunging to the bottom of the sea. I, being off duty, had just turned
in and was dropping off into that sleep which comes as a reward for
much honest toil, when I was rudely awakened by a sanakatowzer of a
sea that, obeying a purposeful weather-roll of the ship, had boarded
us and was flooding down the companionway towards my berth, which,
unfortunately for me, lay right in its track. I got out on deck as
nimbly as I’ve ever done it, and there was compelled to sheer awe
by the affrighting majesty of the waves, which were towering now to
our very trucks, so far as my impression went, though I’m told the
biggest was not more than forty feet in height from trough to crest.

I wish I had the pen of a writer to do justice to the majesty of
the gale as it now was. The wind had increased to hurricane force;
and the purposeful intent of the white-bearded combers as they piled
and grew and added others and yet others to themselves and then bore
down upon us, must have been seen to be understood. All hands were
summoned to shorten sail and get the ship ready for heaving-to, and
with the utmost difficulty the big squaresail was mastered, by the
process of running the _Quest_ directly away before the gale, and
letting the big canvas down by the run, with all hands leaping like
furies to throw themselves upon its slatting, cracking, thunderous
mass, to quieten it on the foredeck. Dell injured himself pretty
severely in this operation; he paid the price of his own activity,
for he fouled his foot in a rope when jumping to help another man
who’d got too much to tackle single-handed, and came such a smasher
to the deck that it was many a month before he was himself again.

Once the squaresail was mastered the topsail was clewed up, and Worsley
and Macklin went aloft to stow it, which they did in seamanlike
fashion, despite the trying conditions under which they laboured.
Then, under a reefed staysail, we hove-to, to wait for better times.

Heaving-to was a ticklish task, but thanks to the prime seamanship of
our officers it was effected without disaster, and although all hands
were ordered into the rigging when the _Quest_ was eased up to the
wind, in case big water should drench her; and although whole seas
had thundered over our bows whilst running, never a drop of water
worth the mentioning was shipped as the helm was put down and the bow
came gentle creeping up towards the run of the seas. In order to give
us greater easement the wheel was lashed down and oil-bags were put
over the bows, where they trailed ahead, and, leaking oil steadily,
created an almost miraculous effect on the turbulent seas. It was
most curious to watch a towering, foamy crest come hurtling towards
us, growing as it came, as though intent on our instant overwhelming;
but when within about fifteen yards of the bow it would suddenly
loose its viciousness, flatten out, and slink as though ashamed of
its previous bullying uproar, smoothly under our bows. It took in
all some sixty gallons of oil to master that broken water, but it
was worth it! Not that the ship’s motion was eased much thereby, she
still rolled and pitched consumedly, but the savage assault of the
greybeards was lessened, and, although uncomfortable, we realized
that we were no longer in actual danger.

A little water certainly lopped on board, quite enough to fill the
waist and wash out the galley fire; but when our delayed breakfast-time
came round Green, whom nothing could daunt on shipboard, served out
substantial sandwiches to the satisfaction of all hands, and these we
ate whilst collected round the lee door of the galley, washing them
down with some hot decoction of mingled flavours which our cook had
apparently managed to create out of nothing.

By three o’clock in the afternoon the back of the gale was broken,
and by seven it was deemed safe to get under way again, with the
engines moving easily.

It was necessary to pump continuously now, however, because the ship
was taking a good deal of water, but gradually, through the hours
of night, wind and sea abated. After breakfast we took in our storm
staysail and set the jib, topsail and squaresail, and proceeded upon
our lawful occasions. There was no little stowing and securing to
be done, as was only natural; for such a blowing as we had passed
through was enough to test the stoutest lashings; particularly was
the surf boat in danger; but all was made Bristol fashion again, and
as the sprays were no longer breaking inboard I took advantage of
the betterment to dry my blankets and clothes, which sorely needed it.

And now, once more, our ill-luck waited on us; again it was the
engine-room. The engineer had discovered a serious leak into the
furnaces from the boiler, and it was a leak that could not be repaired
at sea. The Boss had serious thoughts that it might mean the total
relinquishment of the adventure, and this worried him enormously.
All through, from the very commencement—long before the _Quest_ left
London indeed—worry had piled on worry, and Sir Ernest had overcome
difficulties that must certainly have daunted a man of much less stout
fibre than his. But he gave instructions that if the leak developed
steam pressure must be reduced, and so we carried limpingly along,
making the best of it, since this wasn’t precisely the yachting trip
it had appeared to be in more genial waters.




CHAPTER VIII

We Run into Ice


On the night following the easing up of the storm I got a fine
sleep, and all the troubles we’d experienced seemed to fade into
insignificance. Sleep is a great healer of wounds and it soothes many
a problem. But in the morning there was a pretty big sea running and
the wind was high, whilst, as the feverish pitching of the hull caused
the propeller to race so disconcertingly that it appeared determined
to twist itself off and sink down to rest on the ocean floor, the
engines were stopped and the ship proceeded under sail alone. I had
the wheel on this morning; but I’d got the knack of handling her by
now, and found it none so irksome. The wind kept on freshening all
the time—not to the same proportions as those of our recent blow,
but some of the black squalls were heavy enough to set the rigging
harping with the real storm-note, which is an inspiring sound—and
we shipped quite a lot of water over the bows. So, as the conditions
seemed to be worsening rather than improving, we hove-to again after
lunch, with the mizen and staysail set; and the clank of the pumps
recommenced.

Down below everything was soaked, even Sir Ernest’s cabin and Mr.
Wild’s had suffered with the rest. The Boss’s bunk was so completely
saturated that he had a bed made up on the wardroom settee; though he
used this makeshift berth only a little, for during the bad weather
he was almost constantly on the bridge, though his officers, sensing
that all was not well with him, repeatedly urged him to go below and
rest. But instead of resting he actually stood another officer’s
watch in addition to his own in order that his subordinate might
secure what he considered to be much-needed rest. That, of course,
was Shackleton all over, one of the qualities that made him a leader.

But certain of the officers were growing uneasy; they thought the Boss
was doing far too much, taking more out of himself than he should
have done; and yet, despite their protests, Sir Ernest said: “You
fellows are tired and must get rest; leave the ship to me.” And from
that he would not be shifted, although he must have known in his own
heart that the strain was telling more unbearably every day.

Throughout the day the wild conditions continued; but, abating somewhat
towards three in the morning, way was once more got on the ship and
the voyage proceeded. Some idea of the havoc wrought by the pouring
seas was conveyed to my mind when I baled out Sir Ernest’s cabin,
which was literally awash with dirty water, everything floating about
at hazard, the whole presenting anything but an inviting spectacle.
But a bit of conscientious swabbing restored things, and in a while,
with a light breeze and a calming sea, it was almost impossible to
believe that we had weathered such a snorter as had befallen us.

  [Illustration:

    1. South Georgian Whaling Station: At Work on Blue Whales.
    2. Some Finny Spoil from St. Paul’s Rocks.
    3. Launching the Kite for Aerial Observation.
    4. Sir Ernest’s Cabin on the _Quest_.
    5. Penguins at Home.
    6. Dead Whales in Prince Olaf Harbour.
    7. View from above a South Georgia Glacier.]

  [Illustration: Cape Pigeons at South Georgia.]

  [Illustration: Gentoo Penguins. (Note the Baby Penguin in Centre.)]

So the Old Year came to an end; its departure signalled by a double
ringing of the ship’s bell; and we looked forward with better heart to
1922. I had the first wheel of the New Year—from midnight to 2 p.m.;
the sea was smooth and the wind just sufficient to be comfortable,
so that we ran along easily under fore and aft canvas alone. After
breakfast I came in for a bit of amateur engineering, being detailed
to assist the second engineer to repair the deck-winch—an interesting
if somewhat greasy task. The wind was dropping; in place of the
turbulent waters which had thrashed us so unkindly, a long, oily swell
ran across to the narrowed horizon, and a wet mist drooped over all,
a mist that later turned to heavy rain, persistent rain, which was by
way of being a blessing to people limited in their fresh water supply.
To-day I sighted my first penguin; it was swimming some distance away
from the ship, and, as an inhabitant of the waste world of the South,
was an object of considerable interest.

The weather was becoming increasingly cold; and already many of the
members of the crew had donned clothing that gave them the look of
Antarctic explorers; most of them, also, were growing beards, which
gave them the aspect of pirates who had lost all self-respect. Early
on the morning of the 2nd of January we passed quite close to a large
school of whales, and later on vast numbers of penguins and other
Antarctic birds. The temperature having dropped to 38, a close look-out
was kept for the ice this temperature indicated, and at 10 a.m. our
first iceberg was plainly in sight, though but a mere speck on the
horizon. I don’t know what the others felt; I know I was decidedly
thrilled, for this was the far-flung sentinel of those vast defences
that it was our aim to penetrate. It was like seeing an enemy’s picket
and knowing that away behind him were massed formidable odds against
which, indomitably, we must pit our strength and courage.

Course was altered, and by one o’clock we were abreast the berg; no
monster, but all the same, quite big enough to be impressive. It was
a hundred feet high—which means seven hundred feet were submerged,
as icebergs only show one-eighth their bulk above the surface; and,
judging by the gaping fissures in its sides, it was an old-stager,
rapidly tiring of life and returning to its native element as quickly
as it could. It looked very austere, very cold, though undeniably
beautiful, with the blue cavern boring into its massiveness. The sea
about was strewn with smaller pieces of ice which had broken away and
not yet melted; these formed what I was told is called the tail of
the berg. By the time we had passed it fairly the sun was dropping
down the western sky in a blaze of scarlet and saffron and gold; an
inspiring sight that reminded me of that picture of Turner’s, “The
Fighting Téméraire.”

During the middle watch two more bergs were seen, without difficulty,
for they show up whitely, and seem to give off a curious illumination,
called “ice-blink” by old-timers; so there is slight difficulty in
avoiding them. The blacker the night is the more perceptible the
ice-blink; it is chiefly between lights that the sharpest look-out
must be kept. Nevertheless, whenever in the neighbourhood of ice a
very careful watch must be maintained, for in addition to the lofty
bergs there are also “growlers,” washed masses of ice that lie low in
the water, lurking evilly as though anxious only to tear the bottom
out of a ship and fling her helpless to the seafloor below. But even
with growlers the seas that race over them and cause the growling
note, from which they take their name, create sufficient noise to
give a timely warning; and sharp eyes can detect the thin, white line
of the water breaking upon them.

Bergs come from two sources. Either they may be large pieces broken
away from the Great Ice Barrier which hems in the Southern Continent,
or they may have detached themselves from some great glaciers,
which glaciers “calve” periodically, on account of their resistless
forward movement down the ravines they create towards the sea. Most
Antarctic bergs are flat-topped, lacking those fantastic pinnacles
that are usually associated with bergs; but many of them are enormous
masses, several square miles in extent and weighing millions of tons.
Not that the bigger fellows are the more picturesque, they are only
awe-inspiring. Gradually, acted on by rain above and warm currents
of the sea below, the berg wears away, whole acres are detached, and
in the course of time the vast concern capsizes; and it is a capsized
berg that is the most beautiful, for its outlines—worn by the action
of the currents—are indeed picturesque.

Fine weather continuing, it was possible to settle down again to an
orderly routine, and Jimmy Dell found me sufficient work to keep me
from fretting. I learnt the art of splicing—working on the topsail
sheet; and as lamp-trimmer, too, I was occupied in getting the steaming
lights into shape. Maybe it was the strenuous nature of this work
that caused me to commit the unmentionable sea-crime of giving a late
relief next morning. I was aroused by the skipper yelling down the
hatch that eight bells had gone, and I made a record turn-out, being
on the bridge within one minute of the alarm. As a rule, I sleep very
lightly; but this morning I erred, failed to respond to the usual
call at one bell, and so slept on. But I think that quick turn-out
made amends!

It was the Boss’s watch on deck, and during my trick at the wheel
he talked to me with the utmost freedom and enthusiasm of his last
memorable expedition, and pointed out the route by which he had
crossed South Georgia, the land that was now in view ahead and towards
which we were making for refit and overhaul. He called it “a land
of storm”; and the term fits it well. It is a little, lonely island
situated in the very south of the South Atlantic Ocean, amongst the
stormiest seas of all the world. It is over a thousand miles from Cape
Horn—the sailors’ graveyard—and nearly three thousand from the Cape
of Good Hope. Captain Cook discovered it in 1775, and no doubt was
sorry such a dreary wilderness existed. For a long time it was the
happy hunting-ground of American sealers, who played such havoc with
the valuable fur-seal with which the island then abounded that these
animals are now practically extinct. To-day this far-flung outpost
of the British Empire—for South Georgia is a British possession, and
surely one of its most dismal—is the headquarters of five permanent
whaling stations, one of them British, one Argentine, and the rest
Norwegian.

At this time of year—official summer—the snow was present on the
mountains in patches, but the valleys which open very invitingly
to the sea were all white. In each valley was a glacier which ended
abruptly at the water’s edge in a high, pale blue wall. But the whole
aspect of the island was grim and forbidding: a wilderness of rock
and ice.

Preparations were put in hand for entering harbour; the doctor, with
me helping, put a genuine harbour-stow on the sails, and squared up
all ropes and gear forward into an orderliness that would not have
disgraced a man-of-war. As we plodded on towards our destination
large numbers of penguins insisted on popping up unexpectedly out of
the still water alongside, and Cape pigeons were numerous. Shortly
after 3 p.m. we dropped anchor in the safe and sheltered harbour of
Gritviken, near to the whaling station.

The old-timers amongst the crew were in their element now; you’d
have thought they had suddenly come in sight of home. Particularly
was the Boss exultant; he kept on pointing out familiar sights, and
the weight of depression that had recently troubled him was quite
shaken off. He was brimming over with vigour and energy, as happy as
a sand-boy, and sniffed the air like a war-horse scenting a far-off
battle. Sight of past victories must have quickened the fighting
blood in his veins, and he could hardly restrain himself from rushing
ashore at once. There was so much to do and so little time to do it
in, that he felt as though every second were precious.

The water of the harbour was red with blood, and everywhere was the
awful, nauseous stench of rotten whale carcasses. Whale oil may be
a very necessary thing, but it is beastly in its securing! Several
whalers were anchored near where we lay, and alongside the rough
wooden quay lay an Argentine barque and a Norwegian cargo steamer.

We were promptly visited by the manager of the whaling station, who
went ashore with the Boss, who was bursting with lively zeal; and as
soon as possible such of us as were to be spared, pulled ashore in
the surf boat, to watch the process of flensing a whale on the slip.
For whalers nowadays do not cut-in and try-out their blubber in open
water—they tow their catches into harbour where machinery exists for
the purpose. The Norwegians who worked at the flensing struck me as
being mighty heavy and ponderous, and distinctly bovine of feature.

The whole system of whaling is, of course, very interesting, even
though unpleasant to those not accustomed to it; but it differs
entirely from the methods in the old days of the Dundee whalers. It
was then counted an exciting, dangerous calling, and to hunt a whale,
harpoon it and bring the fish alongside was about the most thrilling
sport in the world. The odds seemed to be somewhat in favour of the
whale, and the risks the whalemen ran were unquestionably great.
Nowadays there is so little danger as to be negligible, for instead
of going out for months and years in lumbering barques, hunting
the cetaceans in small whale-boats, and securing them by means of
hand-harpoons, untiring persistence and cold pluck, tediously flensing
them in the ship’s tackles and rendering down the blubber in the
try-works established on the deck, fast steamers set forth in quest
of the mighty game, and these steamers are armed with powerful little
guns which project a heavy and deadly harpoon, which, fitted with
a bomb that bursts when the weapon has penetrated into the whale’s
interior, invariably inflicts a fatal wound. No doubt this is a
more merciful way of dispatching the monsters; but it savours of
cold-blooded slaughter. The whale stands no chance, the whalers run
no risk; whaling to-day is merely systematized butchery. And to me,
steeped in the old whaling traditions, primed with the picturesque
accounts of real whaling, it was subject for sadness to think of these
huge and nowadays helpless creatures being preyed upon so mercilessly.
Once the whale-ship has secured as many whales as can conveniently
be towed—each dead whale being buoyed and marked until the tale is
complete—full steam is made for port, and the catch is hauled ashore
on to a sloping plane, where the blubber is rapidly and scientifically
stripped from the unwieldy corpse and conveyed to the try-pots to be
converted into the oil of commerce.

We spectators found it treacherous work walking on the slip, which
was several inches deep in a slimy horror of blood and blubber. For
a considerable distance on each side of the whaling station there is
a white fringe of bleached bones washed up by the tide, sole relics
of what were once huge fish; but when man, and the sharks, and the
birds had all taken toll, these poor remains were all that showed
the magnitude of the sea’s finny spoil.

Having completed the round of the works, having breathed the oily
atmosphere to our complete satisfaction, having seen the entire process
of creating oil out of dead whale, we went for a short walk inland,
up a slope to a small lake, turning to the left along a route where
wet moss and sparse grass grew, returning by way of the shore, where
the going was difficult on account of the dry bones littered there.
So far as I could see, the land is mainly barren. This wet moss and
short tussocky grass flourish to a height of about three hundred feet
above sea level, but elsewhere I saw nothing but bare scree slopes,
glacier-polished rocks and snow-covered shoulders, topped by the
high-soaring, white-clad peaks that never alter though centuries come
and go.

Better places than South Georgia certainly exist as holiday resorts,
I must say. It is administered by certain Britishers, notably a
magistrate, an assistant magistrate, two Customs officers, and one
policeman. Every barrel of oil exported from the island has to pay a
tax, and this staff is here to see the law is enforced. It must be a
lonely, monotonous life enough, I should say. These Britishers live
together in a house at the entrance to Gritviken Harbour, and what
they do in their leisure moments puzzles me to know.

We had a volunteer for the _Quest_ here in the shape of a nigger,
who spoke with a pronounced Yankee accent, and seemed anxious to
enrol himself as assistant cook or something of the sort. He paddled
alongside in a canvas canoe, and seemed anything but happy—which is
not surprising, for South Georgia and black men somehow don’t seem
to mix. He had stowed away aboard an outward-bound steamer from St.
Vincent, and he must have found the change trying; but as he belonged
to a breed that is noteworthy for its loafing propensities he appealed
to us in vain for employment. That night the Boss was in excellent
spirits, and vowed our Christmas should be kept on the morrow!




CHAPTER IX

The Great Blow Falls


January 5th dawned in nowise different from other days. I kept
the anchor watch from 3 to 4 a.m., arousing automatically without
being called. Almost at once I felt a suggestion of suspense in the
atmosphere; what it was I could not tell. But at 7.30 that morning Mr.
Hussey came down to the wardroom with the order that all hands must
muster forthwith on the poop. We dressed quietly, asking ourselves
what this portended. It was a dismal morning; the South Georgian sky
was weeping copiously, and we donned oilskins and waterproofs as a
matter of course, and got us to the poop, where we were joined by
the rest of the hands from forrard, included amongst them being Mr.
Jeffrey, who had been confined to his bunk ever since we left Rio,
with a torn muscle in his thigh. When the doctor saw him he was very
wroth and ordered him back to his bunk again, saying that no permission
had been given for such a mad action; but before this little incident
ceased, Mr. Wild came to us, his face drawn and terribly downcast.

“Boys,” he said, “I have terrible news for you all. Sir Ernest
Shackleton died early this morning. The expedition will carry on.
That’s all.” And then he turned to Dell, our boatswain, and said:
“You’ll carry on the same, Dell.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dell. There was no more to be said. Whole volumes
of dramatic rhetoric could not have conveyed the sad, sad truth to
our hearts more convincingly. We did not expect this tragedy; when
it came, therefore, it was staggering.

Mr. Wild left us, and we slowly dispersed to our quarters, walking
quietly, hushing our voices, for we were in the presence of death; a
hero had passed on. During the rest of the day we talked of nothing
else, recalling his kindnesses, his interest in us all, his genial
comradeship, his staunch courage and indomitable determination in the
face of the most trying odds. A great man had left us, and the ship
was lonely.

He had died suddenly, almost painlessly we were glad to know. To the
last he retained his old courage and good cheer; then in the chilly
solitudes he went hence, mourned by all as trustworthy leader, loyal
shipmate and wise counsellor. After midday he was wrapped up in our
silken ensign and reverently lowered into a motor-launch and taken
ashore, for Mr. Wild decided that all that was mortal of one of
Britain’s heroes should worthily lie in the soil of the land he had
served so well. That was the last I saw of the Boss.

So, wrapped in his country’s flag, to which he had brought nothing
but honour—the flag he loved with a genuinely passionate devotion
that was not merely expressed in words but also in stirring deeds—the
great British Antarctic explorer passed from amongst us. His name
will live when many others are forgotten; for the men he led, who
were his friends, must necessarily pass down to the generations the
truth of his greatness.

They took him ashore, intending to dispatch his body to the England
he loved; and we others, his followers and devoted disciples, were
left behind to mourn.

By the natural law of the sea the command passed to the next senior,
Commander Frank Wild, one who was prepared to carry out to the last
letter the programme of the man who had conceived the expedition.
It could not have been entrusted to a worthier substitute. Commander
Wild was engaged on his fifth Antarctic expedition; he knew intimately
every phase of the work involved, and there is no question that had
both hemispheres been fine-combed, a better man could not have been
selected.

Cæsar died, another Cæsar reigned in his stead; but it took some time
for our minds to adapt themselves to the altered order of things,
and for many days life was hazy, fogged and unreal. For it needs
the narrow environment of a small ship, I think, to enable one to
understand what death can really mean. In a shore community, with
many outside interests, the loss of even a great man is merely a
matter for temporary regret; but aboard ship when one goes hence his
loss is grievously felt: familiar echoes cease, the impact of the
dead man’s personality seems to vanish entirely and leave the vessel
without its soul.

It was not immediately possible to convey the sad tidings to the
outer civilized world. South Georgia is not in telegraphic touch with
England, or, indeed, any country, and our wireless was so limited
in its scope that it was hopeless for us to expect to transmit the
message of Shackleton’s death. Thus, lacking all knowledge of Lady
Shackleton’s desire, Commander Wild decided to send the body of our
leader to England; and ashore there in the little hospital the mortal
remains were prepared for the final journey. Mr. Hussey was delegated
to form the escort; he was one of the most competent members of the
staff, and his loss to the expedition would be irreparable, but a
good man deserves good companionship on his progress to the tomb,
and Commander Wild considered Mr. Hussey best qualified for the sad
duty. Right sorry we were to lose him; right sorry was he to go, for
he was the life and soul of the party; always provided with a quip
and a jest to ease off the foulest conditions, and his laughter made
even the worst days seem shot through with sudden sunbursts.

There was a steamer named the _Professor Gruvel_ lying in the harbour.
As she was due to clear for Monte Video in about ten days’ time, her
captain was prevailed upon to convey the coffin thus far, where it
could be transhipped for home. It subsequently transpired, however,
that Lady Shackleton preferred that our leader’s grave should be dug
in such a position that it would command the Gateway to the South; but
long ere he came back to the scene of one of his greatest exploits,
we, his comrades, were faring southward ho! with our new leader imbued
with desire to fulfil all Sir Ernest’s ambitions.




CHAPTER X

Frank Wild Takes Command


Commander Wild had a vast load of trouble upon his capable shoulders.
The most serious, most dangerous part of the voyage was to be faced,
and the troubles that had dogged us throughout promised to continue
in latitudes where ports of refuge were unknown. However, since the
spirit of the genuine adventurer was his, he showed a bold face to
the hazards, and we who followed whither he led saw scant outward
evidence of his perturbation. All he said was that the trip promised
to be a somewhat risky one, but that it was up to us to keep the
Boss’s memory green by means of uncomplaining devotion to duty, and a
determination to see the matter through. He gave us the opportunity
of withdrawing, if we so desired; but never a faint-heart asked for
a passage home. It may be that national pride was involved, for it
would naturally have meant a great humiliation to betray, before
the Norwegian element there in South Georgia, a lack of desire to
continue; or it may be, as I prefer to think, that all hands were so
imbued with the idea of fulfilling Sir Ernest’s dreams that at any
cost they were prepared to continue, whatever the days might bring.

The day of the Boss’s departure ashore was wet and depressing, and
on the following day even the _Quest_ appeared to be restless and
unsettled, for she dragged her anchors, and it was necessary to work
her to a more secure holding-ground. The general run of things down
there in South Georgia is for constant heavy squalls to blow fiercely
off the land, and to lie there at anchor with any sense of security
you must have implicit faith in your ground-tackle and be constantly
on the _qui vive_. The least carelessness is liable to result in
your ship being driven ashore and hopelessly lost. We came to safer
moorings, and, since our time was short and nothing was to be gained
by protracted mourning, we set to work to ready the _Quest_ for the
coming hazards. Three Argentine Germans were employed to set up the
rigging, overhaul all lanyards and seizings, and, driven assiduously
by Jimmy Dell, our boatswain, they made excellent headway. For myself,
I endeavoured to forget my natural grief in downright hard work of
an unpoetical kind—attending to my below-decks duties for all I was
worth. I found the panacea effective enough. But even so one missed
the Boss’s quiet words of encouragement and his approval of duty done
to his liking; it needed a firm grip on one’s resolution to prevent
one from wondering what the ultimate issue of the venture might be.

There followed now a sequence of wet, depressing days—miserable
days, quite in harmony with our feelings. Pack ice drifted into the
harbour where we lay, and gradually solidified about the ship; the
mists drooped heavily over the hills, narrowing our horizons, and
throughout this time a thin, infinitely penetrating rain fell, which
was not permitted to interfere with our deck duties. My immediate
duty was a simple one: the rigging was being thoroughly served, and
I passed the spunyarn ball whilst other men, more competent than I,
did the actual work. If I thought that I was like the Hibernian who
carried bricks up a ladder whilst another man expended himself in
tiresome toil, that is my own affair.

High winds accompanied the misty rains, and the surrounding ice
lowered the temperature enormously. All hands were busy as could be;
such as were not employed on deck found plenty to do down below. The
boiler was due for its periodical scaling, the encrustations formed
inside the plates by reason of the corroding salts in the water had
to be removed, as their presence lessened our steaming powers. On
one of these indeterminate days, as I think I might call them, Mr.
Wilkins returned in a whaler after three weeks’ scientific work on
the island; and on the day following his return to the _Quest_ I was
up at an early hour to accompany him in the small whaler _Carl_ to
bring back Mr. Douglas, who had established a research camp on the
shore of a tiny bay some two hours’ journey away. It was necessary for
Wilkins and myself to serve as crew aboard the _Carl_, since the only
other people aboard were the skipper and a man who called himself the
engineer. Fortified by strong coffee and noble sandwiches, we set off
in good spirits, despite the considerable breeze that was blowing.
Although the wind blew a whole gale, the sea, thanks to the shelter
of the many islets and the greater shelter of the towering hills, was
smooth enough to rejoice the heart of even the most timorous tripper.
My experience as helmsman of the _Quest_ naturally fitted me—in my own
estimation—as qualified quartermaster for any ship afloat; so I took
the whaler’s wheel without the smallest trepidation. Ships differ,
however; they say they are like women in this respect. I wasn’t used
to a craft that literally leaped to answer the slightest touch on
the helm, and as a result I very nearly ran the Carl ashore on the
rocks; but our miss was as good as a mile, and once I’d got the hang
of things I managed better.

Without further mishap we reached Douglas’s little cove and dropped
anchor there. Not without difficulty, since a sea of kelp lay between
us and the shore. Wilkins and myself lowered the whaler’s boat and
pulled ashore, where Douglas came out to lend us a hand in beaching
the boat. Having collected him and his much gear, we transhipped the
lot to the _Carl_, and, lifting anchor, headed back for Gritviken,
which we reached without startling adventure by early afternoon. In
our absence the boiler had been scaled, refilled with fresh water,
and our small dynamo had also been repaired.

Next day we made an early start by heaving up anchor at 6 a.m. in
order to go alongside to secure an adequate supply of fresh water.
By contrast with previous days this January morning was bright, mild
and sunny. I came to the conclusion that the South Georgian climate
had taken our own unmistakable British climate as a model. It gave us
a thoroughly good imitation of an English June, I must say—frostbite
one day, sunstroke the next, with a sort of _olla podrida_ of all
sorts of changes, from crisp frost to sultry heat, in between. Mr.
Wilkins and Major Carr vanished on another mysterious expedition in
the _Carl_, and as at three o’clock our fresh-water tanks were filled,
we shifted ship to the opposite side of the bay, and an adventurous
party promptly proceeded ashore in search of deer. Commander Wild
succeeded in bringing one down at long range; but—alas for our hopes
of fresh venison!—an impassable river intervened between killer and
killed, and, as time did not permit the lengthy detour necessary, the
hunters returned more or less empty-handed, for sea-birds and seals
hardly count.

Commander Wild’s intention was to enter the Antarctic ice without
any delay, by reason of the lateness of the season. Pushing to the
eastward, and then striking south through the pack ice, he wished to
reach the Great Ice Barrier, and, having reached it, to turn westward
and comprehensively map out the whole coastline in the direction of
Coats Land, so long as the ice remained loose enough to permit of
an escape before the winter frosts solidified the whole mass. But as
the _Quest’s_ engine power and general structure made her ability to
deal with the ice something of a matter for conjecture, the plan was
subject to modifications. There was to be no sensational dash to the
South Pole; no attempt to outrival previous explorers’ daring; the main
idea of the expedition was purely scientific, with an underrunning
desire to verify certain theories of the past that had never been
definitely proved.

As the season was fast advancing, Commander Wild was most anxious,
consequent on our annoying delays, to get clear of South Georgia
and away southwards; and his haste was understandable when, the day
after watering the ship and moving into Leith Harbour, we wakened to
discover the surface of the bay covered with pancake ice. It is called
by this name because, instead of being one broad, continuous sheet,
it appears in a great number of large round pieces, ridiculously like
pancakes, which, as the temperature falls, freeze solidly together to
form a single sheet of what is known by Arctic and Antarctic experts
as “young ice.”

There was still much to be done: fresh clothing to be secured, fresh
stores and coal to be embarked. We of the crew were all fitted out
snugly with fur-lined leather caps, like those worn by flying men,
socks and mitts beyond the counting, stout ankle boots, much warm
underclothing, pea-jackets of weather-resisting quality, wind-proof
jackets—very necessary, these, considering what awaited us—stout
pants, blankets and warm coverlets. Every man’s wants were supplied
through the generous kindness of Mr. Hansen, the manager of the
whaling station at Leith; no trouble seemed too great so far as he
was concerned. The old-timers said that this outfit, which seemed
amazing to me, was nothing to the genuine Antarctic equipment which
was waiting for us at Cape Town, having been sent there by Sir Ernest
Shackleton before the expedition started; but it promised to suffice
us for one season, at all events. Mr. Hansen also fashioned for us
in his workshops ice anchors, hand harpoons, ice picks and ice axes;
and I must give the Norwegian population of South Georgia full marks
for the unvarying interest they showed in our preparations and the
ready help they gave under all circumstances.

After a morning’s “Peggying,” i.e. performing the general charwoman’s
duties of the ship, I went ashore with the cook in the surf-boat for a
load of fish and bread, and when we started off found some difficulty
in making headway. Our combined knowledge of handling small boats
was remarkable for its minuteness; the surf-boat spun about in giddy
circles, but the little cherub sitting up aloft had an eye open,
and we reached the _Quest_ in a manner that would have resulted in
our scalps being served up on the wardroom table had we been pukka
man-o’-warsmen, where style counts as well as results.

But even so, breathless as this adventure was, it was better than
“Peggying”! Some day I shall write a whole book about the Peggying
art; but space forbids a lengthy diatribe here.

After dinner that night we had guests aboard, a small party of
Shetlanders favouring us with a visit. We entertained them to the
best of our ability: music on the gramophone, mandolin, mouth-organ
and violin; for the _Quest_ was a musical ship in intention, whatever
the result might be in performance.

Gradually now we became equipped for our venture. The ship was coaled,
supplied with oil, her store-lockers were packed to bursting; the
friendly Shetlanders cut our hair! But, prior to setting forth, one day
was devoted to a shore excursion. Such as wished to study the whole
art of whale-flensing were at liberty so to do, for a ninety-foot
whale was being cut up on the slips; such as preferred to practise
gymnastics had their opportunity, too, for a blown-up whale was
tethered to our mooring-buoy, and a lot of fine, confused exercise
was obtainable by jumping off our rails on to the distended carcass,
which had the resilient qualities of india-rubber, and coming back
aboard by means of the rebound. For myself I accompanied the hunting
party in the capacity of assistant to Mr. Wilkins, who was determined
to secure a photographic record of the activities.

It was an interesting day for me. The first noteworthy thing that
greeted us was a regular school of young sea-elephants: square-faced
brutes with bulging nostrils and expressions that seemed to suggest
that each one was fitted with a very pungent mustard plaster on his
chest. They were lying half hidden amongst the tussock grass, through
which their sleek grey bodies were not easily distinguishable. Very
ferocious and awe-inspiring they showed; their grunts on our approach
might merely have been grunts of inquiry, but they sounded extremely
like grunts of rage. Halting, we threw small stones at them, after
the fashion of inquiring humanity, which caused them to rear angrily
upright on their hinder parts, snarl with wide-open mouths at us,
then, curving their backs in high disdain, they moved off towards
the water, their heads over their sleek shoulders, grunting—always
grunting. Sea-elephants really are one of the many tribes of seals,
and they get their particular name from the fact that the young
bulls are equipped with short trunks which give them a most ludicrous
appearance. They are the largest of all the seals, and some of them
weigh up to four or five tons apiece. Relying on the gallantry of
the bulls, the cow seals cluster together in “harems,” so-called, of
perhaps fifty strong; but their faith in their male protectors seems
doomed to disappointment, judging by the behaviour of the young bull
seals we disturbed.

The shooting-party went on their way, and I followed up the hill in
company with Wilkins, who was constantly securing some fresh snap
of interest. We stumbled across a great number of giant petrels,
sitting complacently with their young. So intent were they on their
nursery duties—it must either have been that or else an utter absence
of fear of man—that they refused to move an inch as we neared them,
contenting themselves with ear-piercing squawks and snappings of their
long bills. Wilkins in his turn did some snapping, too, securing very
excellent pictures of these interesting birds at close range. The
daring hunters meanwhile trudged after problematical deer, and found
none alive, but discovered the carcass of the one previously shot;
and for obvious reasons decided to leave it where it was.

Thoroughly fatigued by the unaccustomed exercise we returned to the
ship, and took her across the bay to Gritviken, where anchor was
dropped for the night. A short night enough it proved, for at 4 a.m.
all hands were called, to hoist and stow the surf-boat and get the
_Quest_ under way. Having got our anchors the engines were started,
and away we went, coasting along the forbidding shore, with the Kelvin
sounder going briskly, in order that existing charts might be verified
or corrected as to the varying depths of the water. It is a great
invention, this Kelvin sounder, and perfectly accurate soundings can
be taken to a depth of 300 fathoms or more whilst the ship is going
ahead at full speed. The Kelvin is a very great improvement on the
old sounding methods, when it was necessary to heave the ship to,
carry the lead forward, drop it, wait until the leadline paid out,
and then haul it in astern by hand; even then not knowing whether
your measurements were accurate to a fathom or two either way.

The Kelvin sounder, which owes its genesis to Lord Kelvin, is in
reality a simple affair; it depends for its accuracy on atmospheric
pressure. It consists of a sinker—merely a weighty chunk of shaped
lead—and a tube in which is slid a narrow glass tube coated internally
with a chemical substance, which the pressure alters in colouring.
The sinker is attached to tough wire capable of standing a terrific
strain, and this wire is wound about a drum worked by friction clutches
and friction brakes. When the sinker reaches bottom a slight pressure
on the winding handle checks the run of the wire, a little added
pressure puts the handles in action, and two men can comfortably
wind up the lead from the greatest depth. Once the sounding-tube is
brought aboard the glass tube is applied to a graduated gauge, and
the limit of the changed colouring of the contained pigment marks the
actual depth of water. The bottom of the sinker is hollowed slightly
and “armed” with tallow, which, impinging on the bottom, either
brings up a sample of sand, gravel or shell, or, if hard rock alone
is below, brings up an imprint which sufficiently shows the nature
of the bottom. The depth-reading, being measured purely by vertical
atmospheric pressure, is necessarily accurate, no matter how fast
the ship is going or how much wire has run out.

Presently we stopped, lowered the surf-boat and dispatched a crew
ashore to bring off Douglas and Carr, and, if possible, secure some
penguins for food, as our preserved stores required the most careful
shepherding, by reason of the lengthy cruise ahead of us. The doctor
and I, on landing, took sticks and proceeded up the hill as if for a
wager. The penguin can waddle along at a considerable pace on level
ground; but up a gradient he is clumsy and handicapped, and a man
can beat him easily. We were out for food, not sport, so we didn’t
believe in giving Master Penguin too many chances. In a very little
while we killed as many as were necessary for the larder, and this
without undue exertion, for the quaint fellows literally swarmed.
We collected our bag and retraced our steps, and found that Wilkins
had killed two Rock Hopper penguins, these for specimens, while for
the cook’s benefit he had shot several Skua gulls, which make really
excellent eating, being less fishy and oily than penguins and the like.
Returning aboard I skinned and cleaned the birds for Green, and by
the time the last stripped corpse was ready we were dropping anchor in
Larsen Harbour. This is a snug little bay—very suggestive of some of
the Norwegian fjords, I believe, having an extremely narrow entrance,
and the land all round and about rising in precipitous crags from
the placid water—sheer rock walls varying from a thousand to fifteen
hundred feet in height, in general effect somewhat overwhelming. It
makes an average-sized man feel more than insignificant to be brooded
over by these towering walls.

Just as we anchored, a wire was discovered fouling the propeller; but
the trouble was not serious, and “Old Mac” managed to set matters to
rights without any great difficulty.

Because of the indifferent holding for our anchors, it was necessary
for the anchor-watch to maintain a regular system of soundings, as
the danger of dragging ashore was not inconsiderable.

At 5 a.m. on Wednesday, January 18th, we got our ground-tackle and
steamed out between the frowning cliffs that guard the right little
tight little Larsen Harbour; and I, coming on deck just before
breakfast, was amazed and fascinated by the glorious beauty of the
innumerable tabular icebergs in our vicinity. They shone pure white and
dazzling in the glory of the sunlight, a truly wonderful spectacle, and
quite enough to give one a working impression of what the Antarctic
wastes really were. Furthermore, even at this early date I was able
to understand what is meant by the ice-lure—the queer fascination
which draws men from all the corners of the globe; which makes them
leave home, comfort and peace for the sheer sake of waging war with
the frozen wilderness.

As the skipper was anxious to secure absolutely correct bearings of
Clerk Rocks, whose charted position was somewhat open to doubt, we
headed that way; but the sunny conditions quickly gave way to thick
mist, and so we missed the rocks completely, which was a pity, as
it had been reported that recent volcanic eruptions had taken place
there, and the sight of an active volcano amongst drifting ice would
have been something worth seeing. Still, there was no time to waste
in hunting the rocks, for we were now embarked on the really difficult
part of our enterprise—the beating of the icy fastnesses of the South.
Every day, almost every hour, indeed, was of supreme value.




CHAPTER XI

All Ice Where Eye Could See


Every one of us was, I think, eager to join issue with the frozen
enemy. The desire to conquer must always remain a dominant instinct
in men’s souls, whether the object of conquest be human or merely
geographical. You feel that life isn’t worth living unless you’re
fighting!

But in ice-fighting caution is a useful adjunct, and so, with the mist
thickening and much ice about, speed was eased to a mere crawl, and
with keen eyes on the look out we slogged placidly along. There were
bergs everywhere, by the hundred, wonderfully varied in size and shape,
but all speaking of the Antarctic continent that had mothered them.
I knew now why our dead leader had been so enthusiastic concerning
the solitudes he had made his own by right of conquest. Throughout
my association with him he had rhapsodized about the call of the ice
and the eager hunger with which your iceman goes forward into battle.
Some of that hunger troubled me as I steered the _Quest_ along her
menaced route.

The next day broke bright and inspiring; the mists had fled, and
everywhere was floating ice. These bergs need a volume to themselves
adequately to describe, for to me it seemed as though no two were
alike. Some were flat-topped, calves from the great Ice Barrier; others
were fantastic in outline, like fairy islands, indeed, pierced by
dull blue-green caverns through which the seas roared and thundered
and hissed and whined. You could see what might have been frozen
cathedrals, rearing inspiring spires to the untroubled blue of the
sky; ice-clad ships of an older time, castles, glittering palaces,
shifting, bowing, curtsying to the bidding of the sea that was drawing
them north to inevitable destruction. Many of them were cluttered
thickly with penguins and other sea birds, in clouds of hundreds at
a time; and the high sea that was now running threw itself in angry
foam far, far up the icy obstacles in a bewilderment of shifting
beauty that left me near breathless.

As the weather was becoming more and more rigorous, I decided that
now was the day and now the hour to discard shorts and “hard-case”
clothing and rig myself out as an Antarctic adventurer. My appearance
on deck, garbed in a big fur cap, heavy sea-boots and a sheath-knife
capable of carving up a whale into tiny collops, created some amusement
amongst the after-guard, who inclined to the opinion that I looked
a thoroughgoing ruffian, because my beard was growing to pirate-like
dimensions, and my entire appearance was awe-inspiring to a degree.
Still, that didn’t matter; and as I gathered that those who gibed
were really not displeased with the way I was shaping, I put the best
face possible on their taunts, and decided that it was worth while
being held up to derision if only for the sake of hearing laughter
ring about the ship.

There had not been overmuch laughter of late, but now the spirits of
all aboard were rising; and the return to duty of Jeffrey, who had
been _hors-de-combat_ ever since we left Rio, was a further matter
for rejoicing.

About four o’clock in the afternoon of January 20 we reached the island
of Zavodovski, the most northerly of the South Sandwich group. Just
before sighting this outlier we saw several big bergs drawn up with
almost military precision in line. Zavodovski is a low volcanic island,
with a black basaltic coast, steep-to, but insignificant in height;
nowhere do these miniature cliffs rise to a greater altitude than ten
feet. Only the cliffs themselves are visible; the rest of the land is
ice-covered. It rises by easy slopes to a peak that, when we saw it,
was veiled in mist, so that the exact height could not be measured;
but it was estimated from the contours that the maximum altitude was
round about nine hundred feet. Forlorn and desolate enough the island
looked, distinguishable from the neighbouring bergs only by reason
of this pitiless black fringe of rock, populated by countless legions
of penguins, who congregate in rookeries that stretch for a mile at a
time. The tabular bergs about are literally black with these birds, and
the water in a constant boil by reason of their diving and bobbing.
Passing near-hand to one of these bird-covered bergs, Mr. Jeffrey
let off a rocket, which exploded with a thunderous detonation. Did
the penguins take alarm? Not a bit of it! They merely looked up, for
all the world like deaf old men who imagined they might have heard
a distant clap of thunder.

A second rocket was fired, and, precisely like a sour-tempered old
man leaving a group with whom he had quarrelled, one solitary penguin
waddled to the edge and slid off. Before the splash of his departure
fairly showed, the remainder, uncountable hundreds of them, like so
many sheep rose and followed his example. It was the funniest sight
I have ever seen. The numbers were so vast, and the hurry was so
great—those behind crying “Forward!” and, presumably, those in front
crying “Back!”—that the rearguard pushed the advance guard willy-nilly
over the edge in a black and white cascade. A regular avalanche of
penguindom poured over into the sea; the foremost, protesting strongly
against the unceremonious treatment they were receiving, endeavoured
to hold stubbornly to their ground; but it was no good; weight of
numbers told, and very shortly the berg was clear and the water in
a boil by reason of the diving, swimming, indignant birds.

It is quite on the cards that a certain amount of volcanic activity
still exists amongst these South Sandwich Islands, for we clearly
discerned what might easily have been sulphur fumes rising from the
rocks near the water’s edge. Soundings were taken about the island,
and having secured all the scientific data necessary, we sheered off.

Shortly after midnight the _Quest_ had a narrow squeak. It came about
in this wise, and it is worth describing as showing the countless risks
that await the vessel navigating amongst floating ice. Although dark,
there was still sufficient light to see two large bergs ahead, one
on either bow, with a perfectly clear stretch of water between them.
To make a detour seemed altogether unnecessary, and the _Quest’s_
bow was accordingly notched on a course that should take her clear
through the open space. Suddenly Commander Wild, who was on watch,
realized that the ship was heading straight as a die for the middle
of another gigantic berg. It was a moment for instant action; there
was no time for hesitation. On a full helm the _Quest_ swung sharply
round and cleared the first of the bergs, though with little enough
space to spare. But for seamanlike promptitude she might easily have
lost her number and gone to join the long roll of the lost in the Port
of Missing Ships. What had actually happened was that Commander Wild
had mistaken a great cave bored deeply into the flank of a giant berg
for open water! It was a narrow squeak enough, and, realizing it, it
became more possible to put faith in Clark Russell’s remarkable story
of the Frozen Pirate. That great berg could have taken our little
ship and tucked her away in a crevice and never noticed its tenant!

  [Illustration: The _Quest_ Narrowly Escapes an Iceberg.]

  [Illustration: The Midnight Sun in the Land of Ice.]

  [Illustration: Finding the Magnetic Dip: Jeffrey and Douglas at
    work.]

  [Illustration: Taking the First Sounding in the Frozen South.]

A very considerable sea was running down here, and the _Quest_ set
up a lively motion, rolling with the purposeful thoroughness she had
always displayed. Next night we had another narrow shave of colliding
with a deceptive berg. As we progressed we got case-hardened to these
risks, and the ship’s work went on much as usual. Whether you’re under
the Line or nearing the Pole, your work must be done; the ship must
be cleaned and kept in weatherly condition, for she is your only home,
your safeguard against death. The most scrupulous cleanliness goes as
a matter of course, for dirt breeds disease, and in a small, tightly
packed community like ours anything in the nature of an epidemic might
have truly appalling consequences. Snow fell for a while during this
Sunday, and though the wind was not high the restlessness of the sea
was very marked, and the _Quest_ was as lively as a ball on a piece
of elastic. That more nearly describes her movements than anything
else I can think of. Ice was everywhere, and big combers where the
ice was not. But beyond the ordinary routine of eating, working and
sleeping I find there is little enough of interest to narrate during
this portion of our journeying. We ate heartily and spent practically
all our leisure in sleep. It is astonishing what a great amount of
sleep a man can stand down there in the Antarctic. Astonishing, too,
the quantities of food he can consume! Life was just one darned meal
after another, we used to say, with spasmodic interludes of work,
and then deep, deep, dreamless wells of slumber.

But on January 25 we took the first really worth-while sounding of
the expedition, an event of no little importance, in which all hands
could bear a share. Something like 4,550 fathoms of wire were run
out—27,000 feet separated us from the sea’s hither floor. Then—snap!
the sounding wire parted, and the operation proved fruitless. It was
just the luck of the game; a kink in the wire, no doubt; but that
sounding was never recorded in the archives.

The ship had been leaking extensively ever since we left Rio; but
now the leaks were becoming so considerable that active pumping was
necessary. It is a much overrated pastime, let me say. All right
enough in smooth water when the decks are dry; but when the ship is
piling white water aboard with every heave she gives, when that white
water, as cold as the ice itself, is tearing at your legs, drenching
you, insinuating itself into your sea-boots, sweeping over your bent
shoulders, as generally happened, pumping leaves much to be desired.
Still, we couldn’t have the old hooker settling down beneath us, and
what Kipling calls “the ties of common funk” helped us to endure the
rigours and make the best of what was a bad job amongst many bad jobs.

One day’s fine weather rewarded us. We mopped up the worst of the wet,
endeavoured to dry saturated gear, flattered ourselves that good times
were coming, and then—promptly ran again into vile conditions. But
during the spell of fair weather another deep sounding was attempted.
Since the general opinion aboard was that the reason for our initial
failure was the too eager willingness of all hands to take a share
in the operation, this occasion was marked by the astonishing lack
of helpers, Watts and Jimmy Dell alone officiating. Nevertheless the
luck was out: 480 fathoms of wire were lost, and with it the sinker
and the snapper. All in the day’s work, of course, but disappointing
enough to make some whisper, “_Quest_ luck again!” The best of good
fortune was most certainly not accompanying us on this expedition!

There were whispers that a ship’s magazine was to be started—Naisbitt
was to be responsible for it. We welcomed its advent, and hoped that
some bright brain might dig up some new joke from its depths and
favour the company with it. The old stories had been told and retold,
and we were pining for some new jest. In _Expedition Topics_ we got
lots of humour—all of it at our own expense! Our pet weaknesses
were enlarged upon, our chiefest foibles exploited in the sacred
name of literature; and without a doubt the mirror was held up to
nature with a vengeance. There were secret meetings a many—low-voiced
conversations held in obscure corners, and all of them had the same
objective: the blood of the editor! But we laughed, and laughter is
the finest antidote known to boredom. So after our natural passions
had subsided, we accorded Naisbitt a cordial vote of thanks.

On January 30 what might have proved a tragedy happened. Commander
Wild, who seemed to prepare for every possible emergency well in
advance, gave orders for the provisions of the various boats to be
rearranged. This was done; all our sea-boats were made ready to take
the water for thirty days at a stretch in the event of the _Quest_
being nipped between two bergs and sinking; but as the surf boat
was likely to be in constant use, and as the stored provisions in
her were in the way, these stores were shifted and equally divided
between the two lifeboats. Then, in order to give more room on our
hampered decks, it was decided to swing out the port lifeboat, and by
an arrangement of spars and fenders, keep her swung out. All hands
were accordingly mustered for the task, for as the ship was rolling
heavily to a big beam swell, all hands promised to be necessary. We
manned the davit tackles and hauled the heavy boat clear of her chocks,
swung her outboard in the davits, and then—the big roll came. She
came back with a rush, as though determined to crush us to fragments,
for between us and the funnel was very little space. Those who
dodged nearly fell down the engine-room hatches. But Captain Worsley
didn’t dodge in time. He was always the head and front of this sort
of offending; delicate work invariably found him eager and willing.
The heavy boat’s prow jammed him between itself and the wheel-house,
and the timber of the structure surrendered at discretion. There was
a cry, the splintering of wood, the awful snapping of human bones,
and Worsley’s ribs gave to the impact of the weighty craft. But for
the smashing of the wheel-house he must inevitably have been killed
outright, so there’s something to be said in favour of defective
construction! Commander Wild, who was inside the boat, and having an
exceedingly thin time of it, called to McIlroy to tend the injured
officer, who was promptly carried to his cabin, where it was found
that the damage, though alarmingly serious, was not necessarily fatal.

Meantime the boat was swinging wildly to the uneasy movements of the
sea, and Mr. Jeffrey, with language to correspond, shouted to us to
hold on to her; but this was easier said than done, for the boat,
heavy enough when empty, now carried something like a quarter of a ton
of stores in addition to her normal equipment. For a time she seemed
to be filled with angry life; she was like a mad bull, determined
to destroy. So there we were, grappling the runaway boat, bracing
ourselves determinedly, our teeth set and the skin flying off our hands
in square inches, so it seemed, and we could do nothing to quieten
her. No doubt she would have banged herself to wreckage against some
of the ship’s top-hamper, but Commander Wild, with the presence of
mind of your proper sailor, suddenly saw a chance, and as the boat
swung inboard, cut the rackings that held the lifeboat suspended,
and she dropped with a thud into her chocks. Working like ferrets, we
clapped on the gripes, bolted the chocks into position and mastered
her, telling her meantime in round, deep-sea phrases what we thought
of her. She’d nearly won, though; it was only the lightning-like skill
of the commander that gave us the victory. As the _Quest_ seemed to
take rather a delight in the scrimmage, throwing herself about all
this time gleefully, like a bad boy who has been chidden for some
wrong-doing, it was decided to let the boat stay out; and since we
were all handy, another deep sounding was taken; but once more the
wire parted at the critical moment. But forty fathoms remained to
be wound in, when—snap! More wasted effort! Some seventy-eight years
before the _Quest_ passed over that particular spot an officer of the
_Pagoda_ had logged the existence of a rock there, and it was our
intention to prove the worth of his record; but as we got a depth
of close on three thousand fathoms where the rock—named the Pagoda
Rock—was supposed to be, we decided that even if there, it was deep
enough to be out of the way of such scanty shipping as crossed over
it. But when we satisfied ourselves that the older navigator was in
error, we almost called ourselves mistaken, for a big blue berg was
sighted four points on the port bow, and in appearance it was so much
like a rock that we must needs alter course and trudge right up to it
before we were satisfied that it was merely ice. An old capsized berg
it was, hence our mistake. The day was fine and sunny, and although
there was a long oily swell running, which accounted for our drastic
rolling, there was no sea as “sea” is understood by shipmen.

Under canvas, when any wind worth mentioning blew, and consequently
blessedly steady, we proceeded on our unexciting way. I managed to
get in a bit of reading in intervals of work. Mason’s “Four Feathers”
proved uncommonly interesting and exciting; and we all of us had a
look at our new newspaper, which exceeded the wildest expectations,
as I said. Apart from the biting personalities, _Expedition Topics_
contained some very clever drawings, and gave us something to think
about outside ourselves. To harp on such a comparative trifle may seem
waste of time; but it is the trifles that count when folk are situated
as we were situated. I have heard that aboard certain small ships in
lonely waters a sort of green mould settles down on the crews, silly
trifles are exaggerated and magnified into enormous proportions, and
bitter enmities are aroused simply through the unvarying monotony.
The _Quest_ didn’t come into this category in any way, but we caught
at any happening that promised the faintest interest, for only those
who have experienced this sensation of being entirely clipped off
from the outer world, that might easily shift its moorings and vanish
into thin air in our absence, this brooding loneliness, can understand
what possibilities such isolation can possess for enlarging the worst
traits of humanity.

Daily our lifeboats were overhauled, examined, and their stores
tallied, to see that everything was in perfect order in case of
emergency. A lifeboat mayn’t be necessary for ninety-nine years,
eleven months and twenty-nine days out of a century, but when you do
want it you want it in a hurry, and with a ship settling under your
feet there isn’t always time enough to add a new coat of paint or
mend a broken oar!

The first day of February brought us a freshening breeze and a
consequent increase in speed. Under a press of canvas we made rousing
headway, which was invigorating, for the sense of even motion is
delightful. To one standing on the bridge, listening to the hoosh-hoosh
and lap-lap and gurgle of broken water as it streams away to leeward,
it appears as though the ship were storming along at a twenty-knot
clip; for when the _Quest_ did move she made as much fuss about the
job as a battleship. I used to delude myself with the idea that I
was on the spray-washed bridge of a destroyer hurtling through the
seas at the speed of an express train; and imagination helped in the
self-deception, though the best the old packet could do, with a strong
favouring wind behind her, was about seven knots and an onion. Still,
what does it matter if you _feel_ you are doing thirty? It is a great
joy to feel a sailing ship thrilling with life beneath your feet,
to listen to the even drumming of the reef-points on the distended
canvas, the harping of the wind through the tautened rigging and the
whole glad chorus of striving.

As time went on we got all the storm-music we needed; for this
breeze shifted to a point forrard of the beam, unfortunately,
which necessitated our taking in the square sail. Here’s where the
“unfortunately” comes in. We of the middle watch must needs add our
aid to housing the sail and setting the somewhat unwieldy foresail
in its stead, and it was so refractory that it kept us out of our
bunks till long after we should have been relieved. But with the wind
freshening to a good half-gale, bunks looked very inviting, and none
the less so because we had been deprived of their cosy welcome for
certain precious minutes. You can take a very tolerant view of heavy
weather from the shelter of your blankets, I found! But the gale
increased by leaps and bounds, and in a very short time the _Quest_
was at her old game. Every one of those nautical exercises in which
she had become so proficient were indulged in with admirable gusto;
we pitched, rolled, spun and lurched as though qualifying for a prize
as the most restless ship on deep water. Big seas rolled aboard in
monotonous succession; high sprays lashed over us, and the grey,
clammy griminess of hard weather claimed us for its own.

It struck me during the beginning of this blow that it would be almost
better to have one long unbroken succession of snorters, without any
of those tantalizing intervals of fine weather, because in a little
while you acquire a habit of balancing yourself under the most drastic
conditions; but one day of a steady keel gets you out of practice,
and so the lesson needs to be learnt all over again every fresh storm
that comes your way. Fortunately our giddy evolutions did injured
Worsley no harm; he took advantage of the gale to report that he was
feeling much better, though how broken ribs and crushed muscles could
benefit by such movements puzzled me infinitely.

During the night the storm grew in force, and Commander Wild was
reluctantly compelled once more to heave to. His disappointment was
keen, for he was so anxious to make every mile he possibly could to
the east; but you can’t drive a ship with weak engines dead in the
teeth of a snorter, and the only thing to do is to resign yourself to
adverse circumstances and wait for better times to come along when
the fates are more propitious. Smothered in crashing water, washed
off our feet, clinging breathlessly to everything that afforded a
handhold, waist deep when we were not over our shoulders, we handed
the foresail—an ugly sail to tackle in a breeze—and got the _Quest_
laid to under her staysail alone. Then the ship friskily beat all
her previous bests. She pitched things about that you’d think an
earthquake couldn’t have started. She lifted wedged books out of their
shelves and flung them to the floor amongst dirty swilling water;
she turned the galley into an imitation slap-stick comedy; and Green,
trying to retrieve his belongings—now plunging gallantly into Gubbins
Alley after a soup-kettle, now flying across the galley to collect
a kettle—used language that would certainly have shocked our troops
in Flanders.

That we should not be bored to death through inaction, the _Quest_
leaked handsomely, and the daily spells at the pumps were increased,
all hands taking spell about at the labour, which has very little
to recommend it as a pastime. Query, the dog, made an indifferent
showing in this rough weather; he seemed unable to acquire the good
sea-legs necessary in a ship of our dimensions, and as every fresh
lurch of the ship flung him helplessly to leeward, we had to chock
him off in the wardroom with coats and blankets and anything that
would serve as padding, in order that the poor brute might sleep in
peace.

At the wheel that evening I stared wishfully to windward, hoping to
see some sign of the storm abating; but there was nothing save an
ominous grey-black horror of drooping cloud, and a waste of black-grey
water, whipped to foamy spite between the narrowed horizons. Majestic
enough in very truth, awe-inspiring, indeed, but far from promising;
the sort of outlook that made you grit your teeth together and swear
you _wouldn’t_ be dismayed, although every thinking bit of you felt
that it ought to be.

Nevertheless, black as were the portents, four o’clock in the morning
brought an easing up of the conditions, and by noon we were steadily
under way with fore and aft canvas set to a breeze that was not at
all terrifying. By contrast with the past days it was like being on
an inland lake; the steadiness of the ship seemed unnatural; you were
always reaching out for the old familiar grip of something substantial,
in readiness for the inevitable lurch; but when it was discovered that
it was possible once more to serve a meal as it should be served—in
the dishes instead of the eaters’ laps or down their necks, it was
soon possible to grow familiarized with the better times. Peggying
in real hard weather is no joke, let me assure you. As often as not
you find the entire meal lying to leeward, a hideous blend of tea,
milk, bacon fat and jam, together with a few spoons and forks and
broken fragments of crockery thrown in. Sometimes, also, you discover
a stray breakfaster, resigned to the state of affairs, eating off
the floor, as being the lowest depth to which he could descend.




CHAPTER XII

The Great Struggle Begins


We were now moving over a sea that was empty of bergs completely;
the floating outliers of the Great Barrier had gone north on their
summer journey; but at 10.30 a.m. on February 4, the sea then being
calm and a thin mist hanging over the horizon, a few small pieces of
ice were sighted ahead. Was this at last the pack-ice of which I had
heard so much from the old-timers? Yes; the mist lifted, and there,
unmistakably, were long white belts of ice fragments—stream-ice, as
it is called, the heralds of the heavier pack not far off. The _Quest_
entered loose pack at about noon, in latitude 65° 7′ south, longitude
15° 21′ east, and now it was necessary to take in all sail, because
the courses to be steered in order to avoid the heavier fragments of
ice were most erratic, and as often as not the ship was thrown wholly
aback as she turned and twisted along the narrowing channels.

Everyone was now in the highest of spirits. To enter the pack was
the goal we had set ourselves—one of the goals, at least; and we
were entered. Moreover, the ice had lessened the sea greatly; we
were moving along on an even keel; the wind had dropped almost to
nothing; and, too, so far as the veterans were concerned, this was
to all intents and purposes a home-coming. Especially noticeable
was this delight in old Macleod, an iceman to his finger-tips. He
paraded up and down the main deck ceaselessly, with his face wearing
as beatific a smile as ever human countenance carried, I warrant;
so that to me, an amateur, it was as though he himself had placed
the ice there for the general entertainment. Undoubtedly his mind
was soaring to unimaginable heights; his eyes shone, uplift radiated
from him—until he slipped on some loose ice on the planking and came
sprawling somewhat ludicrously down to the deck and the realities of
existence.

At two o’clock I took my trick at the wheel, and enjoyed two hours
of genuinely strenuous exercise. Dodging ice is a most fascinating
sport. Ordinarily a trick at the wheel is a dreary and eventless
matter enough, except when hard weather is running, but in the pack
the helmsman hasn’t a moment for cogitating on his woes, for the
officer of the watch, eagle-eyed and vigilant as they make them, is
everlastingly yelling: “Hard a-port; hard a-starboard! Give it to
her quickly—quickly! Hard over with her!” and so on, and the muscles
must follow the bidding of the brain simultaneously with the order
being received. It is very good exercise for the arms and chest,
far more invigorating than frowsting over a stove or snugging down
into blankets for warmth; and as you realize how dependent the ship
is for continued safety on your activity, you take a keen pride in
almost anticipating the orders, waiting for the next one with all
the eagerness of a terrier alert for a stick to be thrown.

The pack thickened as the day went by; the open lanes of water
between the congealed masses grew fewer and fewer. One or two seals,
lying prone on the ice-floes, lifted their heads and looked at us
with astonishment and supercilious disdain as we ploughed forward,
but betrayed otherwise no symptom of alarm. Over all was the solemn
mysterious stillness of the frozen wastes, broken only by the
crunching of the young ice our sheathed bow parted on its determined
progress. And somehow the nearness of the ice bred up a queer kind
of exhilaration; it created a sort of “do or die” feeling that is
not easily expressed in words. I fancy, though, judging by what the
veterans said, that it was very much the same effect as is produced
on old soldiers who smell powder—it recalls past victories and gives
promise of further achievement. These mysteries are beyond my ken;
I can only speak of what I experienced, and I know that my first day
amongst the ice left me tingling all over.

Even Query seemed to get a dose of the prevalent feeling; he could
not keep still for long at a time, but kept jumping to the bulwarks,
where, with forefeet propped, he stared out over the pack, his nostrils
distending, giving a curious whine every now and then, as though he,
too, wanted to join issue with the vast power that we were opposing.
Every now and then, too, in the open stretches of water, we sighted
whales—killer whales, as they are called—who occasionally, in search
of air, charged wildly upwards to break the newly formed ice with
their heads; it gave me quite a shock to see broken ice flying upwards
in a cloud, with water and spray mixed amongst it, and then, below
the flurry, to detect the heads and piggish little eyes of the whales
themselves, like weird denizens of the hither deeps who had appeared
to protest against our violation of their sanctuary.

During the morning watch of Sunday, February 5, I was kept at the
wheel for nearly the whole of the four-hour watch, as Mac, who usually
shared the duty with me, was otherwise employed in Peggying duties;
and, because of the vigorous exercise, I was quite ready for a rest
when eight bells sounded my release. As the wind was now favourable,
and as every added inch of headway counted, we set the topsail to
assist our hard-striving engines. After lunch we passed a very large
floe, on which, entirely indifferent to our approach, three seals
were basking lazily, and Commander Wild, who, like a careful leader,
realized that the success of the expedition depended on the health of
its members, decided that now was the hour to replenish our larder.
Consequently he shot all three of them, and their carcasses were
hoisted aboard by means of the yardarm tackle of the squaresail.
Certain of the old-timers at once set to work with vast enthusiasm,
and in three short minutes the quarry was flayed, the tidbits obtained
from the general bulk—brains, kidneys, liver, the heart and the back
steaks dissected from each seal, and the refuse thrown overboard. The
skins, with their two and a half inch thickness of blubber adhering,
I helped to cut up and convey to the bunkers, in readiness for use
as fuel for the boiler fires, since every unit of heat producing
material was now of extreme value.

This was my first experience of the gentle art of butchering. An
unlovely job, entirely lacking in romance, but very necessary, and
so not to be growled at.

During this Sunday the pack hourly grew thicker and the weather
became colder, but not unpleasantly so, and I found this crisp cold
much easier to bear than the wet, soggy cold of the lower latitudes.
Altogether the day was very pleasant, for the sun was shining
throughout and the sky quite clear of cloud. Daylight, too, lasted
all the twenty-four hours, even though the sun did disappear for
a little while. But I was getting hardened to the lack of night by
this time, just as I was getting hardened to all the other peculiar
features of exploring the vicinity of a Pole.

Coming on deck at four o’clock on the following morning, I discovered
the ship hemmed in with close pack-ice of a heavy kind. There were
very few visible areas of open water, but the lanes amongst the
ice had disappeared. It was still possible to make headway, and the
_Quest_ pushed slowly on, with a suggestion of purposeful striving
about her that was very good to see. It was as though she said: “In
spite of all disadvantages, and no matter what sort of bad luck I’ve
had in the past, I’m going through with the job now that I’ve started!”

Though from the deck it was impossible to see any open lanes, from the
crow’s nest it was different, and by dint of stationing a keen-eyed
lookout in that breezy eminence, who shouted out whenever an open
stretch of water showed, and indicated to those on the bridge in
which direction to steer, steady progress continued. The noteworthy
feature was the appearance of many more killer whales, who welcomed
us by breaking through the young ice with their backs, and as soon
as they reached open air, blowing with a very unpleasant noise and
then, as though playing a game of surprises, whisking from sight
like lightning. Ugly brutes they were; seafaring nightmares is the
best way of describing them. Having reached latitude 67° 8′ south,
we expected to get a sight of land at any time.

It was very astonishing to take the first trick of the middle watch
in broad daylight; but the lack of darkness was a godsend, as it
enabled us to pick our way in amongst the floes and so keep going
steadily. The sun was not above the horizon, but the light was quite
as clear as early afternoon of a winter’s day in Scotland. Of course,
the dazzling white surface of the ice itself helps a lot, and the
remarkable clearness of the air is another consideration when reckoning
up this curious visibility.

As the day wore on the floes began to pack much more closely together,
and the ice itself was increasing in thickness, so that we made only
indifferent headway; and at last, coming to an unusually heavy belt
of pack, we decided that it would be necessary to give up altogether.
To force a way through appeared impossible, but just ahead showed
a clear space of water, and it was determined to make an effort to
cut the frozen barrier that parted us from further progress. To get
through the five hundred yards that separated the _Quest_ from free
water took exactly two hours of steady thrusting. For long spaces
of time we would find ourselves jammed tightly between floes as high
as our bulwarks, where, with engines rattling away at full speed, we
failed to make an inch of headway. Then it was a case of stopping and
going astern, after which the ship was stopped again, engines opened
to full speed ahead, and like a ram we crunched into the solid mass
and bored a little way farther towards our goal, with the broken
ice grating and roaring and screaming along our sides in a crashing
chorus of spite. Then, as soon as we gained a trifling expanse of
open water, we were through it and up against the solidifying ice
once more, when the whole process had to be repeated.

While we were held up in this way great numbers of seals floundered
around us, apparently sucking at the ship’s sides for food, and we
thus had an exceptionally good opportunity of studying these mammals
at close quarters and under natural conditions. Their movements under
water, plainly visible from our rails, were surprisingly graceful
and extraordinary to a degree.

After infinite striving we gained a stretch of open water, but,
crossing it, we found the thickened pack on the farther side to be
even worse than what we had successfully negotiated, and Commander
Wild, coming on deck at four o’clock to take over the watch, went
immediately to the masthead, where, by personal observation, he
satisfied himself of the utter futility of attempting to proceed
farther in that direction. He decided then to turn away to the
eastward, in hope of discovering a lead that would carry us southward.
Course was accordingly altered and we trudged slowly on. It was
growing colder and colder; the real ice nip was in the air; but the
rigour was not at all unbearable.

Later in the day five seals were shot and flayed on the ice; their
fat proved a welcome addition to our bunkers, to say nothing of dainty
fare for our larder. The big risk in our kind of work is scurvy, close
quarters and a monotonous diet of preserved foods tending to encourage
this most dreaded of all shipboard diseases, so every opportunity of
feeding the crew on fresh meat was naturally taken. Like explorers
in more temperate zones, we were determined to live more or less on
the country. But as there were other considerations besides food,
Mr. Wilkins sighted, stalked and shot one lone, lorn Emperor penguin,
which he gleefully added to his growing collection.

Throughout the following morning the _Quest_ continued working to
north and east in search of an opening that would lead her to the
south. Here the pack was looser, and not infrequently the ship was
steaming quite gaily across lagoons or down wide, promising lanes,
with many seals and those ugly killer whales accompanying us. Worried
by reason of a possible shortage in our coal supply—all along it
was admitted the _Quest_ was too small for the task imposed upon
her—Commander Wild stopped the engines at noon and all plain sail
was made, under which, as the breeze was strong, we made excellent
progress even through the pack. During the afternoon, ambling along
quite pleasantly, we passed the first sea-leopard I had ever seen. It
was basking on a floe and seemed quite unconcerned at our appearance
in its native solitudes.

Watching as the _Quest_ edged her way through the pack under sail
alone was quite an interesting experience. She managed quite well,
and seemed to lean all her weight on the ice when it hampered her,
thrusting forward in a purposeful fashion; and it was quite possible
to realize why earlier Polar explorers had done so well before the
era of steam. But during the first watch we took in sail and got the
engines going again, and with a lookout constantly in the crow’s
nest to direct our devious twistings and turnings, we continued
throughout the night, with the occasional screech and bump of ice to
haunt our slumbers. This bumping was supplying us with extra work,
for it strained the ship’s timbers no little, and the pumps were our
principal recreation, the ship leaking considerably.

During the middle watch bigger gaps and wider lines showed to the
westward, so our course was accordingly altered; by 4 a.m. that
course, instead of N.E., was S.W. By way of a change from the recent
sparkling brilliance of the atmosphere, this morning was so thick that
we could not see very far; but being sent to the masthead lookout,
I saw, over the blanket of mist, free water both to the north and
the south. Thus throughout the day we steered a series of devious
courses in hunting open water; and up there I experienced the deep
sense of loneliness that attacks a man when perched up in the crow’s
nest, staring out across the illimitable wilderness of ice, veined
only slightly by the ever-shifting water lanes. The sight even of
just one seal was warming and heartening, as presenting a relief to
the everlasting brooding mystery of the frozen south. Furthermore,
sight of a basking seal gave us an added interest in life, for, if
at all possible, the fellow was promptly shot, not only with a desire
to replenish our larder, but also to eke out our supply of fuel.

All hands were very fit these days, in excellent spirits, and
possessed of appetites that would have created dismay in the soul
of a boarding-house keeper. The cessation of the ship’s wearisome,
exasperating rolling and pitching brightened our outlook, I think; it
is impossible to keep optimistic and joyous when you’re being hove
about like a parched pea on a hot shovel. We did not realize fully
how trying that incessant liveliness of the little ship was until it
ceased; but now our troubled souls were given a chance to forget the
galling fatigue, and so we laughed and rubbed our hands and decided
that the Antarctic wasn’t at all a bad health resort.

The weather was steadily growing colder, though not nearly so cold
as I had been led to believe it would be down here in the Antarctic
Circle. I had expected a frigidity that would freeze the eyelids to
the cheeks and the breath on the lips; but my experience of this
temperature was that it was more bearable than an average clammy
winter day in Scotland. On February 10 we had the greatest cold of
the voyage thus far, but we made no complaints about it, for once
more our bows were notched on the south point of the compass and we
were driving through heavy pack. No lanes were visible even from the
masthead, so all we could do was just to hack doggedly on, in a sort
of blind yet hopeful quest of some open passage as yet invisible.

Not that we always pushed on blindly, let it be understood. There
are certain indications by which men are led down here where fresh
instincts are created and the old familiar senses of sight and hearing
are given a temporary rest. Invariably where there is water, even
though it be beyond our range of vision and tucked away below the
horizon, the sky above is definitely darkened, as it were, by a faint
rain-cloud. This is known as a water-sky, and, I suppose, must be
due to reflection. Throughout the middle watch this day a shoal of
seals followed us—thankful to us, no doubt, for breaking the ice and
permitting them access to open air. At 2 a.m. Mr. Jeffrey ascended
to the masthead, and with a shout of delight announced open water
to the south-west, and towards this welcome clearance we joyfully
steered. As a change from previous mist, the dawn of this day was
wonderfully brilliant—a gorgeous display of natural colouring that
awed the senses and turned one’s thoughts upwards. Glorious sunshine
continued throughout the day; high spirits characterized all aboard;
the atmosphere was intoxicating. The nearest land, we found, was 2,160
fathoms away, less than three miles; but the direction was purely
vertical, and the distance was measured by our sounding machine. During
all this day we headed fairly south through encouragingly open water,
with countless killer whales, seals and Adelie penguins to companion
us. But our heartening progress was arrested towards evening by a
gradually thickening pack, and the bumping and scrunching recommenced
as we crashed along through virgin ice.

The ice thickened through the night; the morning found us in really
heavy pack, making practically no headway, and at two o’clock a
fresh sounding gave us a depth of 1,450 fathoms. This fairly rapid
shoaling seemed to indicate that land could not be far distant. In
order that our then position might be plotted down on the map the
following details may be useful: Noon position, February 11, latitude
(by observation) 68° 52′ south; longitude (observation) 16° 43′ east.
Run for previous twenty-four hours and course made good: S. 15 E,
5L miles. Temperature, 18° F. No colder, you will see, than many a
Scotch winter day; almost as cold, let us say, as an average English
summer!

  [Illustration: The _Quest_ is frozen in.]

  [Illustration: Forging Ahead Through Loose Pack Ice.]

  [Illustration: In the Antarctic: The _Quest_ a mass of Frozen Spray.]

It appeared towards evening as if we could not under any circumstances
make much more progress, for floes of great weight were everywhere
about, packed so closely that it was a miracle we made any headway
whatsoever; for heavy floe ice seems at sight to be as invulnerable to
the attack of a ship’s bow as so much granite. However, we persisted,
and scratched and bored a little way farther. Through the night this
sort of work continued, an inch gained every now and then, and no
definite headway secured; and by morning—a beautiful clear, sunny,
typical Antarctic morning—the pack was to all intents and purposes
impenetrable. Through the four hours of the morning watch I doubt if
we made more than a mile. As we were only expending our valuable fuel
to no definite purpose, the ship was stopped at about 8 a.m.—literally
frozen in.

With the phlegm of the explorer, who comes to accept all circumstances
without repining, we put out a Jacob’s ladder, and tumbled out on to
the ice for a welcome leg-stretching; and it was good to see Query’s
delight at finding freedom from the narrow confines of the ship. He was
like a mad thing—all over the place at once, up in the air, scooting
at our heels, dodging and larking like a born joker. He was coming
on well, growing to be a fine dog with a splendid coat. Afterwards
I helped Mr. Wilkins to photograph the most interesting details of
our surroundings.

The colour effects about here were rather amazing. Those who have
never seen pack-ice probably get an idea that it presents one long,
unbroken wilderness of staring whiteness to the gaze; but such an idea
is wrong, especially when the sun is shining. The sunset effects were
particularly wonderful, the ice taking to itself all the colours of
the rainbow. At noon it is golden, but with the sun lowering itself
down the long path of the western sky, the snow above the ice assumed
a delicate pale pink tinge, a veritable _Alpen-gluhe_, with every
protruding hummock throwing a mysterious shadow, whilst newly frozen
water was a vivid green and shining like a mirror. But the paradox
of the Antarctic is that the better the weather overhead the less
promising the chance of making headway. Clear weather predicates
tight pack, misty weather loose ice; so you can’t have it both ways.
Commander Wild was anxious about this time. The main thing he dreaded
was lest the _Quest_ should get properly frozen in, for she was not
of suitable construction for this ordeal, her shape being wrong to
resist the inevitable lateral pressures. We had visions of seeing
her cracked like a nutshell by the vicelike nip of the tightening
ice, and other visions of the ice parting and permitting her to drop
clean down to the floors of the Antarctic sea!

Fresh soundings were taken when we returned to the ship, and rapid
shoaling was indicated. A series of magnetic observations were also
made by Mr. Jeffrey and Mr. Douglas, so that the day was not only
enjoyable but lucrative. But as nothing was to be gained by remaining
there we took advantage of a chance to break up the young ice, and
the ship was turned away to the north again, after much intricate
manœuvring, in search of an opening that would permit her to advance
farther to the south.

During the middle watch there was a further decrease of temperature,
nothing very alarming, but not particularly promising, as low
temperature naturally means heavier pack. We were then steaming in
a general N.N.E. direction through fairly heavy ice, broken here
and there by open water. Shortly after 3 a.m. the sky, over all its
vast dome, assumed a glorious pink radiance, which deepened in parts
to vivid purple and a most lovely blue. The water reflected these
colourings, and also the floes themselves to a certain extent, and
there we had a perfect picture of the South. The open water spaces
were strangely regular, and we appeared to be steaming through a
series of open docks with marble quays and pink-purple water; it
was for all the world like a dream city. About thirty yards away on
the port bow a tall berg glittered in the orange-gold glory of the
sunrise, like a stately cathedral. All the fairy tales in all the
world seemed possible when gazing at this earthly paradise; but...!

We were fetched back to the earth by a smell of burning that suggested
the extreme opposite of paradise. There was a big blaze at the base
of the funnel, which looked extremely alarming, and Mr. Jeffrey, who
had the watch, immediately called all hands, under the impression that
the bunkers were afire. Old Mac and myself drenched the flames with
buckets of water and fire-extinguishers, and found that the whole
blaze resulted from someone’s temporary carelessness in leaving a
coil of tarred rope too close to the funnel’s base. Maybe the glory
of the morning had a soothing effect on the troubled souls of those
who turned out in obedience to the alarm, for though very scantily
clad they did not even murmur a protest against the rude awakening.

In the afternoon we made the same course through open pack. Four
seals were shot and flayed at 6 p.m. The crow’s nest lookout reported
clearer water on the starboard bow away to the eastward, and course
was accordingly altered to reach the promised opening, which, when we
reached it, proved to be as free as it looked, and so we made good,
even progress for a while. Only for a while, however, for after an
inspiring burst of speed—unfortunately our bows were pointed in the
wrong direction—we were again held up.

The chief engineer, Mr. Kerr, had been busy lately in constructing
a harpoon for Mr. Douglas, and to-day he formally presented him with
the finished article, as if it were some newly discovered treasure.
To test this fearsome weapon Mr. Douglas took up a position on the
rail, as eager as Macduff himself for combat; and as there were
any number of crab-eaters swimming about, he let drive at one as
it came alongside. He aimed true to the mark; it was a wonderful
throw. However, it is better to draw a veil. Mr. Kerr’s enthusiasm
was greater than his constructive powers, for as the seal felt the
agonizing bite of the harpoon it gave a swirling leap and a quick
turn, and the famous harpoon bent double, dropped clear of the hide,
and the seal got away with a flick of its tail, almost as if it sent
an insolent message to the fabricator of the weapon that had caused
it torment.




CHAPTER XIII

Going Doggedly On


Commander Wild decided to get clear of the pack altogether and work
to the westward before again attempting to make for the land, and
consequently he held on the northerly course, through close but broken
ice. I had the wheel at 4 a.m., after he came to this decision, and
as the steering was nothing to worry about, I found myself with time
on my hands to study the trifling happenings that went on around the
ship; and it is the trifles that make for interest during a sojourn
in solitudes. So that I found a lot of enjoyment in watching the
manœuvres of a sea-leopard, who kept shoving his big ugly head up
above water some little distance away. He differed from ordinary
seals in the respect that he refused to come near to the ship. Every
now and then it was as though his curiosity got the upper hand. He
stared at the _Quest_ with an expression that was laughably suggestive
of a taxi-driver estimating the tip-giving possibilities of a fare;
but discretion was his strongest feature, and after a long survey
he invariably turned up his nose at us, gave a flick of his tail and
dived again.

The _Quest_ was leaking badly again, by reason of the savage bumping
she had endured in her struggles through the pack, and the order of
the day was: Hands to the pumps! Some of us pathetically declared
that we had pumped the entire Antarctic Ocean out of our bilges, and
that in a little while we should be aground for sheer lack of water;
but much as we pumped there was always more water trickling in; for
exercise, indeed, we lacked nothing. When day came the clear sky
was gone, a dull grey and brooding had given place to the brilliant
colouring, and the breeze was cold and biting. We thought longingly
of our Polar clothing lying uselessly in store at Cape Town, whence
we had been unable to retrieve it, and, biting on the bullet, made
the best of it.

There was plenty of variety that day. Our course alternated between
steady steaming through wide-open lanes and dogged thrusting through
close pack-ice, whilst during the official hours of night a lot of
snow fell; and, to remind us that the _Quest_ was a mobile entity,
a moderate but growing swell began to tempt her into a fresh display
of her aquatic gymnastics.

For the next twenty-four hours or so we continued along similar lines.
Open water in stretches, loose pack alternating, and a lot of snow
falling; there you have the conditions. But the increasing predominance
of water showed us that we were approaching open sea; so, too, did
the growing swell. A sounding of 2,340 fathoms showed us that we were
leaving the land behind us, and an increasing temperature backed the
idea; but though the thermometer registered 34° F. we found the cold
much more biting and penetrating, by reason of the raw-edged wind that
was blowing stirring up the marrow in our bones and setting the teeth
a-chatter. Killer whales and seals provided plenty of local colour,
and I was much interested in watching one seal that was perched on a
lonely floe far too small for it. It was like a very fat woman in a
very small donkey-chaise, and I wondered what would happen when the
floe capsized.

After a while we ran alongside the ice and moored the ship to a big,
hummocky floe. What this was for I did not immediately understand,
for the seniors of the ship did not go about the decks shouting their
intentions to all hands; and though I felt myself an integral part of
the expedition, I was not in the leader’s confidence at every moment
of the day. No doubt if I’d been a hero of fiction the commander of
the expedition would have left the running of the show to me, and
welcomed my advice; but this being real life I kept in the background
and did as I was told. Then I learnt by chance that we were about
to water ship. It seemed to me that ice congealed from salt water
was about the last substance in the world out of which to make fresh
water; but I was told that in the process of freezing much of the
salt in sea-water is precipitated, and that the upper portions of
the floes at least are always quite fresh.

Several of the hands went out on the ice with pickaxes and commenced
to chip off the tops of the hummocks. Others carried the resultant
blocks to the edge of the floe and hove them to waiting hands on
deck, who stowed them in a huge heap on the poop. By stretching the
imagination during this operation it was possible to conceive oneself
a millionaire potentially. Ice in a tropical city was worth so much a
pound. We had ice, lots of it—continents of it. If only the ice could
be transported and retailed, the treasures of the Indies would have
seemed like chicken-feed by comparison, and Jules Verne could quite
easily have managed the trifling task of efficient transportation.
However, he was not aboard. So we remained poor.

Melted down, this ice-water proved quite palatable; a great
improvement, indeed, on the stale water, much churned about by long
rolling, in our tanks.

With a sufficient store of ice aboard we cast off from the floe
and proceeded, until we ran clear of the pack altogether; and then
Commander Wild, realizing how rapidly our fuel was diminishing,
and knowing how many hundreds of miles of icy wastes we still had
to penetrate—with no coaling stations nearer than a few thousand
miles—ordered the engines to be stopped and sail to be made. At 6
p.m. we were well clear of ice and bowling along at a vigorous pace
to the N.W., with a stiff, uncommonly chilly wind astern.

At three o’clock in the morning, cold, raw and dark, all hands were
roused out to wear ship. I doubt if I shall ever forget those bitter
bleak mornings. To turn out of a snug, if narrow bunk, half-awake,
with the dregs of sleep still clinging to sticky eyelids and parched
palates, to be required to heave and haul at cold, frozen ropes, with
water swishing weirdly above your knees and slapping its feathers
of spray into your face—ugh! To grope for a stray coil of iron-hard
rope in two feet of water, and, just as you were gripping it, to
have the heel of some shipmate’s sea-boot come down on your fingers
excruciatingly—ugh—ugh! To feel the raw wind biting through to the
core of your dismal soul; to hear the hurl and rush of water against
your oilskins; to steady to the ship’s wild plunging—who’d sell a farm
and go to sea! But the job had to be done; the welfare of the ship
demanded that every man should do his best and bite off his natural
growls ere they were definitely enunciated, lest growl begot louder
and bitterer growl; so the job was worried through. By the manœuvre of
wearing, the ship—not quick in stays by reason of her propeller—was
turned to face the pack-ice again, and by nine o’clock at night we
were again in the stream-ice, with a heavy swell running, the ship
improving on her previous liveliness and thick snow falling. Peggying
was actually a welcome task, because it occupied the mind and kept
one below.

For a change the middle watch was entirely dark, and as we were moving
amongst some really nasty lumps of ice—chunks that could have made
a comprehensive mess of the ship—it was necessary to proceed with
the utmost caution. The swell continued with unabated determination,
and all the ship’s upperworks were thickly covered with snow. We had
miniature avalanches every few minutes through the wild rolling, the
ship seeming determined to rid herself of her fleecy covering. Imagine
a buck-jumping mustang newly harnessed into a landau, and you will
get some idea of her fretful behaviour.

With the coming of the grey dawn Mac and myself, lone-handed, set the
squaresail; but shortly before eight bells Mr. Jeffrey gave orders to
stow it again. By some mischance we let it go by the run, and, thanks
to the rolling and the breeze, it promptly went overboard, to trail
in the water and soak itself with icy brine. There was nothing for it
save to try to retrieve the runaway canvas. The squaresail is a heavy
sail, and in the ordinary way seven or eight hands are told off to
handle it. We were two alone, so picture Mac’s attitude towards the
matter. He made a great outcry, lifted his face to the indifferent
sky and cursed—how he cursed!—the Antarctic gods who decreed that
two poor men should be required to perform the work of half a score.
Cursing, he worked like a plantation full of niggers; the harder he
cursed, indeed, the harder he pulled, until, as though the bad language
were indeed, as Marryat says, the powder behind the cannon-ball, we
mastered the refractory canvas and brought it aboard, saturated, stiff
and unkindly. Believe me, we bragged about our achievement afterwards.
I am not sure that we did not derisively inform the other members of
the expedition that they might conveniently apply for long leave,
in that we two were quite capable of carrying on unaided. And the
many, very many, stormy petrels that surrounded the ship in the early
morning seemed to be cheering us for our display of heroic endurance.
The snow continued to fall with unabated persistence, and, meeting
on our sluicing decks the water Mac and the sail had lifted aboard
over our rails, dissolved into hideous slush. The stoutest sea-boots
in existence cannot adequately cope with the bite of such slush, and
for myself I lost all sensation in my feet. The afternoon brought
a lessening of the snowfall—brought fine weather, indeed; and we
smiled and patted ourselves on the back, and assured ourselves that
we were steaming nobly in the right direction—Southward Ho! In open
water, too, though that water was very unkindly in its motions, and
the _Quest_ as lively as ever.

By 5.30 we ran into ice again, and after bumping and boring until
ten o’clock hove-to for the coming of daylight, so that we should
not waste coal in aimless wandering to and fro without any resultant
progress in the right direction. Blundering about in the dark was
certainly an unprofitable pastime for a ship with depleted bunkers.
Let it be remembered that the atmosphere near the edge of the pack
is not nearly so clear as it is well inside the ice masses, and
consequently the weather is generally very dirty and the nights as
black as the inside of your hat. To my regret the doctor on this day
sent me to bed because of a chill I had acquired, possibly after the
frantic struggle with that pernicious squaresail.

On Monday, February 20, Commander Wild decided to work to the westward,
towards rumoured land, reported by Ross as “an appearance of land” in
1842. We accordingly got under way once more at three in the morning,
steaming a S.W. course through plenty of thick ice dotted with large
bergs. At nightfall the engines were stopped through the dark hours,
and I, still in my bunk, enjoyed an undisturbed sleep. It made up
for the lost food, denied to me by the doctor—not that I wanted it.

At the first show of daylight the _Quest_ once again got under way, to
plough a devious course through fairly thick ice. I was told that I
might get up and eat a meal, though I was still kept from performing
duty on deck. Just as well, maybe, for it was snowing heavily, and I
found occupation enough in restowing my locker and bunk and donning
a change of warmer clothing—with which I was well supplied, thanks
be to kindly donors. Then, in a spirit of carelessness, for the day
of leisure seemed to demand some ceremonial, I opened two boxes of
Scotch shortbread that I had brought with me from Aberdeen; discovered
the contents beautifully crisp and fresh; sent one box forrard to
the other mess, and we aft consumed the remaining box with eager
appetites. As though even the weather were growing hilarious, it
blew a heavy gale that night, and the ship was necessarily hove-to.
Sleep was impossible by reason of the scream of the wind amongst our
stripped spars and the grinding and scraping of ice along our outboard
planking. Not very easeful hours for a pseudo-invalid; but I’d been
told that I could turn to on the morrow, so what did it matter?

During the morning watch we drifted clear of the ice, and going on
deck I found open water about, snow thickly falling and the ship
wreathed in sound-deadening white. The wind, vigorous and chilly,
gave us a level six knots of speed with all sail set, and we bowled
along in heroic fashion, until at midnight ice was sighted, and then
it was a case of “all hands shorten sail!” with a vengeance, for we
found that otherwise we couldn’t check our headlong career and seemed
disposed to ram solid floes, which could only result in disaster.
This day was Worsley’s birthday, a day to be celebrated with mirth
and feasting, for the birthday boy had reached his fiftieth year and
was still going strong and looking youthful. From some hidden corner
of the ship beer materialized—genuine, actual beer, which was greeted
with loud acclamations. After a satisfying repast of seal-meat and
the like—and seal meat can be jolly good—Green entered, bearing with
graceful ease, posturing like a Pavlova, a noble birthday cake that
was iced to perfection and inscribed with an insulting motto. Worsley
himself, as being the pivot on which these celebrations turned, was
instructed to cut the cake, and was furnished with a boarding-axe to
do it. It resisted his efforts; for Green, in a humorous moment, had
iced a 56-lb. sinker belonging to the sounding machine. However, after
the gibes and lurid language had ceased, the real cake was produced
and we stodged ourselves to our complete satisfaction. The occasion
was a welcome break in an existence that tended to become monotonous
and also somewhat wearing, for the work of grinding through the pack
tends to deaden one’s senses somewhat and breed a fretting irritation
against unavoidable circumstances.

Shortly before midnight Mr. Wilkins, who had charge of the first
watch, roused out the watch below to set the squaresail. We groaned
both inwardly and outwardly. We knew what it would be—clambering on
top of the forrard deck-house, fumbling about with the steel-hard,
frozen canvas, with everybody growling and everybody in everybody
else’s way! A lovely job, but nothing, so I was repeatedly told, to
real old-fashioned windjamming. Oh, but it tests one’s temper to be
turned out on a cold night, with the ship dipping her rails under
water at every roll, for such a job. But mark how Nature brings
its own palliative! Once the arduous task was performed—thanks to
our efforts—our blood was hot and tingling, our spirits elated, and
we felt more like singing than cursing—we forgot that we cordially
detested our next neighbours and had sworn cold-blooded feud against
those we most esteemed, and in a happy frame of mind repaired to the
bridge to comfort ourselves with hot, strong coffee, shared with Mr.
Jeffrey, who had the wheel. The sea was rather plentifully dotted
with “growlers,” but we had little difficulty in clearing them,
since the ship was proceeding under sail alone and more kindly on
her helm. Later in the day we passed through a very strange area of
finely powdered ice—this powder lying on top of small snowball-like
fragments of ice—which gave one the impression of moving through a
lake of milk. From this phenomenal area we passed into a belt of
newly-freezing ice, and everywhere was greyness—sky, sea and ice
alike blending into one grim monotone.

During the night we sailed into heavy ice, which checked our way and
compelled us to head again for the north and open water, which was
reached before 8 a.m., the engines going slowly. Followed a period of
dodging bergs and finding the pack again, pack that grew heavier until
nightfall brought the need to heave-to, by reason of the indifferent
visibility, until daybreak came, when course was resumed, but always
to the north and west. We tried the pack repeatedly, but instead
of butting our heads against an implacable wall, whenever we found
that further progress was impossible we followed the line of least
resistance and edged away in search of more impressionable zones. The
sound of shots startled me from a peaceful doze at 8 a.m., and with
mad dreams of hectic adventure troubling me, raced on deck, where I
was greeted with a truly wonderful sight. Hundreds, literally hundreds
of seals were in plain view; many of the floes—not very big ones—held
ten or a dozen of the brutes apiece. We made very good use of this
opportunity, you may be sure, because of our yearning bunkers.

A little later in the day, as I was scrubbing down below, some would-be
benefactor yelled to me to get on deck as quickly as I could, to
behold another great sight. A sight for the gods it was, indeed, for
the ship had run into a great school of whales—more than eighty really
large fellows, and in every direction these giants were blowing like
geysers. The click of a cinema camera showed us that Mr. Wilkins
was already busy—I feel sure that if the _Quest_ had been sinking
he would have secured a realistic picture of her final plunge from
the truck!—and we others could only marvel at the wondrous splendour
of the sight. The whales did not remain long in view, however; they
disappeared ahead on their own occasions, and we spectators discovered
that work called us. We spent a watch trying to pump out the forehold,
and did not entirely succeed. The other principal event of note was
when Major Carr cut my hair with a very blunt machine—and I decided
that scalping might have been preferable.

The night came on very dark and misty, and it was necessary to exercise
the greatest caution in proceeding, for the sea was thickly strewn
with growlers of a dangerous size, so that it would have been folly
to continue at our customary speed. Consequently we crawled, engines
going dead-slow, and two men alertly on watch on the bridge to direct
the helmsman whenever solid ice showed looming through the haze.

Day followed day with but small variety now. The cold and the actual
fatigue engendered by this ice-fighting bred a love of sleep; so that
we spent our every spare moment, I think, in coiling down reserves
of slumber. In one waking period it was decided to tie up alongside
a big growler and renew our fresh water in a manner similar to that
I have previously described, but the heavy swell caused the berg to
pitch and heave very alarmingly, so we desisted; and it was just as
well, for had we continued we should probably have had our side stove
in, and that would have concluded my narrative before the appointed
time. With wind falling light it was necessary to make fresh inroads
on our very precious fuel, but we proceeded at an economical speed and
entered open pack, where we continued during an entire day. Seal-meat
was our staple diet, and we grew to like it, though I discovered that
it lacked in “spirit.”

At midnight we were once more among the growlers, and it was so dark
that we could only tell their presence by hearing the growling wash
of the seas on them as they tilted with the high-running swell. Even
with engines merely turning over the centres we hit several of these
ugly fellows, and from the reluctance with which they bobbed and bowed
away it was plain to understand that they were very deeply submerged.
With welcome light showing at 2 a.m. it was possible to proceed with
greater confidence, and in the forenoon, well assured of the safety of
the ship, the two surgeons, Dell, Argles, and myself spent a strenuous
watch trimming coal in the bunkers. By contrast with previous trimming
in tropical waters, we found it quite a pleasant operation; and no
doubt, at the South Pole itself, had we gone there, we should have
counted it a pastime! Latitude means as much, perhaps, so far as work
is concerned, as it does in regard to morals! During the afternoon
we hard workers were also strenuously employed in ballasting ship
more satisfactorily. She was carrying too much topweight, and the
opinion was that this added to her dire rolling propensities; so
as our depleted coal supply afforded us plenty of room, we carried
below and methodically stowed an amazing assortment of oil-drums,
spare spars, oars, davits, and, indeed, everything that could be
spared from the upper deck. A lot of snow petrels watched and seemed
to criticize our labours—we had been seeing numbers of these birds
of late. Apparently as a result of high living on seal-steaks and
brain sauce, the men of the skipper’s watch took a pull on the main
topsail sheet and carried it away as if it were a piece of twine. To
all seeming a reduced diet was indicated; but maybe it was merely zeal!

The 1st of March was conspicuous by reason of its sunny brightness;
a day of which to take advantage to dry soaked gear. All spare sails
were run into the rigging for the genial breeze to play through, and
when thoroughly dried were stowed away below as an addition to the
ballast. We sighted a most beautiful iceberg of towering height on
this day, and I express the opinion here—expecting no profits from
the same—that it is worth anyone’s while to go South if only for the
sake of seeing such stupendous loveliness.

Being once more in open sea the ship’s rolling recommenced, as a sign
and a token that our arduous labours in ballasting her had been in
vain. Not that we were hitting the floes. Thanks to the tempestuous
brash and several belts of heavier ice; but officially we were out of
the pack. Then once more we ran into heavier ice after breakfast on
March 2nd, and it was necessary to shorten sail because of the force
with which we were hitting the floes. The heavy weather continuing, I
got another job of work: to clean out the chart-room. Two jam tarts
had slipped free from their moorings, and the chart-room was simply
a viscous horror of jam. Sir Ernest Shackleton always contended
that a square inch of jam was sufficient to anoint a square mile of
surface, and he was right. Several square inches of jam went to the
making of those tarts, and so the chart-room was sticky! This done,
I accompanied Mac aloft, where he delights to be, especially when the
ship is throwing herself about, to repair the port squaresail outhaul,
which had carried away when the sail was let go in the forenoon.

Proceeding steadily to the westward, always in search of open leads
to the south, we encountered fickle weather: one day fine and serene,
the next squally and snowy, the ship placid and comfortable now,
and, again, making heavy weather of it and washing herself down
fore and aft with water that no pumps were needed to supply. Argles
contrived to mix himself up with quite a number of accidents, as a
result of the big rolls we took. Argles, it should be remembered,
is the stokehold’s bright light, the bunker king—being the official
coal-trimmer. Emerging from his favourite den into the stokehold,
the ship rolled savagely, and he, missing his hold, was thrown clean
across the stokehold, bruising his side badly. No doubt thoroughly
sickened of the dangers of below, he made his painful way on deck,
and here found no better luck. He slipped, travelled at express speed
from scupper to lee scupper, and fetched up with a thud against a
chance stanchion. Now, a hurt man demands a sympathetic audience to
whom his woes can be recounted. Argles discovered in me the proper
recipient of his confidences concerning the _Quest_ and her rolling,
and came down to the wardroom to ease his overloaded soul. The _Quest_,
righteously angry at the aspersions cast upon her—for she was a very
model of dignity when she was not trying to dance a cake-walk, and no
doubt considered herself superior to all other craft afloat—promptly
gave the father and mother of a roll and chucked him clean over the
table! After that he retired in a silence that was redolent with the
odours of brimstone.

With our waking hours amply occupied in work of varying kinds—and
especially the never-ending labour of cleaning ship—time passed
uneventfully enough. We saw much floating ice—bergs of vast expanse
and mighty height; and as the nights were black dark between ten and
two—regular graveyard blackness—it was necessary for the watch to
supply extra look-outs in the narrowest part of the bows, where, from
a comparatively low level, it was possible to detect the presence of
big ice by its blackness against the greater blackness of the sky. By
dint of these precautions we successfully negotiated quite a number
of large bergs that might otherwise have brought disaster upon us.
The second we saw a shadow we yelled, and the ship, answering her
helm cleverly, dodged. No time to waste at this job, because often
enough we were almost on top of the berg before we realized it was
anything beyond a fantasy of the strained brain. But after dense
nights we were given one with star-spangled, luminous heavens, and
got a glimpse of the eerie dancing lights of the Aurora Australis.
After seeing this atmospheric phenomenon I went below and turned in,
and was rudely wakened by several considerable bumps and jolts, which
gave me the impression that the ship was being ruthlessly battered
to pieces. Hurrying on deck, I found that we were under plain sail
in amongst a veritable morass of large growlers—some big enough to
deserve being called bergs, indeed; and were hitting them right and
left, willy-nilly. To my uninstructed mind it appeared the ship must
be suffering really serious damage; she seemed uncontrollable and
determined to batter herself to splinters against the implacable
bergs; but whatever her other faults, she was a stout little packet,
built by men with consciences, if without imagination, and beyond
a few slivers of timber torn from her and a few started planks she
appeared to be but little the worse. Of course, had we been under
steam, we should probably have run through this chain of bergs; but
a high berg becalmed her and made her temporarily unresponsive to
her helm.

It was a delightful morning: bright and clear, and the sun played gay
games with the whiteness and soft yellows, the browns, purples and
deep blues of the pack. We reached open water again about noon—where
were only a few smallish pieces of ice; and when evening fell had
another of those wonders of colourful splendour presented to our
attention by Nature, the master scene-painter, who seems to wield a
more glorious brush down in the Antarctic than anywhere else in the
world.

Morning brought a flaming golden sun uplifting itself from the
south-east in a welter of radiant glory that suffused the entire
horizon. Being once again free of ice we made sail and stopped the
engines—harbouring our precious coal—and continued on a westerly course
with a light northerly breeze, balmy and soothing, to urge us forward.
But early appearances were deceptive; and by eight o’clock the wind
had freshened considerably, whilst by noon a full gale was blowing.
We were, however, under the lee of the pack, and the sea failed
to rise, consequently even the _Quest_ behaved decently. The snow,
though, drove down in a blizzard, the harsh flakes striking the skin
like grapeshot, and the face of the waters was blotted out in a fine
powdery drift of ice particles that gave an aspect of utterly bleak
desolation. The gale continued to increase in violence until 2 p.m.,
when it was so heavy that all hands were roused out to double-reef
the foresail. Strenuous work in that breeze of wind, with the driven
snow pelting us mercilessly; but we reaped the reward of our labours,
for it eased the weight of the sail, making the ship pretty snug and
sea-kindly. Not for long was our peace to endure, however. At eight
bells—4 p.m.—heavy ice was met, and we were required to take in the
foresail altogether. Some difficulty was experienced in making it
fast. We struggled with might and main; and just as we congratulated
ourselves that we had the lashing, cracking monster under control,
the wind, with a howl of demoniacal glee, snatched it from our grasp
and flung it riotously aboard on its breast, whilst we, our fingers
numbed and the blood oozing from beneath our torn nails, had to set
our teeth and start all over again. But, as usually happens after
shortening down, the wind quickly abated, so that by midnight we were
able to proceed in something approaching comfort again.




CHAPTER XIV

We Make for Elephant Island


During the middle watch commencing at midnight of March 5 it froze
hard, but the pack was more open, and, after running north for some
time, we altered course and made more to the westward, Commander
Wild’s idea being to skirt the pack as far as possible. We entered
the ice again in the morning. During the previous few days remarkably
little animal life had greeted our eyes; there was practically
nothing to break the awful, monotonous desolation; but on this day
we saw a single Adelie penguin, dignifiedly in command of a solitary
hummock—looking for all the world, so old-timers said, like the
skipper of an old-world windjammer—one of the kind who wore a frock
coat and tall hat: a gaff-topsail hat, as they used to call them—even
when rounding Cape Horn in a rip-snorter—loftily conning his ship
through the smother and haloed in his own enormous dignity. Desirous
of disturbing this colossal equanimity—and I have seen honest Kirk
elders on a Sabbath morning who looked frivolous by comparison—we
made rude remarks to the bird, who treated us with lofty disdain,
and beyond showing a supercilious interest—as a pretty waitress in
a café might show to a chafing client—took no further notice of us,
until Captain Worsley, who is rather clever at mimicry, gave a loud
“caa-aa,” which started Master Penguin’s hoops and lifted him from his
god-like aloofness. He took to flight with all speed, casting scared
glances backwards as he went, as if he thought the special Antarctic
devil were after him. Still laughing at the ludicrous spectacle,
we tied up to a large floe and iced ship, an operation occupying
the greater part of the afternoon, and causing us much amusement by
reason of Jeffrey’s agility. He offered to catch any ice that was
thrown to him, and we were resolved to beat him—much, I fear, being
thrown at him. Nevertheless, he held his own pretty well, spite of
the thunderous fusillade with which he was assailed.

Query ventured on to the floe on this occasion and betrayed great
interest in a killer whale that was swimming about near at hand.
He barked himself hoarse at the monster without causing it any
perturbation; but of a sudden, as if bored by his exhibition of
ill-feeling, the killer rose quite close to the floe and “blew” for
all the world like a Bowery tough spitting disdain, whereupon Query
tucked tail between his quarters and bolted like a scared rabbit.

The following day was marked by an increase in the cold and a
tightening of the ice. I spent the day in proper sailorizing work,
under the excellent tutelage of old Mac; helping him to repair the
mizen tack and secure the gaff. He was a very capable instructor, and
from him I learnt how to perform most intricate tricks of seamanship—he
was always patient and ready to answer questions, and I look on him
to this day as my sea-daddy. He had a way of imparting information
that left a definite impression in the mind, and many a University
professor might have benefited by adopting his plan. Coming to very
heavy pack we had to interrupt our westward course and once more to
head away to the nor’ard, where we passed large bergs.

Sunrise of extraordinary beauty heralded yet another day. Beautiful
though the dawning was we considered it pessimistically, for a
fair dawn down in these latitudes so often portends a foul day: our
prognostications were fulfilled, for by eight o’clock it was blowing
and snowing to beat the band. The day grew dull and ominous by
contrast with the early brightness; and away on the horizon, owing
to the unnatural refraction, strange black shapes appeared like
towering mountains and frowning coast-line. It required much mental
concentration to avoid giving a false alarm of land, so vivid was the
impression conveyed by this Antarctic mirage. Darkness closing in on
top of the flurry made it dangerous to proceed, and the _Quest_ was
accordingly hove-to for the night.

I was called to keep the middle watch, and as I had evidently convinced
the after-guard that I was beginning to understand my job, charge of
the ship was given to me during this watch; I was left alone on the
lookout. Orders were left with me by Mr. Wilkins to call Mr. Jeffrey
at once if the ship drifted too near the ice. The ship was hove-to
in a large pool and it was still blowing with considerable violence
from the south-west. There was not a soul to talk to or to borrow
confidence from, and all around and about me was that vast cold
wilderness of ice. The loneliness was a sort of wall that seemed to
shut me off from all my kind. A salutary lesson in man’s minuteness
as compared with gigantic natural forces!

We drifted slowly across the pool, and I, feeling that we might come
to harm by hitting heavy ice, called Mr. Jeffrey at a quarter to one.
He promptly came on the bridge—his presence sent a warm glow clean
through me, and my sighs of relief must have ascended to highest
heaven. But there was really no cause for alarm, for at one o’clock
we came slowly alongside the ice, as if we had been warped into dock,
and lay snugly alongside as though in a peaceful harbour. But at
2 a.m. I called Dell and got below—where even sleeping berth-mates
seemed genial companions.

Way was got on the ship again during the morning watch, and we
proceeded through fairly heavy pack which was open in places and
dotted with big bergs. The temperature fell considerably at midday,
and when on lookout at the masthead, the cut of the wind was bitingly
fierce. In the afternoon the floes were larger still and hummocky,
and small groups of penguins mounted solemn guard on many of them.
The sun shone at intervals through a very hazy sky, and the refraction
was even more pronounced than ever, the most astonishingly fantastic
shapes appearing on the horizon and sparkling with a silvery light
in the sun. Once again we hove-to for the night.

Followed a strenuous day with Dr. Macklin and Naisbitt, tallying and
restowing stores, which was not a bad job for cold weather. Outboard
the outlook was not inviting: the floes being large and heavy—old
Weddell Sea ice, they said it was—and the intervening water frozen
over thinly with young ice, which naturally delayed our by no means
considerable speed still more. The temperature had dropped to 9 F.
At 10 a.m. a noisy commotion on deck fetched us up into the open
like corks popping out of a bottle, curiosity overcoming our sense of
duty. We found several of the more active-minded of the crew chasing
penguins round and round a big floe. The game was a pure farce, the
birds stolidly refusing to leave their harbourage, and showing a
clever readiness in dodging their pursuers, twisting this way and
that like professional footballers, until Argles started playing
footer, too. He hurled himself full-stretch at one penguin, tackled
it low in approved Rugby style, and fetched it down, squawking and
vociferous as a fishwife. The catch was brought aboard alive, and
Query displayed canine curiosity in its quaintness, but the penguin
was a match for the dog, and once again he had to retreat with his
tail between his legs.

At eight p.m. the bosun and I took a sounding; it was intensely cold,
and by the time we had wound in the last fathom I found myself frozen
to the rail. The cold also burst the water-jacket of the paraffin
engine that ran the main dynamo, so it became necessary to start
the spare dynamo in the engine-room, to run which there was a small
steam-engine.

Throughout the night we lay to in rapidly freezing ice, and the
skipper grew concerned, for the outlook displeased him greatly. To
be frozen in hard and fast would be fatal, consequently just enough
way to prevent this happening was maintained on the ship; and then,
at 4.30, a full head of steam was raised and an attempt made to get
clear. But though we backed and rammed and stopped, and backed and
rammed again, making a furious bobbery all the time, the ship, shaking
fore and aft at the impact of her bows on the thickening ice and the
harsh grind and rattle of the broken stuff filling the air, we made
paltry progress, advancing a bare mile during the entire morning
watch. To burn coal at that rate without any commensurate progress
was foreign to our best interests, so we gave up the attempt and lay
to alongside a convenient floe, there to await the pleasure of the
elements, and whistle for a favouring breeze. That breeze coming,
we drifted to the northward with the ice, which during the forenoon
gradually opened. So precious was our coal becoming now that the
small quantity required to run the steam-driven dynamo could not be
spared, and as the paraffin-run dynamo was out of action, I busied
myself in filling and trimming lamps for the ship.

When I went on watch at midnight it was still blowing very strongly
from the south. The mere words convey no adequate impression of what
an Antarctic gale is like; but if you imagine a northerly blizzard
blowing its hardest and then magnify all the unrest and bitter
discomfort and annoying insistence of the driving sleet and noisy wind
by about a hundred, you may gain some idea of the real thing. We were
fast frozen into the ice, which every now and then bore against our
sides with an impressive and somewhat alarming squeaking sound that
was very weird, underrunning the main diapason roar of the storm as
it did.

The gale was not long-lived; with the flush of dawn the wind subsided,
and the morning broke beautifully clear and calm. All hands turned to
after breakfast to ice ship—and there was ice enough and to spare, for
even the young ice that had recently formed was now thicker and whiter
and older looking, and seemed to be merging into the main pack. Certain
of us busied ourselves in squaring off the decks—ridding them of snow,
coiling down ropes fairly and stowing away loose gear; and whilst we
were so employed a big killer came up close alongside, breaking the
ice as he came. These killers are particularly evil-looking brutes,
and the nearer view of them you get, the nastier they seem. It must
have been a killer that swallowed Jonah—this fellow seemed almost
capable of swallowing the _Quest_.

In assisting Mr. Douglas and Mr. Jeffrey to make magnetic observations
on the floe during the rest of the morning, working in the hold with
Dr. Macklin after lunch and then pumping out the always filling bilges
with old Mac, putting a harbour-stow on the topsail and so on, time
did not hang very heavily on my hands. My leisure time I spent in
heaving chunks of ice along the floe for the edification and amusement
of Query, who never tired of chasing the fragments and took a keen
delight in the vigorous exercise. Then, at night, a sounding was taken;
but after the lead touched bottom the steam winding-engine gave out
and we had to leave our cast on the sea’s bed until the necessary
repairs were effected; and then, as a gigantic red moon came slowly
sailing up the sky, we sat back and watched the lovely picture it
made of the spectral ice that was all about.

Being now, as it were, in dock, regular watches were abandoned: all
hands turned to at eight o’clock and continued working until 1 p.m.,
after which their time was more or less their own for purposes of
recreation, with one man standing a two-hour watch during the night,
like an ordinary anchor watch aboard an ordinary sea-going ship.
The ice was now thickening rapidly; the temperature having dropped
to 5 F., but despite this, the water rose steadily in our hold, and
first thing in the forenoon Mac, Dell and myself pumped out the ship.
Various duties, such as preparing the oil stoves for the boats—very
necessary precautions remember, for the threat of being nipped and
sunk was very real—overhauling the lamp-room and trimming the lamps
occupied my day; but before dinner we younger ones climbed overside
and had a rousing game of football on the ice. A lone, lorn penguin,
interested in that queerly curious way these birds adopt towards
happenings beyond their normal experience, slithered near and begged
to be enrolled in our company. Quite unabashed, it held its own against
all our tacklings and charges; and when Query took a hand in the game,
it chased him incontinently all over the floe—a most comical sight.
It was what the Yankees would call _some_ football. Penguins and dogs
do not usually figure in a Cup Final, nor do the players fall through
the ice, as Naisbitt did, at places where floes imperfectly joined up
with one another. But it was invigorating exercise enough, and after
the close confinement of shipboard, very welcome to men who looked
on exercise as a religious rite. We managed to pull Naisbitt out,
and he was really none the worse for his adventure. Our football was
composed of tied-together gunny-sacks that had held ship’s bread.
Whilst we played others worked; Kerr, for instance, repaired the
burst water-jacket of the dynamo engine, so that we were able to run
it again and get a light that at least made darkness visible below.

I slept like a log that night, and found myself reluctant to turn
out when I was called at 6 a.m., but needs must; and when I got to
the bridge I saw the outlook was more promising. The ice was slacker,
its nip on our sides less pronounced and the floes were beginning to
come apart—a welcome sign. The run of a growing swell caused them to
bend visibly, and there was much groaning and snapping, so that one
might easily have thought the ice a great living monster that was
trying to burst its bonds. Throughout the day, with a slightly higher
temperature, the ice opened up more and more. We lost our sounding
lead, though—the wire parted owing to the strain—and we had to resign
ourselves to the fact with such equanimity as we could command. By
evening we lay in a pool of open water, the nip was gone, and we
looked forward hopefully to getting under way again on the morrow.

But our hopes proved to be nothing more than ropes of sand; the
following day, although the pack was distinguishably thinning, it
was still far too close for us to go ahead. A strong gale bellowed
furiously from the north-west, but, being from the northerly quarter,
it was actually warmer than usual—though its force was so great that
the impression conveyed to the senses was that the temperature was
falling. In the forenoon Dell rigged up the dredging machine and for
Mr. Wilkins’s benefit let out 3,300 metres of wire, with dredge and
deep-sea thermometer attached. It required the whole afternoon to get
it inboard again, with the steam-winch fussing away, very certainly,
no doubt, but also very slowly—so slowly, indeed, that after a while,
becoming exasperated, we man-handled it and made better progress. It
was pretty ticklish work, for the dredge wire was constantly being
fouled by small floes, and Mr. Douglas out-Blondined Blondin by his
dexterity in balancing himself on the wobbling floes and keeping
the wire clear with an extended boat-hook. The result justified the
exertion, for the dredge contained fifty-seven specimens of quartzite,
tuffs and so on; but there was no living matter in the haul, though
the rocks were plentifully threaded with worm-cells.

Next day, thanks to a falling thermometer, the ice had thickened, and
the floes were compacted once more into a solid mass. Some of these
floes, scattered here and there like gaunt icy islands in a sea of ice,
were very big, with noticeable hummocks uprearing from the main mass.
As a strong southerly wind was blowing, which was favourable to our
purpose, we got busy and set topsail and staysail. Seen from outboard
we must have looked much more like an ice-yacht than a sea-going ship,
I fancy; but under the weight of this canvas we edged a very slow
and very difficult way to the north. Our movement was actually with
the ice rather than from it—we were acting as motive power to the
entire ice-field. Although the ship was officially under way, there
was no difficulty in slipping outboard and walking on the ice; and
Commander Wild and Captain Worsley, together with Watts, did this.
During their promenade they happened upon a large sea-leopard asleep,
and the skipper promptly killed it, bringing its head triumphantly
back to Mr. Wilkins as spoil of war.

Many of us went for walks during the forenoon, and I took several
photographs of the _Quest_ in her icebound condition. She drifted into
a pool of open water during the afternoon, and the skipper and Dr.
Macklin went out on the floe with a line to pull her alongside, because
we desired to play football again. We found a large, convenient floe
and had a hectic game, beating the other side 7-4. It is astonishing
what a lot of confused exercise you can get out of football on the
ice—much more than during ordinary games, even on the muddiest days.
It’s a fine tonic for depression and ennui and lethargy, and the
various ills shipboard life is apt to breed. You have to exert yourself
terrifically to make any real headway, and the ball, weighing about
a ton when thoroughly sodden, needs the driving force of a steam ram
behind it to move it at all. Our side was composed of Dr. Macklin,
Mr. Douglas, the skipper, Naisbitt (cook’s mate) and myself. Our
opponents were the Chief, the Second, Ross and Young (stokers), Major
Carr and Watts.

Turning from play to work, we set the squaresail at 6 p.m. and began
to move; but almost as we started we had to lower the canvas in a
hurry, to avoid what might have been a serious collision with a large
floe ahead, and our progress was stopped. In the event of opportunity
offering for getting under way during the night, I kept the binnacle
lights trimmed and ready for immediate use.

Another day came, to show no practical alteration in the
ice-conditions. The wind came away strongly from the S.S.E. and the
outlook was bad, for the sky showed no vestige of a “water-sky,” and
with a lowered temperature the ice was freezing more thickly than
ever. Very grim conditions again; but in the Antarctic you don’t
grouse about circumstances—you make the best of them, and thank your
lucky stars when each succeeding day finds your ship still afloat
and not crushed to flinders in the pack.

Whatever else we were doing, we were certainly making progress either
with the ice or through it. We had made about ninety miles since
working into our frozen dock, and that was something to be thankful
for.

After breakfast I went for a walk with Dr. Macklin and Major Carr.
There was a large berg in the distance which we wanted to inspect
at close quarters, and this appeared to be a promising opportunity.
But we could not get quite close up to it because of the scattered
character of the ice in its vicinity, though from our position we
could see it making its way through the pack, leaving a long lane of
clear water behind as it came. The _Quest_ bore up against the pack,
throwing broken ice from the bows as a ship throws up spray; and we
admired the spectacle—myself a little awestruck—never realizing that
Commander Wild was feeling the gravest anxiety aboard, fearing lest the
iceberg should charge the _Quest_ and damage her badly. Fortunately
the menace passed more than half a mile astern and then disappeared
over the northern horizon.

These movements of icebergs in the pack are caused by strong currents
under the ice which grip the vast submerged portions and urge the
giant masses relentlessly onward through everything that lies in
their path; and when, owing to the wind or other circumstances, the
pack is moving in an opposite direction you get a wonderful illusion
of uncontrolled speed and power charging blindly forward.

Getting back aboard, Dell and myself cleared the wire of the Kelvin
sounding machine. After a hearty lunch we enjoyed another game of
football with a more respectable ball this time—a ball composed of
a canvas bag stuffed with cotton waste, which didn’t take so much
out of our feet and shins. We found a perfectly flat floe whereon to
play, though owing to the swell causing the ice to bend and undulate
we got a new effect: it was like playing football on a rubber floor.

Throughout the night a sharp lookout was kept for bergs bearing
down upon us: a menace of the Polar wastes not often taken into
consideration, I fancy, by those who do not know the peculiarities
of those parts. Several such bergs were in the vicinity and one
crossed our bows rather too closely to be pleasant. The temperature
was rising during the night, and, in anticipation of a start, the
hands were turned to at 6 a.m., with instructions to ice ship. The
pack was now much more open, and the engines were gingerly started
at six bells—seven o’clock. Once more we were definitely under
way, forging ahead with innumerable stoppages and much wheel-work,
with “Hard a-port!” “Hard a-starboard!” “Midships!” flying from the
watch-officer’s mouth like machine-gun fire. Tediously we wound in
and out among the floes; but presently, coming to a clear lane of
water, sail was set, which quickened our speed, and by eleven o’clock
in the morning we were pretty nearly clear of the pack. During the
day I counted fifty-six bergs, most of them large.

With an overcast sky and a strong easterly wind blowing, another dawn
came. As the day continued the wind increased to a moderate gale.
Commander Wild had practically proved to his own satisfaction that
Ross’s “Appearance of land” was merely a flight of fancy, and he now
decided to make for Elephant Island—primarily to obtain blubber for
fuel. But apart from any material reason I think there is no doubt
that he was inspired by a longing to see again the place where he had
spent those famous four and a half months with the survivors of the
ill-fated _Endurance_ expedition. All aboard who had borne part and
lot in that memorable adventure were imbued with the same desire. We
headed to the westward and, with a stiff breeze to help us, bowled
along at a merry six knots—for us, real clipper speed. But at 5 p.m.
we came suddenly on very heavy pack and, dropping our squaresail with
alacrity in order to avoid disaster, eased down for the night. With the
morning we set sail again, amid extraordinary surroundings. The entire
ship was sheeted in ice: upperworks, bridge and deck-house appeared
to be determined to give an imitation of their environment. Ice was
everywhere: bulwarks like hummocks, monstrous icicles pendant from
every salient. The deck itself was overlaid with the frozen stuff; and
all tackles, ropes and hamper were grotesquely distorted; whilst the
rigging was simply solid. The _Quest_ was completely transmogrified,
like a fairy ship at first glance; but, owing to the freezing up,
anything but a ship of dreams when it came to handling her. To go
aloft meant breaking a way like pioneers—and, my! it _was_ cold. Mac
and I shovelled what seemed like half the frozen Antarctic overboard
during the morning watch, and even then the other half was still
aboard. Breaking off from this necessary task, we set the squaresail,
which seemed scared at the changed appearance of the ship, for it took
charge for several hectic minutes, slamming and banging—hammering its
blocks against the bulwarks as though determined to sink the _Quest_
out of hand. We philosophically decided that the sail was lending
a hand in clearing the ice from the upperworks, and I must say the
ice-splinters flew vigorously. Being under shell-fire was a small
matter by comparison. As a foot or so of water was sluicing across
the decks every time the ship rolled, work was not easy; but this
water was nothing to worry about, it was merely the _Quest’s_ happy
little way of acting up to her usual reputation, though she did not
lift big water over her rails. It was blowing hard and the cold was
terrific as the wind came away from the southward; indeed, I believe
that this day and the following—March 23 and 24—were about the worst
we had experienced. Certain of the old-timers wondered what on earth
had ever tempted them down again to the southern seas. Commander Wild
said that any man who went Antarctic exploring once was mad, if he
went twice he was an adjectived idiot, so that he himself—having made
five voyages—was competent to inhabit an asylum all to himself. He
said this with trimmings—not with flowers.

Conditions were more than a little unpleasant—quite enough to ruffle
the normally placid calm of our souls. Every minute some whipping wisp
of spindrift came slogging in our faces, and everything was saltily
damp. The only place where it was possible to be even moderately dry
was in one’s bunk; and the _Quest_ did her best to heave a man out
into the slopping water that flooded the floors below, even when
he coiled down in blanket-haven. Poor Query suffered a lot. Dogs
may be philosophers, but their philosophy deserts them under such
conditions as those we endured when working along the edge of the
pack. And although we were salted, pickled indeed, any amount of the
people—even the hardiest veterans—succumbed to _mal-de-mer_; or, as
this particular brand was even more atrocious than seasickness, let’s
call it _mal-de-Quest_.

Wearing ship at midnight under these conditions among Antarctic combers
was horrible. After a while we hove her to under a topsail, her head
pointed to the east; and under these circumstances she revelled in
dirtiness. Her rolls were jerky and fitful—so that, even below a
fellow felt as if he’d been dropped down a bottomless pit with a long
rope attached, which tautened at the unexpected moment and nearly
jerked the teeth up through the skull. Whilst wondering what it was
all about, another heave and lurch pitched him out of his bunk, and
so on.

But even the worst of gales do not endure for ever; and after a
while conditions improved. A great orgy of straightening up followed,
for everything was filthy and saturated. Then we sighted land from
aloft, what time the topsail was being made fast. After living in a
wilderness of ice and water for so long my heart warmed to that good
sight, for I had begun to wonder whether land really existed at all.

By seven o’clock on the morning of March 25, we had Elephant Island
on the starboard bow and Clarence Rocks to port. The summits of the
peaks were hidden by low clouds, but it was perfectly good land, and
heart-warming to a degree, even though snow-flurries frequently hid it
from sight. It was something stable in a whirling world of instability.

To the old-timers it was like sighting the Promised Land itself, I
fancy. Those who had been with Shackleton in the _Endurance_ expedition
spent all their spare time staring through binoculars at remembered
landmarks—swapping reminiscences and recollections. They shouted
and pointed at Cape Valentine, where the draggled survivors of that
unfortunate expedition landed after being two hard years adrift in
the ice desert, and where Shackleton, who had not slept for eight
days, coiled down on the shingle of the beach and slept for eighteen
hours without moving an eyelid. We others worked, getting rid of the
fresh accumulations of ice and taking running soundings as the ship
went forward. It was necessary to hack the purchase blocks clear of
their congealment before the rope would run over the sheaves. The
evening favoured us with an exceptional mirage—with vast icebergs
floating apparently in a sky of purest gold, and shoals of spouting
whales swimming in between them, most marvellous to behold. The
ensuing sunset was like something by Doré: both the islands in sight
seemed to be blazing with fire, and the sky was a flaming crimson,
awe-inspiring in its magnificence. I wished I could paint so that I
could have transferred that memorable sight to enduring canvas, for
my poor words entirely fail to give an adequate description of the
atmospheric miracle.

By four o’clock the following morning, when I went on the bridge, we
were coasting along the shore of Elephant Island, which we did not
approach too closely, for obvious reasons. And now our minds were
filled with the history of that desolate rock; it was the topic of
general conversation. They told of how Commander Wild had cheered
and brought nineteen men through four of the most difficult months
in all the terrible history of Antarctic navigation. They told of
how Shackleton, with Worsley and four other stalwarts, had made that
amazing passage from Elephant Island to South Georgia in an open
boat, and how subsequently the staunch-souled Boss had left no stone
unturned till he had brought his stranded comrades back from Elephant
Island to civilization. It was a narrative to warm the blood and to
make one glory in the pride of race, for it was an epic, no less,
told simply as it was, in curt expressions for the most part, without
gestures but modestly, in the way that Britons have when narrating
heroic deeds.

A high, precipitous coast met our gaze as the ship ploughed forward,
with high-soaring crags and a general machicolated effect that made
the whole place show as a gigantic mediæval fort; whilst between the
jutting crags showed frequent glaciers and glimpses of the towering
ice-cap that tops the island. A picture of stern majesty it showed
to our ice-wearied eyes. And, too, on the port beam was Cornwallis
Island, whilst on the bow were five smaller islands, as though whoever
threw the land down there had sprinkled a few handfuls extra for luck.

After breakfast the boatswain and myself re-marked the deep sea
leadline, and made a clearance forward to have everything in readiness
to let go our long-disused anchor at the appointed time. We rounded-to
in a small bay, some hundred yards or so from the sheer face of a
glacier end, and there dropped our hook and came to rest for a blissful
while. Blissful, I mean, by comparison with recent episodes; though
no doubt there are some who might count Elephant Island a curious
sort of a pleasure resort. But all things go by contrast, and to our
tired eyes the most romantic of South Sea Islands could hardly have
appeared more desirable.

Magnificent, lofty crags held us in on two sides; the scenery indeed
was so striking as to be almost overwhelming; and on the placid water
the _Quest_ floated like a swan. It was possible at last to lie down
without holding on, and for that blessed boon we returned heartfelt
thanks.

The party detailed to go ashore was lowering away a boat in
preparation, when Query, who had almost gone mad ever since land
was sighted and smelt, in his eagerness to get ashore overdid it and
dived overboard. We let the boat go by the run and secured him—almost
frozen, but really none the worse for his bath. Commander Wild went
away in charge of the boat, and to my great delight included me in the
party. Before we landed he shot a sea-leopard that showed pugnacious
symptoms. They can be very terrifying in the water, these evil-avised
brutes. We tied up to a big boulder right underneath the towering
blue face of the glacier, and whilst walking ashore it struck me how
crazy and rotten that ice-face looked. It seemed as if any minute
might fetch down a few hundred tons of it on top of the boat; but we
were used to ice by then, and didn’t worry.




CHAPTER XV

A Rough Time with Ice and Wind


Elephant Island deserves its name: not because of its shape, but
because of the innumerable sea-elephants that litter its shores.
Furthermore, there were penguins by brigades and divisions, and skua
gulls and long-legged, ungainly “paddy” birds. Commander Wild shot
nine elephants, one of them being a huge bull measuring over fifteen
feet in length.

As our principal reason for visiting the island at all was the desire
to renew our fuel supply, we promptly set to work to flense the kill,
cutting up the blubber and dragging it over the foreshore to the
waiting boat. Another party presently came on shore to carry on in
our stead what time we returned to the _Quest_ for a meal. Returning,
Mac and I were detailed to ferry the boat from shore to ship and ship
to shore, whilst Commander Wild ran the hunting and flensing parties,
and was so eager in his share of the work that as often as not he
was up to his waist in the icy water.

Whilst we worked at this unsavoury, messy, but very necessary job,
the scientific staff busied themselves with observations of one kind
and another.

After a most strenuous day, soaked in oil and icy water, tired out
but rejoicing, we regained the ship late in the afternoon, the last
boat bringing a big load of penguins, paddies and seal-meat, together
with rocks for the geologists. My intuition concerning the rotten
state of the glacier face was well-founded, for as we were hoisting
the boat aboard a vast chunk of the glacier broke off and fell with
a stupendous roar, sending a regular tidal wave racing out towards
us. Fortunately we were too far away to be overwhelmed; but if the
boat had been under that falling mass—however, she wasn’t!

We should have stayed there longer and added to our fuel supply,
but, the surf increasing very rapidly and growing to threatening
proportions, Commander Wild was anxious to get away before darkness
set in; so accordingly we got up anchor at 6 p.m. and made our way
round the coast, the _Quest_ as nimble as ever as soon as the full
weight of the swells got her. We kept at sea, in open water, all
through the night, standing on and off from the land, and the morning
came bright and sunny, which was, so Dr. Macklin said, unusual round
about Elephant Island, where perpetual mists and storms represented
the experiences of adventurers. At 11 a.m. we anchored again near a
narrow beach, several miles in length, which ran along the foot of
high cliffs. From the ship we saw several harems of sea-elephants,
with thirty or forty cows in each. A party promptly went ashore to
secure more blubber, and the work of the previous day was resumed
in all its necessary messiness. Many elephants were closely huddled
together in groups on the sand; there were also some crab-eating seals
and paddies. Major Carr, evidently feeling the need of exercise,
climbed a long way up the rocks, and coming to loose screes, sent
down avalanches of pebbles, much to the discomposure of poor Query,
who happened to be in the way; while Dr. Macklin, who was following,
had to scramble for shelter to an overhanging boulder which saved him
from danger. A certain, though not the required, amount of blubber
was obtained. Commander Wild remained aboard the _Quest_, having
contracted a severe chill through his previous day’s exertions. We were
still busy at the job when the roaring of the steam whistle recalled
the shore-party. An ominous change of weather was taking place, and
the ship’s position promised to be precarious; consequently we were
quickly up-anchored and made our way to the lee of some high rocks not
far distant, where we again dropped the hook for the night. By nine
o’clock it was blowing hard, and by two in the morning a hurricane
was raging, coming away for all it was worth from the south-west,
so that the rocks which had previously sheltered us were now of no
avail. Dr. Macklin had charge of the watch, and so alarmed was he by
the weather conditions that he roused Commander Wild, who still was
not at all well, telling him that we were dragging our anchor and
generally in a rather parlous plight.

All hands were promptly called, and turned out into the roaring frenzy
of that appalling night. Word had been sent to the engine-room for
instant full steam on the boilers, and immediately the hands turned
out the cable was hove short. The _Quest_ promptly began to drag more
insistently than before, and the outlook was alarming. Rocks to leeward
showed very menacing in the darkness, fast-scudding clouds racing
behind them and giving them the aspect of moving monsters intent on
our destruction. As if to increase their menace, something went wrong
with the cables; they wouldn’t go down through the spurling gates, but
piled up on deck, hampering us. The winch was jammed, but Macklin and
Carr went below and cut the bulkhead of the cable locker adrift with
axes, giving the chain more room, and eventually the crisis passed,
though the weird wailing of the penguins ashore, for all the world
like a premature lament over our doom, and the crashing thunder of
the near-by breakers, caused us an apprehension that was anything
but pleasant. A very high sea was running, and there was nothing to
do but count discretion the better part of valour by turning tail to
the storm, running away before it for all we were worth. Otherwise
we stood a remarkably good chance of going to ruin on the pitiless
rocks. Once clear of immediate danger, and possessing, as we did, only
enough coal for one day’s steaming, though the blubber we had secured
promised to eke out that meagre supply, we set the topsail, and under
it ran like the wind itself, beating all our previous speed records
as we hurled from crest to bellowing crest, roaring down sickeningly
into the troughs, soaring high and very high, and screaming with the
fury of our speed.

By eight o’clock, when next I came on deck, the wind seemed to be
increasing, and the _Quest_, racing before it, seemed of no more
account than a chip of driftwood. She was heavily listed to starboard,
and as her continued existence seemed something of a problem, all
hands were summoned to trim ship and shift all movable stores from
the boats, top-hamper from the decks, to down below in the empty
port bunker. It was wild work, carried out in a wind that was blowing
something like a hundred miles an hour; but the ties of common funk
bound us all closely together, and the labour went forward with a
swing.

Commander Wild had determined to take advantage of the gale to make
straightway to South Georgia. According to the evidence of the weather
experts, no change in the direction of the wind was likely for some
days, and as it was fair for South Georgia, where coal could be
obtained, it was decided to make the best of it. Wilkins was almost
swept overboard when setting sail; everyone thought he had gone,
indeed, but he cheerily announced his continued presence in the land
of living, and carried on with his job.

Wild work? I assure you it was wild. To stand without holding on was
an impossibility, whole water deluged us, and it was simply a case of
keeping the _Quest_ ahead of the enormous following seas, which rolled
up, gathered weight, towered high to a level with our gaff, and then
fell with the clamour of sundering worlds in our yeasty wake. The
ship was like a scared horse bolting with a bit in its teeth, urged
on by the stinging blows on her quarter. Occasionally those blows
were punishingly heavy—for about noon a heavy sea pooped us, stove in
the after wardroom scuttle, and flooded the entire after-part. Under
a lash of spray and occasionally a deluge of whole water, I repaired
the damage as well as possible, by means of planks and a tarpaulin
cover; and then went below, where everything was floating about in a
state of confusion; my own bunk came in for the lion’s share of the
initial dollop. The water that had drenched me froze after a while and
turned me into a very good representation of an iceberg; but that was
only a small part of the trouble. It was indeed a case of “one hand
for myself and one for the ship”; and working with one hand whilst
clinging like a monkey with the other was an exciting experience.

But all things come to an end sooner or later; and after we’d
squared up the major part of the damage, the wind lessened during
the afternoon, though we were unable to dream of beating back to
Elephant Island, as the wind set straight from it, and the course had
to be continued towards South Georgia. This was hard lines on the
old _Endurance_ hands, for they had set their hearts on revisiting
their old haunts and fighting their battles o’er again.

I say the wind lessened, but even so it continued a vigorous gale,
though the worst of the weight was out of it, and we were able to set
more canvas to keep us ahead of the run of the seas. The following
day broke fine, and with a brilliant sun shining its happiest
on our ice-coated fabric we presented a wonderful spectacle. The
ice taking on all the prismatic colours, the effect was well-nigh
dazzling—unbelievable, indeed. The _Quest_ became a flaming jewel as
she hurled herself across the white-veined plain of the tumultuous
seas.

We crowded on sail for all we were worth, and setting the big,
unhandy squaresail, which was frozen stiff, was excellent exercise
and caused some lively gymnastics. Both watches were required to
clear and set the foresail; under it the ship streaked along with
energetic purpose and left a white, yeasty wake astern. With the wind
increasing again it was no great while before we were making a level
7½ knots per hour—unbelievable speed for the old tub, which caused
her to give herself all the airs and graces of a China clipper. It
was invigorating, because, although the log only recorded 7½ knots,
the fuss that was made was quite equivalent to forty; and by dint
of exercise of a bit of imagination it was quite easy to pretend we
were breaking all previous ocean records.

Big seas overtook us frequently, however, striking savage blows at
us, as if the Antarctic were thoroughly angry at our having escaped
its clutches and were determined to beat us even yet. On the night
of March 30, at about eleven o’clock, a whacking big fellow overtook
us, and we thought we were for the Locker, because we were literally
smothered; but we won clear, and after shortening sail ran with
greater steadiness though less speed.

During the following forenoon watch our ship reeled off thirty-one
knots in the four hours, nearly eight knots per hour. Good going, this;
it looked as if the South Georgians had got a grip on the towrope and
were hauling us thither hand over hand. Because of the steady swing
of the seas, which here run clean round the world without meeting
any untoward obstacles, the motion of the _Quest_, though vigorous,
was uniform and easy.

  [Illustration: The wake of Loose Ice as seen from the Crow’s Nest.
    (Capt. Worsley is on the ladder.)]

  [Illustration: A Close-up View of the Pack.]

  [Illustration: Entering the Pack.]

  [Illustration: Collecting Ice for replenishing the Water Tanks.]

On April 1, under similar weather conditions which were growing so
familiar that even the capsizing of a tin of syrup in a locker created
no more than a passing anathema, Mr. Jeffrey made an April fool of an
albatross by catching it. Albatrosses possess an acquisitive nature,
and would probably thrive well in Aberdeen. The proper way of fishing
for them is to construct a small hollowed triangle out of sheet tin
or brass, lash strips of blubber or other highly scented provender
along the metal, and stream the bait temptingly astern at the end of
a stretch of fishing line. The albatross promptly swoops down for the
succulent morsel, and having got a grip of it with its mighty beak,
holds on. The drag of the line naturally jams the acute angle of the
triangle over the bird’s beak, so that even if it wanted to let go
it couldn’t; and it is, in the result, ignominiously drawn aboard,
where, once it has set its feet on the deck, it cannot rise. Then
you strangle the gentleman, so that his snowy, downy plumage shall
not be discoloured, and skin him, using his wing bones for pipe stems
and his beak and wings for trophies.

April 2 started well, but failed to fulfil its initial promise. The
wind was coming away in lessening puffs—somewhat tantalizing for the
helmsman—but in a while it freshened again with mist and rain, which
lessened our outlook considerably and caused some little concern,
for we were expecting to sight land and had no desire to overrun
our reckoning, with no bunker fuel to help us to steam back against
a wind that was always fresh and sometimes strong. Since eyesight
was not much use under these conditions, sounding was taken with the
Kelvin machine, but no bottom was discoverable! and as the log line
fouled the wire after the cast was taken, I got an extra hour’s work
in clearing the ghastly tangle. A spinning log line and a spinning
sounding line together can make a twist that seems invulnerable to
human effort; but a bit of that patience taught to the Scouts helped,
and the tangle was gradually reduced.

At four in the afternoon the heavier canvas was furled lest we ran
too far, and the last of the ice left our decks about the same time,
thawed by the persistent rain and the increasing temperature. All
the diligent scrubbing with sand and canvas in the world could not
have left our planking whiter than had the scouring of the friendly
ice. Just as well the ice was gone, for the rolling and pitching were
awful, so that we kept our feet only with supreme difficulty.

Because of the weather and the speed we were making, the skipper
decided to get the ship hove-to after dinner, rounded her to on the
port tack, and sounded constantly without finding bottom. Navigation
under these circumstances is no easy matter, and I was glad I was
not responsible for the safety of the ship.

Alternating running and heaving-to, with the sounding machine
constantly at work, except when it broke down—as it sometimes did—we
went on, until at eight o’clock on April 4 the sun appeared and a
clear horizon showed, so that it was quite possible to get chronometer
sights and double altitudes, by means of which our position on
the watery waste was definitely fixed. That comforted everybody;
and by way of added solace, shortly before 1 p.m. land was sighted
again—the snow-capped peaks of South Georgia showing plainly on our
starboard bow. Throughout a drizzling afternoon, with a strong wind
blowing—typical South Georgian weather, observe, for the bit of
sunshine was soon only a memory—we crowded on every possible ounce
of steam and tried to gain harbour, but because of the short, high
head-sea that was running we made little if any progress. At six p.m.
it became necessary to keep the _Quest_ off with staysail and mizen
set; and all that was then to be seen of the island was a blanket of
thick, impenetrable mist, with the occasional ends of giant glaciers
and the irregularities of the coastline showing.

A lot of bergs were floating about in our neighbourhood, and during
the night the ship was kept under steam in order to make her handier
in dodging these floating masses; but at 8 a.m. we set every inch
of canvas the vessel would carry and headed up towards the land. By
about three in the afternoon we were fairly close in, and it was a
great pleasure to look on green grass again, though by reason of its
sparseness it was almost possible to count the blades.

South Georgia hadn’t altered much during our absence; the only change
was that, winter coming on, there was more snow on the hills and
a general suggestion of greater bleakness. And now, for the first
time in many months, we saw shipping again: whalers leaving harbour
or making for it. Other human beings besides ourselves existed, and
the knowledge warmed our hearts. Absent yourself from your kind for
months at a stretch, and even an African bushman seems a friend.

But we couldn’t make harbour yet, and were compelled to dodge the bergs
and idle about off the land because the wind had fallen light, except
for frequent willie-waughs coming gustily down from the ravines of the
island, throughout the beautiful, moonlit night, which was as much
a poem as that famous sunset I mentioned before, though the colours
to-night were silver and grey, rather than crimson and gold. A big
iceberg, lit up by a noble moon, looks like an enchanted castle; and
as you watch it you find yourself thinking of long-drowned Camelot
and the wonders of the Round Table.




CHAPTER XVI

South Georgia Again


At six o’clock next morning, all sail being then taken in and the
ship proceeding under engines alone, boilers fed with blubber, we
entered Leith Harbour, and anchored with both anchors as a precaution
against the violent squalls that strike down from the hills.

Almost as the cables ceased their rumbling, a motor-launch was
alongside bearing Mr. Hansen, of the whaling station, and Mr. Hussey,
who had been appointed guard of honour to our well-loved leader. Mr.
Hussey gave us all the news, which we were very greedy to hear. He had
taken Sir Ernest Shackleton’s body to Monte Video, with the intention
of escorting it home to England for a great public funeral, such as
a man of our Boss’s heroism deserved, but Lady Shackleton had sent
word that she desired the remains to be laid in an even more fitting
resting-place—in South Georgia, the gateway to the Antarctic which he
had by right of conquest made his own; the spot closely associated
with one of the greatest of his many great exploits—that memorable
journey in the dead of winter across the glaciers and rocky heights
of the island, of which the whole world knows.

And so, over in the old pathetic graveyard of Gritviken, he was buried
simply, the Shetland whalemen carrying the coffin, with no funereal
pomp and circumstance, and the bareheaded Norwegian sea-fighters
following him respectfully to his last resting-place. It was what he
would have wished.

When the rocky grave was filled in, a simple wooden cross was erected,
and on its arms Mr. Hussey placed the wreaths brought from Monte Video
on behalf of Lady Shackleton, Mr. and Mrs. Rowett and the members
of the _Quest_ expedition. So the restless soul found rest at last;
but his memory must endure, for Sir Ernest Shackleton was brave, not
with the sudden hot courage of battle, but with the quiet, determined
bravery that lasts through terrible, tedious days, when hope drifts
sullenly away and leaves bleak despair.

But though his labours were ended, ours were not; much of his original
programme remained to be carried out, and in order that this might be
done, work was resumed with vigour under Commander Wild. Accordingly,
after hearing Mr. Hussey’s news, all hands turned-to to clear the
bunkers of the gear that had been stowed there aforetime; and whether
it was the hard work or the change from recent ice surroundings, I
know that, for one, I found the weather quite sultry and overpowering.
Really it was very cold, but we began to wonder where we could lay
our hands on tropical clothing, by reason of the thickening of our
blood.

The general view of Leith Harbour gave me the idea of a smooth lake
surrounded on all sides by abruptly rising hills. Short, precipitous
glaciers come down at short intervals towards the shore; the lower
steeps are splashed with snow, whilst the raw earth shows abundantly,
though here and there is a heartening patch of green. The greater
heights are eternally snowbound, and as often as not veiled in mist
and thick clouds; and there is practically no flat land whatsoever;
the whole island seems to stand on end, with the exception of a few
acres at the far end of the harbour where the noisome whaling station
lies.

Peaceful days followed, during which we worked hard and played as
hard. Some of our party went fishing, and returned with great catches
of coarse fish which compared unfavourably with the toothsome spoil
of our northern waters. We played football; overhauled the ship fore
and aft, aloft and below; entertained the Shetlanders with impromptu
musical evenings, and generally joyed in a return to moving life. The
weather was Scottish in its changeableness: sunny days alternating
with bleak misty days, so that it was almost possible at times to
believe that one was back at home and the happenings, at the best,
but a vivid dream.

Whaling proceeded with great activity during this present stay of ours
in South Georgia; whales were constantly being towed in and flensed,
and the white smoke from the trying-works hung constantly over the
busy station, whilst the reek of rendering oil was appalling. Fishing,
in which sport I indulged frequently, proved an easy occupation,
especially amongst the thick kelp which everywhere clings to the
coast. All that was necessary was to drop over a hook with a piece of
fat blubber attached, and a second or so later came a tug, and there
was a fat fish. So greedy were these rock cod that often they would
bolt the bare hook and not trouble us to rebait.

By way of a change from sport, I blacked down the rigging with tar
and made a filthy mess of things in the process, smearing as much
of the delectable mixture on myself as on the rigging, I think, and
earning a severe choking-off for dropping tar on our immaculate—or
nearly immaculate—decks.

Bridge in the evenings, with music, honest work, plenty of play, and
there you have the record of our South Georgian days. One pleasant
break, however, came when I was ordered away in the whaler with Mr.
Douglas, Mr. Wilkins, Major Carr and Mr. Jeffrey, for a survey of Cape
Saunders at the entrance to the harbour. We were towed by a greasy
old motor-launch which the Norwegians employ for towing the whales
about the harbour, but it gave us headway enough for our purpose. A
heavy sea was running, however, and this made it impossible for us
to land on the cape itself, so we turned back and got ashore a mile
farther inland where the going was easier on account of a bit of smooth
beach. Having landed—it was very hot clambering up the rocks—we took
observations enough to satisfy the most critical of surveyors, then
returned, but the weather having become worse during our activities,
we got a thorough drenching before we regained the ship.

On Easter Saturday, April 15, we left Leith Harbour. The battered
old _Neko_, a disreputable packet, entered harbour from Deception
Island, her holds crammed to bursting with oil barrels, and, thanks
to our wireless, we gave her G.M.T. as we steamed past her, for
which she was very grateful as her chronometers had not been rated
for long enough. It was cold as we steamed down the harbour; and the
mountains, from which much of the snow had departed, were covered
with drift. We were bound for the Stromness whaling station, which
lies at the end of another arm of the bay; and on arriving there
we went alongside the Norwegian steamer _Perth_. Our manœuvres must
have seemed clumsy to her crew, for a sudden gust of wind drove us
down aboard her with such force that our bowsprit fouled one of her
boat-davits and snapped like a match; so that next morning Dell and
myself were early at work repairing the damage, stripping the broken
spar of its tangle of foot-ropes, guys and outhauls, and the like.
Here at Stromness we had fresh relays of visitors, both from the shore
and the British steamer _Woodville_, which lay there; they wondered
how we’d managed to win clear of the pack ice down farther south.
Most of our after-guard went aboard the _Woodville_, where they were
royally treated; but as the cook had departed on a holiday I helped
Jimmy Argles and Oompah—a South African, whose real name was Young—to
prepare lunch for the forrard party.

During the night following this day of carnival the wind increased
to hurricane force again, and I was roused at 4 a.m. by the skipper
yelling for a cork fender. His cries were almost drowned by a great
crashing and rending; but the noise was the worst part of the business.
We were rolling and churning against the _Perth_, thanks to the
pressure of two whalers which lay outside us, but after they’d cleared
out, the worst of our troubles were over. At ten o’clock we gave the
_Woodville_ a salute with our ensign and moved off, housing our boats
in readiness for the rough weather that was only to be expected.

Out in the open we washed down, and as our hose was somewhat the “waur
o’ the wear” we all got a satisfactory drenching, as a reminder that
we were seamen and not shore-fellows. We entered Prince Olaf Harbour
during the afternoon, where we tied up to a buoy. There is another
whaling station here, and the backing of the great pinnacle rocks
is very fine indeed. At 4 p.m. we went alongside the tank steamer
_Southern Isles_ and made fast for the night, during which the rain
sluiced down in miniature Niagaras. Still, the rain laid the dust
somewhat, which was a good thing, for our particular job next morning
was to coal ship, and that as everyone knows is an uncleanly operation.
From after breakfast until 5 p.m. we were hard at it: taking aboard
53 tons in that time. Argles, Young, Ross and myself shovelled on
deck; three Portuguese trimmers from St. Vincent did the trimming
below. To-day was Commander Wild’s birthday, and so, once we were
bathed and presentable, we had a great dinner by way of celebration.
After dinner he came down aft, where we drank his health generously,
Jimmy Dell proposing a genuine sailor’s toast, “Long may your big
jib draw,” and the night died away in song and story, in preparation
for another muling day at coaling, which became hard work on account
of the bright sun and considerable heat. But by noon we’d bunkered
ninety tons in all—our quota; and after squaring up the decks and
washing down I went fishing with Mr. Jeffrey and the skipper of the
_Southern Isles_. During the day a large number of whales were brought
in, and their swollen pink carcasses surrounded us on every hand,
whilst their effluvia—phew! Whales and still more whales continued to
arrive during the night, giving promise of a plentiful oil supply;
and some of the whalers that entered were towing six whales apiece,
each one as big as the ship itself.

But we cleared out of the immediate vicinity of the whales after
breakfast and lay off Bird Island, a small, pleasantly green piece
of land, where was plenty of tussock grass. Here we anchored, and
whilst letting go the port anchor a joining shackle fouled in the
compressor and broke short off like a carrot, so that we lost a good
anchor and fifteen fathoms of cable. Mr. Wilkins and a few others
went ashore in search of albatrosses, with which mighty birds the
place was literally alive, many of them wheeling splendidly overhead
or hovering like watchful hawks, whilst others squatted peacefully
on the little hillocks which are their nests; though certain less
peaceful members of the community squabbled fiercely, squawking like
fishwives all the time, with their huge wings outspread to their
utmost span. From a distance their uproar sounded precisely like the
indignation of a world full of young pigs all being led to slaughter
at one time.

Young albatrosses are good eating, and we killed some to replenish
our larder. It was Commander Wild’s intention to remain here at Bird
Island—well named—for several days in order to carry out an exhaustive
survey, but the weather was not fair enough to permit our lying there,
so we put back to Prince Olaf Harbour, there to await more favourable
weather.

With good weather we got under way, housed the surf-boat, and steamed
out into a moderate sea. We headed towards the bank at the north-west
of the island, where we took exhaustive soundings, and the _Quest_, as
though glad to be free from smooth water, gave an excellent display
of liveliness. Lord! how we grew to loathe her dirty movements! It
is easy enough to write of them in retrospect, but whilst they were
happening our wearied bones and aching muscles caused loud protest
in real deep-water curses, such as would have joyed the soul of the
old-time Paddy Westers who went down to the sea in ships in a day
when seafaring was seafaring.

The decks were thoroughly awash before very long, whole water piling
methodically aboard at every roll and pitch; but spite of all this,
having reached the bank, soundings commenced, and every hour, day
and night, the machines were busy.

Maybe a brief description of the whole art of taking comprehensive
soundings may appeal to the more scientifically minded of my readers.
The skipper sets the ship on a definite course, and along this course
we are steered steadily, with the lead constantly going, the depths
ranging from one hundred to two hundred fathoms, until we fail to
find bottom at three hundred. Knowing then that the ship is no longer
above the bank, course is altered until soundings are picked up
again; and so, by dint of a series of criss-crosses over the sea, the
exact size, depth and relative shape of the bank is quite accurately
learnt. Sounding is a delightful job, especially when you turn out
for it during a cold, bleak, windy middle watch. The proceedings being
illuminated by a flaring hurricane lamp, away goes the lead, one man
“feeling” the wire as it whines over the lead, until there comes a
sudden slackening of tension, whereupon the feeler cries, “Bottom,”
and another man applies the brake, not suddenly for fear of mishap,
but gently, collecting the strain by degrees. Then it is necessary to
wind in the wire and weights by hand; and at “three hundred fathoms
and no bottom,” on a deck that is as nearly vertical as ever a ship’s
deck could be, with the ship curvetting friskily and water cascading
aboard, it is excellent exercise. Watches of this kind can become
very long and dreary.

It took three full days and nights of steady work to get an accurate
charting of the bank, but when Commander Wild was satisfied that the
work was thoroughly done we made back to Prince Olaf, and, anchoring
there, had lunch in placid waters, greatly to our contentment of
spirit. Our prayers of thankfulness went up high, they were so
fervently uttered.

We remained at Prince Olaf for one clear day, spent chiefly in violent
political arguments amongst our very mixed ship’s company; and then
returned to Leith Harbour in heavy snow squalls, which covered the
entire coast with glittering white. Fierce blizzards blinded us as
we entered the harbour; and as the steam whistle lanyard carried
away and I had to repair it, I found that my idea about the warmth
of these latitudes was all wrong; it was cold—cold!

So strong was the wind that three attempts were necessary before
we moored to the buoy. The winter now being properly set in, South
Georgia looked a God-forsaken place enough to sadden any watching eyes.

On Friday, April 28, a general holiday was decreed for all hands.
Fishing was attempted, but returning to the ship the boat was caught
in a blizzard that necessitated a hard, cold pull; and the rest of
the day was gorgeously spent in my bunk, delightfully reading and
sleeping—with, perhaps, more sleeping than reading.

In Leith Harbour we rigged a new bowsprit to replace the one carried
away and replenished our stores, and on May 2 left for Gritviken
in very squally weather, the launch pulling us clear and the people
ashore firing a salute of rockets. The last thing I heard as we moved
off were the cheers of the honest Shetlanders. Outside the weather
was glorious, and Mr. Wilkins put down his dredge, bringing up some
beautiful samples of maritime life. Arriving at Gritviken at 1 p.m. we
anchored with our big spare anchor, which required the entire ship’s
company, together with half a dozen tackles and Portuguese windlasses
to get overside. In the evening I went ashore with Commander Wild,
Dr. Macklin and Dr. McIlroy to the magistrate’s house for a game of
billiards. The magistrate, Mr. Binney, owned a remarkable dog, whose
favourite diet appeared to be cigarette ash.

On May 3 a great work was commenced—our offering to our dead and
revered leader. A great cairn was to be built on top of a high, noble
bluff, commanding a magnificent view of the bay; and accordingly a
large party put ashore, armed with shovels and picks, and, borrowing
a couple of sledges from the magistrate, proceeded to the summit of
the bluff. Mac commenced at once to dig out foundations; and as there
were no suitable stones at hand, we others climbed a steep slope and
quarried out the side of a hill a quarter of a mile away. Despite
the labour this entailed we all worked with a will, for there was
a definite feeling in all that Shackleton himself was directing our
efforts as of old. His spirit seemed to hover over us, and we exulted
in our tribute.

Mr. Douglas attempted to blast the rock nearer the side of the cairn,
but had no success; so we continued our work all day, bringing the
stones down the hill on the sledges, and by evening the cairn was
three feet high.

Immediately after breakfast next day we went ashore again to continue
our labours. Young ice had formed overnight on the water, and pulling
the boat was no easy task. In order to expedite our work we lashed
boxes on the sledges to increase their carrying capacity, but Dr.
Macklin’s sledge came to grief at the foot of the slope and he had
perforce to return to the magistrate’s for another. Up and down we went
as hard as we could go, and in the course of the forenoon transported
about ten tons of rock. Mac made an excellent job of the building,
and whilst we ashore toiled hard, the engineers aboard fashioned a
noble cross, and this was erected on the summit of the cairn in the
afternoon.

On the day following the finishing touches were put to the cairn,
and a brass plate was cemented in, bearing just a simple inscription,
which said more than whole volumes, maybe:

      SIR ERNEST SHACKLETON,
            Explorer,
     Died here January 5, 1922.
      Erected by his comrades.

It was evening when this work was done, and in the waning light we
gazed on the completed cairn standing out dark against the snow, and
felt how grand and beautiful was its setting. How fitting it was for
a monument to Shackleton! The dying sun made a lovely picture on the
smooth frozen waters of the bay and enhanced the exquisite beauty of
the white mountains beyond. We turned away and walked slowly homewards,
not speaking much, because he seemed to be very near.

We left Gritviken on May 7—a Sunday—and steamed across to Cumberland
Bay. On the way we passed Sir Ernest’s cairn, and the ship’s company
stood to attention facing it in salute. The skipper afterwards remarked
to me on the excellence of the selected site. It promised to stand
there as a perpetual landmark to all who entered the bay. Gradually
was lifted the inevitable pall of sadness that had clung about the
_Quest_ after our sorrowful labours.

At Gritviken we had secured a live black and white pig, and an instant
hostility arose between this porker and Query; it was very amusing to
watch their antics. Commander Wild went ashore with a hunting party
and presently returned with four large deer, a welcome prospect of
venison. They were skinned and cleaned and lashed up in the rigging.
Next day, after landing the magistrate’s dog, which had somehow been
left aboard, we steamed along the coast towards Royal Bay, where the
German Antarctic Expedition of 1892-3 had wintered, and here, shortly
after 2 p.m., we dropped anchor quite close to a great glacier that was
rotten with crevasses. Great masses of ice kept constantly tumbling
down with a continual rumbling, and as they entered the water they
sent out waves towards us like the wash of a giant ship proceeding
at full speed. The whole bay was covered with growlers and smaller
fragments of ice. The surveying party promptly went ashore, and I
accompanied them. A biggish surf was running, and the shore was very
steep and very stony. Youthful enthusiasm prompting me to leap ashore
with the painter, a roller promptly took me off my feet, carried me
under the boat, threw me up on the beach and effectively drenched me.
I returned aboard, changed and went fishing, which was a more peaceful
pursuit. Then the survey party was collected without mishap and taken
off aboard, the boat was hoisted in and secured, for the last time
our anchor was hoisted from the South Georgian bottom, and we set out
on our journey to what is almost the last, loneliest sentinel of the
British Empire, Tristan d’Achuna, or Tristan da Cunha; the spelling is
optional, I believe. We kept a course along the moon-path, in order
to avoid the growlers; and before I turned in at midnight I took a
last long look at shimmering, moon-bathed peaks of the stern island
that now meant so much to me.




CHAPTER XVII

A Spell on Tristan da Cunha


Our passage across to Tristan da Cunha was in the main uneventful
to men who had endured the rigours and inclemencies of the more
southern waters. True, there were episodes. The _Quest_ was as dirty
as ever, if not dirtier, when she met the long run of the seas; and
Gubbins Alley was deeply awash with the water we took aboard over
our swinging rails. Gubbins Alley, let me explain, is the name given
to the port alleyway, where by some strange process of maritime luck
and forces all the litter of a ship—the dirt or, as it is called,
the “gubbins”—manages to accumulate. No one is to blame for this
accumulation; it is merely chance that collects it, for the alleyway
is religiously scrubbed out every morning; but the cook works a lot
here, and the stokers empty the ashes from below on this side, so
these activities may have something to do with it. But, whatever the
reason, it is always just “Gubbins Alley.”

Down below was also very damp and ungenial, for despite all our
defences the water insisted on penetrating into the wardroom, whilst
Commander Wild’s cabin was clean swept more than once. The ship
seemed determined to show what she could do. She tried to roll the
surf-boat out of its davits, and almost succeeded—would have done, if
Mac had not raised the alarm and called us to his aid in the nick of
time. She tried with success to roll us out of our bunks just at the
hour of deepest sleep, when things of that sort appear anything but
humorous. Sometimes we thought she possessed the temperament of an
elf, but mostly she was diabolical. She flung breakfasts, lunches and
dinners off the tables into the scuppers; she shifted carefully-stowed
stores; she scalded the stokers and half-buried the trimmers. A very
lively packet.

Storms beset her with monotonous regularity; but one storm is so
like another to the lay mind that it is not necessary to enter into
intricate details. One outstanding feature of these restless days was
the souring of certain of our stores. When diving into the storerooms
to make preparations for the supplies for landing parties at Tristan
and the adjacent islands, we discovered that several bags of flour
and beans were going wrong, due, no doubt, to the constant dampness
and lack of ventilation. The stench was appalling as we hoisted up
the rotting stuff to open air for drying and disinfecting.

But at last, after a boisterous passage, we sighted Inaccessible
Island on May 19, and this island we passed about four bells in the
middle watch. The morning was dank and misty and but little could be
seen, but when our watch came on deck at 4 a.m., Commander Wild had
already sighted Tristan ahead, though it was now obscured by a dense
black cloud. Shortly afterwards the weather cleared, and we, too,
saw the island looming black and lonely out of the fog some three
points on the starboard bow. By half-past seven, being within half a
mile of the shore, we fired a rocket to attract the attention of the
islanders, or, what was perhaps as likely, to arouse them from slumber.
It was raining heavily by this time. Presently three boats put out,
and, pulled by eager hands, swiftly came alongside. The islanders
clambered aboard in a great hurry, and were all over the ship in a
moment, crying to each other in high-pitched, squeaky voices. Queer
though their intonation was, however, their English was quite good.
They were but poorly clad, clothes being one of their greatest wants.
In a few of these people the dark strain is very apparent, but the
majority are pale of face and not at all unpleasant to look upon. On
the sandy beach a bevy of women and children and dogs turned out to
give us greeting.

From where we lay the island presented a very massive front, the land
rising precipitously a thousand feet or more all along the water’s
edge, and then sloping away to the summit, some six thousand feet or
so higher. At the north-west end there is a stretch of low land like a
raised beach, where the settlement of thatched cottages lies. These,
with their vegetable gardens in front, look very like the cottages
found in the Highlands of Scotland. The whole place is very green,
especially where the houses are, and on the steeper slopes the bare
earth shows a reddish colour, and small shrub-like “island trees” grow
quite abundantly. A little to the left of the settlement is the sandy
spit where the boats are beached. These boats are commodious, if not
particularly elegant, and are made on the island, being constructed
of a stout wooden framework and a covering of waterproofed canvas.

Once aboard, our friends were not at all slow in asking for what
they wanted, offering to barter goods of their own creation in
exchange, for there is no money in the island. To them calling ships
are fabulous storehouses of wealth, sent specially to them by a
beneficent Providence—to be emptied of everything they contain for
the islanders’ immediate benefit. More insistently even than the
St. Vincent cadgers they pester one mercilessly for gifts—gifts of
any and every sort; and if any member sternly refuses to part with
his most cherished belongings they seem hurt and somewhat aggrieved.
Not that the islanders ask for things for the mere sake of asking;
I give them credit for better instincts. They are deplorably lacking
in many necessaries, and luxuries are hardly known to them. Clothes,
timber for building, implements wherewith to till a soil that is
unquestionably fertile, tools of every kind, tea, sugar—these are
the things they lack and seek.

In the matter of exchange they displayed a naïve ignorance of relative
values, and each individual established his own standards of value,
urging one to be quick before the others came along and altered the
market.

“Mister,” one smooth-tongued islander said, “have you got a mouth-organ
to give me, or a pipe, or some old clothes? I wish to be fair, and
in return I will give you a penguin skin, or a skein of home-made
wool, or a sheep, although some of our sheep are sorry specimens.”
Dr. Macklin was actually offered a perfectly good sheep for a single
stick of tobacco! Well, what can you do with such innocents? They
seem as trusting and simple as the penguins themselves; a primitive
people, unspoilt by intercourse with a prosaic, matter-of-fact world,
betraying the natural qualities of untutored mankind. You give them
everything you can spare, of course. In return they promised us a
bullock, three sheep, a pig, a number of hens and geese, and two
hundred eggs—if they could find them!

After the boats came alongside we steamed closer inshore and dropped
anchor in eight fathoms of water, in the middle of a thick field of
kelp. After breakfast the rain ceased, and for the rest of the day
the weather continued mild and warm, although the calendar told us
it was officially winter down there. I’ve known many a summer’s day
in Scotland that could have learned much from Tristan da Cunha weather!

Our forenoon was spent in hoisting on deck the stores and the mail-bags
and parcels we had brought out from England for these islanders.

Oh, you who sit at home at ease, and grow fretful if the postman
is a minute late on his rounds, think of those who depend for news
of the outer world on chance exploring expeditions which might call
every two or three years or so! Imagine a land that concerns itself
not at all with the sensational murder of yesterday nor the pending
divorce case of to-morrow, but learns vaguely, long after the last
echoes have ceased to ring in the ears of a staggered world, that
there has been some sort of a war in Europe! But the seasickness of
one of the visitors, due to the _Quest’s_ rolling—we seasoned fellows
did not notice it—was of infinitely greater importance. “‘Solid as
ocean foam!’—quoth ocean foam!”

Next day certain of us went ashore to have a good look round this
far-flung patch of civilization. We had been warned to have a care;
that, owing to the paucity of men, the women of the island had a
husband-hunting look in their eyes; and so, naturally, we walked
warily. There is an ancient deep-sea legend to the effect that a
distressed sailor, sole survivor of a deplorable wreck, was washed
ashore at Tristan da Cunha in a state of unconsciousness, and wakened
to find himself firmly married to most of the eligible females of
the island!

Our first visit was to the graveyard. Most sailors, I notice, do visit
graveyards first when they go ashore in foreign ports. I don’t know
why, unless it is to envy those who lie comfortably asleep instead
of being compelled to disturb their slumbers at every turn of the tide.

Tristan da Cunha’s graveyard was not a picture to dazzle the sight. I
thought it very dilapidated. Some few of the graves were indicated by
crazy crosses, but the large majority were hardly to be distinguished
from the surrounding earth. One, it is true, had a wooden slab at
the head. The grave of John Glass, however, a native of Kelso, and
the first settler—the Robinson Crusoe of the place—was dignified by
a marble memorial stone. Other nameless graves were defined meagrely
by square-cut blocks.

Tristan da Cunha boasts a good water supply, for it lies in a region
of much cloud, and many small streams, born in the higher lands of
the interior, flow noisily through the little settlement. Through
the ages these streams have cut deep gorges in the rock and look like
miniature cañons. All around are boulders, washed down from the hills
by the torrential rains that lave the island in the wet seasons; and
some of the houses are built crudely of these boulders, which lie
ready to hand. The problem of acquiring a house here is a simple one.
You carry a few stones to a selected site, pile them together, say
the result is a house; a house it is within the meaning of the Act,
and as there are no destructive critics to say, “It’s like a house,
but is it a house? Where’s your visitors’ bathroom and the lounge
hall?”

Not that all the houses are so ambitiously built—small stones from the
beach serve as building materials in many cases; but, even so, Robinson
Crusoe would have envied these islanders their dwelling-places. Lying
as the island does right in the track of storms, indoor embellishments
are easily obtained. If you live there and have the desire to make
an ornate home for yourself, you wait until the next ship is wrecked
and collect such timbers as come ashore; with these you panel your
_pied-à-terre_ and look down tolerantly on your less fortunate
neighbours.

It is whispered that the prayer of the really ambitious Tristan da
Cunha bride before marriage is: “God bless father, God bless mother,
God send a mail steamer ashore before my wedding-day!”

But, crude though some of the homesteads are, each one boasts its
kail-yard at its front door, its extent marked out by a fragmentary
paling. There is good soil, and in skilled hands the land could be
made lucratively fruitful.

Locomotion is two or three hundred years behind the times. The strident
“honk-honk” of the motor horn is unheard in the land. The name of Ford
is unknown. I believe there are so-called savages in Moroccan deserts
who fully appreciate the subtleties of the latest Ford car story; but
the simple people of Tristan da Cunha have never seen a Ford. Could
anything convey a more perfect impression of their remoteness?

When an islander desires to transport himself or his belongings from
one point to another he employs a rough wooden cart with solid wheels,
rough-hewn from virgin timber, and drawn by placid oxen. There is no
lack of livestock. They number their kine by the score and their sheep
by the ten-score. Donkeys are there and dogs, cats in abundance, and
thrifty, succulent geese.

Women and children dress quaintly in an old-fashioned way, wearing
long, loose garments that would either drive a Parisian _modiste_
crazy or else make her famous as the creator of a new mode. All of
them wear vivid red or yellow handkerchiefs tied about their heads,
according to the fashion established by the buccaneers of the Spanish
Main in 1680 or thereabouts.

Talking to one of the inhabitants, whose name was Henry Green—a
dark-complexioned man, whose short, curly black hair gave a hint of
African blood—I learnt that the worst months on the island were August
and September.

  [Illustration: Scout Marr presents Sir Robert Baden-Powell’s Flag to
    the Tristan da Cunha Troop.]

  [Illustration: We go in Search of Fresh Food: Scout Marr (left),
    McIlroy, Commander Wild, Dr. Macklin on the shores of Cooper’s Bay,
    South Georgia.]

  [Illustration: The _Quest_ off Inaccessible Island.]

The cattle then become very poor and die off from exposure on the
hills. There are no adequate shelters for them, though material to
construct such shelters exists in abundance; so they stray abroad
and die. Further, the islanders have but few agricultural implements
wherewith to develop the island’s resources. Given the advantages of
civilization, I believe they would make Tristan da Cunha a blossoming
garden; as it is, the place struck me as being derelict.

Of wood worth while there is none; island wood, cut from the trees,
is useless save for burning purposes; but occasionally the sea-gods
are kind and throw up on the beaches masses of driftwood from sinking
ships. There is turf in abundance, and a little honest hard work would
enable the people to protect their cattle thoroughly. However, hard
work and they seem to have had a quarrel some time ago, and, judging
by the evidences, the quarrel does not yet appear to have been made
up.

Whatever else the island lacked, it boasted a troop of Scouts,
inaugurated by the Rev. Martyn Rogers, who, with his wife, devotedly
immured himself in this far-away wilderness with an idea of bettering
the lot of the islander population. This troop promised well, and the
honour was given me to present it with Sir Robert Baden Powell’s flag,
especially sent out for the occasion. I accomplished the ceremony in
due form, regretting that I lacked the ability to deliver an inspiring
speech; and after it was all over—after I had inspected the Scouts and
endeavoured to tell them what scouting really meant—I accompanied the
parson and his wife to their vicarage and took tea and damper-bread
with them.

Mr. and Mrs. Rogers made light of the hardships, but it was given to
me to realize how brave a work they were doing. Delicately nurtured,
they had willingly sacrificed themselves in order that the work of
God might progress. And only those who have actually seen with their
own eyes the conditions of life in Tristan da Cunha can realize
what these devoted Christians undertook when voluntarily they cast
themselves away on this isolated patch of wave-swept land.

After dark we returned to the _Quest_ and weighed anchor immediately,
preparatory to starting for Inaccessible Island, taking with us three
Tristan volunteers as guides. But first crack of dawn showed us that
the weather conditions were entirely unfavourable for a landing on
this island; accordingly we ran for shelter to Nightingale Island,
about nine miles distant, and anchored there in a good lee. Nightingale
Island is very much smaller than Tristan, though the latter is not
enormous, measuring as it does only about twelve miles by eight. Our
immediate destination was very little more than a single sharp peak
rising some two thousand feet into the air, with lush vegetation of
tussock grass and bracken. There is no lack of bird life; thrush-like
birds, finches, skua gulls, mollymauks and petrels are abundant enough
to please the most enthusiastic ornithologist; though save for the
birds the island is uninhabited, being merely visited occasionally
by Tristanites in search of driftwood, which is the most valuable
harvest the sea gives them. Thus these inhabitants of the loneliest
populated spot on all the earth’s surface benefit by the misfortunes
and sufferings of others, for driftwood only results from wrecks;
and the fragments of many a noble ship have gone to benefit these
poverty-stricken outliers.

A landing party of Wilkins, Douglas and Carr, together with myself,
left the ship in the surf-boat; we got ashore with difficulty at a
spot where the rocks rose sheer from the sea; but there was a narrow
ledge at a negotiable height which gave us a chance of a rough, wet
scramble to terra firma and enabled us to land our scientific and
lethal equipment after a more or less breathless struggle.

We climbed a short way along the jagged rocks with our baggage, and
came to a flat, table-like area backed by high cliffs, with gigantic
boulders at their base. The geological party went right on up a narrow
gully, with the intention of inspecting a guano patch at the farther
side of the island; we others remained on our tableland for a while
whilst Mr. Wilkins shot a few birds, then we followed up the hill. From
the ship we had thought this would be easy going up a grassy slope.
We were sadly disillusioned, however, for the grass was rank tussock
and grew high above our heads, being some six to ten feet in length,
and gave the effect of a miniature jungle, being extraordinarily
difficult to break through. I was surprised at the activity of John
Glass, one of the islanders who had accompanied us. He was a man of
over fifty, and he climbed with the agility of a mountain goat. Under
foot the ground was rotten and soaking, and at every second step it
gave way, so that we sank knee deep and farther into the loathsome
bogginess. Mr. Wilkins, scoffing at danger and discomfort, continued to
shoot birds as we laboriously progressed; but though his aim was good
the reward did not always follow, as by reason of the long, tangled
grass his victims were not always found. By the time we reached the
top we were drenched to the skin; but, having achieved, we looked
breathlessly about us on an openland of small trees and loose rock,
with a peculiar kind of round-bladed grass which grew in close tufts,
very difficult to walk upon. Here more birds were shot, and then, all
parties satisfied by the exploration, we returned, sliding down the
soaking, rotten earth, stumbling blindly through the long tussock,
and slipping with monotonous frequency into the gaping potholes, all
of them full to the brim with water. We were glad to reach the ship
again to get towelled and changed.

For the night we lay off about a mile from the island under easy steam,
in order to keep clear of the rocks. At four o’clock, when I turned
out on watch, it was raining very heavily; a depressing morning, the
crash of surf on the near-by land dominating all other sounds. As
soon as it was considered safe we put closer inshore again, feeling
a very cautious way with the hand-lead, because of the indifferent
surveys of these waters, and dropped anchor once more amongst the
kelp in fifteen fathom water. Mr. Douglas and Henry Glass—another
islander—we landed on Middle Island, a small rocky patch of land
a hundred yards or so off the coast of Nightingale Island. We who
remained on board had an exciting forenoon fishing for sharks—good
sport. Our earliest intimation of their being in the neighbourhood
was when the cook, fishing with ordinary line, brought a small shark
to the surface; afterwards, with a good heaving line, we managed
to haul a round dozen of the brutes aboard—not giants of the breed,
but considerable fish of six to eight feet in length. We also caught
shoals of other fish, edible and inedible, for the waters about these
islands literally swarm with finny loot.

After fishing my fill I helped Wilkins to skin and clean the birds
he had shot, turning, as was my habit, from sailor to naturalist,
enjoying the change immensely. A trip aboard the _Quest_ ought to
qualify any man to undertake any job known to civilization, and a
few that aren’t!

At eight bells in the afternoon the boat pushed off for the shore,
and, as it was by now blowing a really stiff gale, it had a thin time
in making the island. The shore party were taken off with enormous
difficulty, at cost of thorough drenchings; but we were lucky in having
the islanders with us during this operation, for their knowledge of
the intricate channels and the really dangerous rocks enabled us to
avoid catastrophe, which threatened many times. They were excellent
boatmen and seemed entire strangers to fear.

At four o’clock next morning anchor was weighed for Inaccessible
Island; and during this short passage the _Quest_ outdid all previous
rolling performances—thanks to the stern and unanswerable bidding
of a high ground swell that ran heavily abeam. I thought I knew the
length of the ship’s foot; I thought it was impossible for her to
astonish me, but this time she did it; and a dozen times or more I was
certain nothing could prevent her capsizing. As it was, she tossed
me lightly out of my bunk—at least, I left it lightly, but gained
the deck heavily—so I thought the best thing to do was to go on deck.

Seen from a distance, the island well earns its name, for it looks
inaccessible enough to deter the stoutest hearts. No low land is
apparent, the whole rising sheer out of the fretting water; a green,
more or less oblong mass with nothing inviting about it. The boat was
got ready, stored with food and utensils and gear enough to last the
landing party for several days, as the continued inclemency of the
weather rather pointed to the fact that a return to the ship at our
own sweet will might not be possible. Two alpine axes were added to the
outfit, and a coil of rope, together with the complicated instruments
necessary for biological and geological work. The landing was effected
without mishap, although the beach was both steep and stony, and big,
noisy rollers were breaking thereon with a stern determination and
soul-curdling roars. Still, surf-bathing is a hobby with some people,
so we managed to dodge the worst of the white-crested combers, running
in between them, thus getting ashore with no serious wetting.

The beach extended for about three-quarters of a mile on either side
of where we landed, the rock rising sheer and forbidding at the ends
of the comparatively level stretch; but throughout the entire mile and
a half ours was the only safe spot for getting ashore, as elsewhere
the rocks were big and the surf very tumultuous. Behind this narrow
strip of beach the rocks rose vertically all along to an average height
of four hundred feet or thereabouts, and no doubt these conditions
determined the first discoverers to give the place its name. Rank
tussock was growing in the greatest abundance everywhere, and high up
on the skyline “island trees” were faintly visible. But anything less
like the desert island of romance it would be difficult to imagine.
Half a mile to the left of the landing-place a narrow waterfall
came tumbling over the edge of the cliff, three hundred and fifty
feet up, and splashed and roared into a deep pool gouged from virgin
rock by its own play. Beyond this the slope was slightly easier, and
there Mr. Douglas and the two men from Tristan who accompanied him
made the ascent with the greatest difficulty and no little daring.
They followed the old Alpine plan of using the rope to overcome all
obstacles.

As mountaineering was not in my own immediate programme, I assisted
Mr. Wilkins with bird-shooting and photography—gentle sports compared
with the efforts of the others. By 3 p.m. Mr. Douglas had returned,
after having fixed the contours roughly and ascertained the greatest
height for the purpose of the finished survey.

We arrived back on the _Quest_ by four, anchor was weighed at seven;
thereafter an exhaustive series of soundings were taken, and certain
errors in earlier surveys were rectified. At breakfast time we anchored
in Falmouth Bay, Tristan da Cunha, where we were promptly besieged, as
before, by swarms of curious islanders, who gave us as much attention
as though we were a strange ship arrived for the first time.

In order that the isolated denizens of this lonely isle should know in
future what events progressed in the outer world, Mac and Watts went
ashore to erect the mast for the Reverend Rogers’s wireless aerial.
I busied myself with shipwork, though the pig hampered me greatly by
an insistent determination to thrust her snout into my wash-bucket.
Oompah dredged overside and caught a young octopus, surely the ugliest
brute on earth, a veritable devil-fish, bright red in colour and with
arms full three feet in length—an ugly customer to tackle even then;
so what its great-grandfather could have been like is best left to
the imagination. We had him crawling lopsidedly about the poop for a
time, where he looked like some creature of an evil nightmare; and
then, when we’d tired of his ugliness, he was handed over to Mr.
Wilkins, who entombed him in a noble jar of methylated spirit.

In the afternoon Naisbitt, Oompah and I went ashore, to discover Mac
and Watts, more or less assisted by a hundred or so of the islanders,
trying, with the aid of tackles, ropes, improvised sheerpoles and
Portuguese windlasses and the like, to raise a sixty-foot hollow steel
pole into a vertical position. With a patch on a patch and a patch
over all, as they say at sea, they promised to be successful. Amid a
breathless suspense the structure was elevated—up and up, swaying like
a fishing-rod; but at the critical juncture the principal contraption
buckled and broke, the islanders flying like chaff before the wind; and
as the damage was irreparable, the experts had to content themselves
with erecting about two-thirds of the original length and hope for
the best, though I doubt if even now the Tristan da Cunha wireless
station is functioning to any epoch-making extent; for Mr. Rogers
admitted that he had not mastered the Morse code and was ignorant of
not a few technical details.

We three holiday makers continued on our journey, after suitable
jeers at the mechanics, in the direction of the island’s potato
patch; but as we failed to discover this historical spot we made the
best of it, caught three donkeys and rode triumphantly back to the
settlement, named after a nobler city—Edinburgh. John Glass met us,
bidding us welcome to his home with tea and pumpkin pie, which were
joyously received and rapidly consumed. He is by nature a very fine
gentleman, this islander. He entreated me not to be shy. I am rather
shy, as a matter of fact, but never until John Glass, himself a shy
man, perceived it, did I realize quite how shy.




CHAPTER XVIII

Among the Islands


A rising swell and indications of increasing bad weather caused us
to hurry our departure from Tristan da Cunha; and when the whistle
was blown in warning the able-bodied population flocked aboard in
a last desperate determination to rid us of all our surplus gear.
Perhaps they were not to be blamed—they were mentally half-grown
children, no more—but by their behaviour on this occasion they undid
any good impressions we had formed of them. Greedy? That wasn’t the
name for it! Unashamedly, with clutching fingers, they started in
to scrounge whatever they could see. It was rather disappointing, I
must confess. Of gratitude for our earlier bounty they betrayed no
trace whatsoever. They had promised us fresh supplies in return for
the enormous amount of stores we had freely given them, but only at
the very last did they reluctantly disgorge two skinny sheep which
were hardly worth taking aboard.

One party of the steadier elders brought off mail-bags and oddments of
parcels for us to convey to Cape Town. They had forgotten to address
the parcels, and, when told of it, seemed to think we possessed
sufficient second sight to deliver the goods at the required addresses.
So active did they become at last that Commander Wild was compelled to
order them back into their boats, where they went sulkily, like whipped
children; but the narrow conditions of their lives, the hardships
they everlastingly endure, may cause these weaknesses of character.
Anyhow, we left them to their drear isolation, and in drenching rain,
with the ship’s decks woefully littered with the gear the islanders
had disdained to convey below, we put to sea on the next lap of our
journey—towards Gough Island.

An orgy of cleaning and stowing followed, in order to get the ship in
trim to face expected bad weather. Mr. Wilkins dredged for samples of
the sea’s bottom, but, alas! the dredge wire parted and all his trouble
went for naught. Sounding regularly every hour, through grey, bleak,
thick weather, we journeyed on, and, with the mist thickening, judged
our chances of even sighting Gough Island very remote. Nevertheless,
we sighted it dimly through the thickness early on the afternoon of
May 27, and by eight bells in the afternoon watch were close up with
it. At first a dense mist bank hid all of it, saving only a hundred
feet or so, but the mist soon lifted, and, sailing a hundred and fifty
yards off-shore, with the hands in the chains continuously sounding,
we saw a fairly lofty, rugged island with varied vegetation. The
outstanding feature of this island was the large number of spires and
minarets that seemed carved by the hand of man from the immemorial
rock; there were sharply pointed peaks, too, in quantities, and many
of these stood out like clustered chimney-stacks against the sky, so
that an impression of dense population was conveyed. Over the cliffs,
which for the most part rose sheer from the sea, small streams fell
in perpendicular waterfalls, as they do in Norway, so I was told; and
the wind, blowing hard, scattered these cascades into white clouds of
feathery spray, infinitely beautiful, long before they reached bottom.

Shortly after dinner we came to anchor in a bit of a bay at the
north-east end of the island, where a beautiful and very densely
vegetated glen opened invitingly to the sea. Near by the water had
cut a tunnel through the cliffs, forming a natural arch of some
magnificence; such arches we found were fairly common around the coast.
This snug valley branched and branched again into innumerable smaller
ravines and gullies, with thick growth a good three-quarters of the
way up the slopes, merging into what appeared to be an open grassland,
which continued to the summits of the highest peaks. Out from this
open land, in full view of the ship, there rose a very singular peak
of dome-like rock, absolutely bare, with precipitous sides, standing
well clear of all the rest of the land, and looking curiously like
some noble monument erected to the memory of the sailormen who had
perished in these wild latitudes.

Whilst coasting along close inshore we had sighted several other
anchoring grounds, though none of them, possibly, so good as the one
we had selected; and we congratulated ourselves on snug moorings as
we busied ourselves with preparations for landing. After a very early
breakfast the boat was lowered and stowed with instruments—geological,
meteorological, biological—with tents, clothing, cooking utensils
and stores to last for a stay of four or five days. Mr. Douglas, Mr.
Wilkins, Major Carr, Argles, Naisbitt and myself formed the landing
party, Commander Wild taking charge of the boat with the two doctors
and the chief. The water was delightfully clear and calm, and landing
was a comparatively easy matter to seasoned veterans such as we had
now become. A few yards back from the stony beach were two small
huts, one an unlovely structure of corrugated iron, its roof lashed
down to ensure against the risk of being blown away by the furious
gales that rage here almost all the year round. The second hut was
a rude but substantial structure of rounded stones from the shore,
and looked like a relic of prehistoric times. Even its thatched roof,
which had come adrift in places, suggested uncared-for antiquity. And
all around and about these two shacks lay the debris of a deserted
flyaway mining venture—pickaxes and shovels, pans and sieves, a
centrifugal machine, a pump and suction-hose. Various food stores
and cooking utensils were lying about in both huts, and in the iron
erection we found a cooking-stove in good working order. We pitched
our own tent securely and stowed all our gear away in the sound hut,
enjoying all the sensations of those making unexpected discoveries;
for what all this assortment of derelict gear actually meant was
something of a mystery. It showed, however, that the place had been
visited at no very distant period; the general impression was that
a search for diamonds had been conducted here. A box half-filled
with matches was found; we struck one and it ignited immediately, a
surprisingly good advertisement for the tightness of the hut whence
they were collected. Then, in a little cave to the right of the huts,
we discovered a stone bearing an inscription, “F. X. Xeigler, R. I.
Garden, J. Hagan, W. Swaine, J. C. Fenton: Cape Town: 1/6/19,” showing
that years had elapsed since this futile quest had been abandoned.
No further evidence offered; the exploring party, apparently having
searched here and searched there for precious natural loot, seemed to
have dumped down their tools, disheartened, and gone clean off the map.

The glen was interesting; we divided ourselves into parties to explore
it, each party taking a separate branch. In the bottom of the valley
a torrent brawled and tumbled amongst large boulders, and trekking up
this path was a difficult and arduous matter, as Wilkins and I found
to our cost. But in the blessed name of scientific research obstacles
only exist to be overcome, and on we went. Many trees of island wood
greeted our eyes as we progressed, and what struck me particularly
was the number of extremely beautiful parasites which grew thickly on
these trees. Wilkins secured samples; very fragile they were, and of
great length, their colour being for the most part a pale yellow-green.

After proceeding a mile the stream fell over a precipice into a narrow
gorge, so, striking off sharply to the right at this juncture, we
climbed a slippery slope of rock covered with a soaked matting of
mosses. This slope soon became almost vertical, and our way was beset
with difficulties. We had to dig our feet into the wet mould, which
fetched away continually from the bare, dripping rock below, or else
secure precarious foothold on the short tree-ferns, which themselves
were very insecurely rooted. But there was all the thrill of discovery
in the adventure; it was just like exploring a perfectly deserted
island on which we might be required to exist for unnumbered years;
and the feeling that the unexpected was going to happen round every
corner was very strong.

Thus, after struggles unending, we reached the summit, one of those
rugged pinnacles we had observed from the ship prior to landing. Even
at this considerable height the vegetation was profuse, whilst on
every side the land rose in similar steep and rugged eminences. From
this vantage-ground we were able to discern the easiest route to the
island’s summit. For the first fifteen hundred feet it lay through
the thick growth of the glen and the left branch of the left fork.
Then our best way appeared to be to take to one of the grassy ridges
which separated the innumerable gullies and ravines converging on the
main glen. Having discovered so much, we also discovered that the day
was so far advanced that it was time for us to make our way back to
camp; and the return journey was not such hard going as the outward
venture. For myself, I simply slid down the greasy moss helter-skelter,
breaking up every now and then by clutching—and uprooting—a tree-fern.
Mr. Wilkins preferred shooting waterfalls to this method, but there
was not much to choose between the two, both being equally wet and
equally rapid. After dinner most of the shore party indulged in an
orgy of mice-hunting; for the huts swarmed with the little beasts—the
only living relics of the mysterious expedition whose traces we had
discovered.

At six the following morning we all roused out and had a gorgeous dip
in the stream—cold but invigorating—and then squatted down to a most
delicious breakfast of burgoo and bacon (burgoo, as the initiated
know, is sailorese for porridge). Immediately thereafter the work of
exploration was resumed, both parties joining forces until we reached
the first fork in the glen, where we separated. Mr. Douglas took
the right branch towards the huge natural monument of which I have
spoken before, Mr. Wilkins the left, according to the route we had
mapped out the previous afternoon. As the vegetation was dripping wet
we were quickly and thoroughly drenched. We tried for the most part
to keep to the bed of the stream, but as we constantly encountered
perpendicular and unnavigable waterfalls, we had to take to the slope
again and break a tedious way through big tree-ferns and island wood.

At last we came out on the open grasslands about two thousand feet
up, and here we made better progress. Mr. Wilkins shot a few finches
in true castaway fashion, to heighten the impression of our being
shipwrecked mariners; and once, hearing a loud cheeping, thrust his
hand into a hole and brought out, pecking and fighting protestingly
against the unceremonious usage, two large birds of the petrel family.
He also took specimens of a very unusual plant that considerably
resembled a young fir tree. There was little else to be seen here, so
we came to a halt a few hundred feet from the summit, on a small flat
ledge where was a providential pool of rainwater. Here we lunched on
biscuits and sardines, washing down the cold collation with draughts
from the pool, in drenching rain. I have eaten uncomfortable meals
under different circumstances, but never in all my recollection have
I eaten one in less pleasant conditions.

Nothing was to be gained by going farther, so we descended, sliding
as on skis downwards because the ground was so wet and slippery.
Battering again through the vegetation, which was for all the world
like walking up to one’s neck in water, we gained camp late in the
afternoon, as woebegone a pair of objects as even a desert island
could expect to produce. Robinson Crusoe on first landing wasn’t a
patch on us, and the Swiss Family Robinson were fashionable members
of highly civilized society as compared with our sorry selves. We
promptly kindled a huge fire at which to warm and dry, Major Carr
and Argles shooting large numbers of sea birds, which the vivid blaze
attracted. By dint of exercising a little imagination it was easily
possible to believe that we were the survivors of some maritime
disaster waiting—waiting for the appearance of a friendly sail,
constantly alert against attack by bitterly hostile savages.

The next day it was blowing hard and promising bad weather generally.
A big surf was running, and Commander Wild, finding it impossible to
land with the boat, had to yell his instructions to us on the beach,
so deafening was the noise of wind and breaking water, in addition
to instructions he threw us delicacies—crayfish and Naisbitt’s pipe.
Naisbitt welcomed the latter as a mother does her long-lost child,
for, lacking this vital necessity of civilized existence, he had
fashioned a wonderful and fearsome affair, which he treasures to this
day—a pipe composed of a chunk of driftwood and a stalk of tussock
grass.

Early in the afternoon the geologists set out with the intention of
gaining the ultimate summit. Towards nightfall the weather became
pronouncedly worse, and the wind, sweeping down the gullies with
hurricane violence, made us wonder if the island itself would remain
firm on its foundations. Rain and hail accompanied the wind, and away
above the peaks were white and glistening with driven snow. A wild,
bizarre night enough; and the sensation of being marooned and left to
our own devices was very strong, by reason of our lack of communication
with the ship, which was only occasionally visible through the noisy
squalls. What was happening to the geologists upon the distant peaks
we could only surmise. As there was nothing to be done to succour
them, we turned in at ten o’clock, amid the thunderous flapping of
the tent’s canvas, which battered about at such a rate that we felt
certain it must inevitably carry away. We were right. At four in the
morning it did carry away; a whole side was blown out. In rushed the
storm, roaring its delight at having penetrated our inner defences.
We had perforce to turn out, collect our belongings and store them
in the hut, where we continued our sleep with philosophical calm,
except for the irritation of the mice, which scampered all over us and
evidently thought we were manna sent from heaven for their especial
benefit.

The morning breaking somewhat better, Commander Wild was able, with
careful handling, to bring the boat ashore and effect a landing,
taking off Mr. Wilkins and Naisbitt and their baggage. Naisbitt, who
is the unlucky man of the ship, contrived to carry out his usual act
of falling overboard whilst helping to ship the stores. Giving me a
rifle, they left me alone on the beach, to soliloquize in Selkirk
fashion as best I cared. I had a very pronounced Robinson Crusoe
feeling, I must admit—and the rifle failed to bring comfort to my
lonely soul, for there was nothing to use it against that I could see.

Standing on a lonely beach, holding an unnecessary rifle, struck me
as being waste of time, so I set to work, in true castaway style,
to employ myself—in making a meal. Food plays a large part in the
economy of desert-island life, and I was no exception to the rule. I
experimented to the extent of boiling a number of flint-like ship’s
biscuits until they were quite soft; then I poured off the water, put
in some baking-powder, and pounded the lot into a solid mass. Adding
salt, pepper and other condiments, I placed the mixture in one of
the mining pans, which I had previously smeared with dripping, and,
inverting another mining pan on top by way of a lid, proceeded to bake
my impromptu pie. I am in nowise disposed to brag about my culinary
masterpiece, but it really was quite good to taste; and I pass on
the recipe for Pi à la Gough Island to such potential castaways as
might happen to read these pages. The dish is cheap and uncommonly
filling—considerations worth while when lost to the resources of the
outer world.

Whilst I was busy, Query, who had accompanied us ashore and followed
the geologists, turned up, accompanied by Argles. Argles was full
of details of a bleak, comfortless night spent on the hill; he told
how, when starting for the summit that morning, he had fallen down
a steep place, so that he hurt his side and was compelled to turn
back. I sympathized, fed him, and we awaited the return of the rest
of the party, which occurred later in the day. Both Mr. Douglas and
Major Carr were very excellent imitations of drowned rats; their woes
clung thickly to them; their faces were blue and lacking laughter.
They’d reached the top, however, where they had been able to do some
useful work regarding surveys of the other peaks.

We turned in for that night on the floor of the hut—no more
experimenting with fragile tents for us, thank you—and the mice
carried on their best entertainment for our benefit, scampering about
us, over our faces, over our blankets, everywhere. One wakened me at
break o’ day by nibbling my nose; and deciding that discretion was
the better part of valour, we surrendered their citadel and turned
out. We packed up everything, as Commander Wild had determined to
take us off this day or perish in the attempt; for it was quite on
the cards that if he failed to-day a favourable opportunity might
not occur again for weeks, or maybe months. As Gough Island offered
scant entertainment either for body or mind, we were quite determined
to run all reasonable risks to regain the _Quest_.

The boat arrived about 8 a.m., and Commander Wild was craftily
bringing her inshore, slacking away on the anchor rope to prevent
her being smashed, when he saw the danger of the scend of the surf
lifting her and banging her bottom down on the unkindly beach. He
pulled off and made for the lee of a high cliff, which we ascended
after landing, with the aid of ropes, hauling our gear to its summit,
afterwards lowering the lot down the other side and sliding down the
ropes ourselves. Query presented a problem, as even a South Polar
dog can’t negotiate ropes; but some bright genius thrust him into a
sack and lowered him down willy-nilly, Query making no end of a fuss
of it all the while.

Fierce, very fierce gusts were coming away down the glen with a loud
screaming as of hordes of fiends, and the surface of the water was
curdled with spray, whilst the spindrift hurtled in blinding clouds.
Pushing off, we gained the _Quest_ after a stiff pull, and the ugly
old packet seemed to smile us a genial welcome, so homelike did she
appear to our eyes.

Anchor was weighed and we steamed along the coast for a short distance
to where a narrow island rose like a gigantic pillar out of the sea
for about two hundred feet. There the surf-boat went ashore again,
but, though a nasty swell was running, she came to no harm, because
a dense bed of kelp provided an ample buffer if at any time we hit
a boulder too hard. In the meantime Jimmy, who is a man of varied
accomplishments, slew the pig.

Accompanied, so it seemed, by his dying screams we got under way for
Cape Town and the joys of civilization.




CHAPTER XIX

Asail for Home


These days, I find, occupy little space in my diary. Nothing at all
happened out of the recurrent round of work and watches, beyond my
suffering from some sort of illness created by a too greedy indulgence
in succulent crayfish. We spent some active hours day by day in
“treacling up” the ship for the critical eyes of possible visitors;
and as the ship was steady and the conditions were good, time passed
pleasantly indeed. There was a genuine homeward-bound feeling about
everything. We had done most of our work—unexciting and unromantic
maybe, but useful from the scientific point of view; we had surveyed
certain hardly known lands and seas; and we felt we deserved some
few of the ameliorations of an ordinary world.

Certain rumoured reefs were supposed to lie in our track, and very
assiduously we worked with the sounding machine to verify these
potential dangers to shipping; but no evidence was forthcoming. Two
thousand fathoms gave us no bottom, and a reef buried deeper than
that below the sea’s surface wasn’t likely to do much harm to passing
ships.

After a delightful period of calms and smooth seas the wind breezed
up again, and the _Quest_, awaking like a startled horse from long
sleep, renewed her old-time vigour and enthusiasm. The wind was fairly
ahead, and with engines going their hardest we could make but little
more than a knot an hour. A dreary passage promised, but after a while
the wind freed, and under sail, with engines stopped, we ramped along
in heartening style. But on June 9 a real tragedy occurred—Query lost
the number of his mess. During the voyage he had got very cunning
in the tricks of the ship and had developed excellent sea-legs, so
that we never felt very much concern about him even when the _Quest_
was playing her most fantastic tricks. I was assisting Dell to skin
and cut up a Tristan da Cunha sheep—a very scraggy brute, with only
about enough flesh on its bones to form a decent meal for one healthy
Scout. Query, who always followed the work of the ship with sagacious
interest, was absorbedly watching our gory toil when the ship gave a
sickening lurch, and the poor dog, before he could brace himself into
a state of readiness, slipped, clawing and scrabbling, clean over
the side. I heard Jimmy crying out, and running to the poop saw Query
bravely swimming in our direction; he was fully fifty yards astern.
Then, as I looked, my heart aching for him, a big wave hit him and
shut him from view. It was impossible to do anything for him. Had he
been a man his fate must have been the same, for we were running hard
before a gale, and to heave-to might easily have spelt our complete
destruction; to lower a boat was impossible. Poor Query! His loss was
felt very keenly by every man aboard, for there is something in the
atmosphere of a ship that makes a man keen on pets, and Query was a
great pet, well loved by all. I have known many dogs, but never one
with so lovable a disposition as his. And so of all the medley of
animals carried by the ship during her voyage only one solitary cat
remained.

On June 17 we got into wireless touch with Cape Town—by telephone,
so please you—and heard all the news that had happened during our
prolonged absence from the busy world that makes the news. It was
like coming back into life after a Rip van Winkle existence. We
heard of the ascent of Mount Everest, the sinking of the _Egypt_—the
big ship lost, while our puny cockleshell survived more hazardous
days than had ever befallen the liner!—and all the sporting news
worth while. At noon we faintly discerned flat-topped Table Mountain
ahead. The sea was smooth; we were sailing under ideal conditions;
a strong elation was ours. We planned our adventures amongst men of
our own kind; wondered whether the Cape Town girls were pretty; hoped
they’d secure a good grip on our tow-rope and that they’d pull their
hardest; and generally indulged in fantastic daydreams, as is the way
of sailormen the world over, though steam has done its best to kill
romance. We celebrated this day of days by an uproarious concert in
the ward-room, and all of us, I think, went rather mad.

Going on deck at midnight was a sheer delight; a wonderful sight
presented itself. The night was perfect—still, serene; and a big
silver moon shining gloriously on the vast expanse of Table Bay vied
with the glowing lights in the distance. The ship was just creeping
along in order to make her anchorage at daylight. Round our quietly
moving bows, in the luminous wake as well, hundreds and hundreds of
phosphorescent fish were playing recklessly, shooting like shafts of
vivid light through the water, and the soft-sounding “wash-wash” of
their breaking surface, a sound which blended so perfectly with the
low seething rustle of the broken water of our progress as to seem
like fairy music.

A great reception awaited us in the morning. Dense crowds packed the
quays, and many boatloads of enthusiastic people followed in our wake
as we trudged up the harbour. As we steamed to moorings off Robben
Island I thought gratefully of the wonderful experience I had had;
and although I was very sorry it was almost over, yet within my heart
I was glad indeed to be here, for I know of no more splendid emotion
than the home-coming after a great adventure. We had tried and we
had achieved; but sorrow underlay the joy, too, for this reception
was Sir Ernest Shackleton’s triumph, and he was not there to share it.

During the following days the people of Cape Town gave us generous
greeting and unstinted hospitality. We spent a memorable week-end at
Bonnivale, the estate of Mr. Rigg, situated about 200 miles from Cape
Town—no distance at all in a country of staggering distances—and had
grateful experience of the honest Scottish hospitality of Mrs. A. H.
Smithers, of St. James’s, who received us royally at her home, allowing
us to come and go precisely as we pleased. Wherever I personally went
the Scouts were kindness itself to me, and my great regret was that
I had not sufficient time wherein to see as much of them as I could
have wished. For I owed my great adventure to the fact that I was a
Scout, and gratitude to the organization that gave me my chance must
always be uppermost in my heart.

It would be utterly impossible for me to write of the many
distinguished, generous people we had the honour to meet, of the
countless functions we attended or of the impressive, interesting
sights we saw. What with lunches, dinners, dances, motor drives and the
like, Jack was ashore with a vengeance and thoroughly enjoying himself;
whilst, considering the people—thousands of them, literally—whom we
had to conduct over the ship, it is a marvel to me how we managed
to get a full day into every twenty-four hours. Every day was a
red-letter day on its own account; and I must always remember our
stay as a truly wonderful month.

Toward the close of our stay we moved down to the Naval Dockyard at
Simon’s Town to refit; but Commander Wild, prostrated by a severe
attack of influenza, was unfortunately unable to accompany us there.

Thus, after much delight, we left Table Bay on July 13 very hurriedly,
and once more faced the elements. Not very trying on this occasion,
however, for the weather was beautifully fine; though, thanks to
our high living when ashore, certain of us began to realize that
seasickness, a thing forgotten, was still a real affair. Nevertheless,
across a sea as smooth as glass we pursued our way, until South Africa
dropped below the horizon and our visit was nothing but a golden
memory—a memory that set one longing to be possessed of wings, to
fly back and continue the prolonged farewell.

Once fairly at sea, I learned to my keen regret that we were homeward
bound—definitely homeward bound. I say “with regret” advisedly, for I
had looked forward joyously to cruising amongst new seas, of seeing
great new lands—Australia, New Zealand, and the romantic, colourful
islands of the South Pacific. Still a journey of considerable interest
was in prospect, and many a day would pass before we loomed in sight
of English shores.

It was like yachting—yachting _de luxe_—as we steamed along placid
seas, under broiling suns and cloudless skies. Pleasant travelling
this, but we of the _Quest_, hardened to bad weather, occasionally
found the lazy times a trifle boring. Not unduly so, mark you. We did
not precisely pray for big gales and high seas, for we had had our
share, and more than our share, maybe, of such happenings of ocean
travel; but even lazy loafing about the decks with a book can grow
monotonous, and a gale certainly provides excitement and the element
of the unexpected.

Without any event of outstanding importance, following a placid
round of commonplace duties, living on the fat of the land, since
there was now no pronounced need to conserve our stores, cleaning
ship diligently, fishing for albatross, taking occasional soundings
and dredgings, we reached St. Helena and anchored off Jamestown. It
is a pretty little town, which straggles picturesquely for a long
way up the bottom of an acute-sided valley. The island itself is a
mountainous mass, intersected in every direction by deep valleys, those
opening to the sea in our direction being of a very regular V-shape.
An exceedingly fertile land, its chief industry is the growing of
flax. The natives are black, some being rather less so than others,
and white people are few and far between.

Mr. Douglas and I rode across the island to inspect some dykes he had
heard about, and on the way stopped at Napoleon’s last abiding-place,
his lonely home during his tragic banishment. We saw his tomb only
from the distance, having no time for a closer inspection. The roads
we negotiated were uniformly good, but at a certain point on the far
side of the island, in order to reach our destination, we had to alight
and lead our sturdy animals down the rough side of an extremely steep
hill. At the bottom Mr. Douglas stopped and purchased some exquisitely
dainty lace at a native cottage. St. Helena rather specializes in
lace of delicate fashioning; its manufacture is an industry of some
importance.

The dykes were situated beside a ruined Dutch fort which once guarded
a small cove, and I wondered what feature of history this stronghold
illustrated, but was able to secure no worth-while information on the
subject. A few shattered cannon, crumbling to nothingness under the
influence of the sea air, still remained—grim relics of a forgotten
era in colonization. We stayed in the vicinity for an hour, Mr.
Douglas taking many photographs and gathering various geological
specimens. The country hereabouts was rocky and barren and not at
all inviting. Having satisfied our lust for information so far as
possible, we returned; it was already dark when we clattered into
Jamestown. After months at sea, and to a man untutored in the art,
riding was a painful business at best, and I was so sore by the
time we sighted our destination that I could not sit in the saddle,
but, jockey-wise, rode in the stirrups alone. Counting everything,
I think my performance wasn’t so bad—I only fell off once; but then,
as I said, anyone who could exist aboard the _Quest_ when she was up
to her tricks could sit anything, even a drunken giraffe. Next day
brought its penalty of adventuring: I was so sore that if there had
been a mantelpiece aboard the ship I’d have eaten my breakfast from
it. Lacking so unusual a table, I suffered in stoic silence, mentally
anathematizing all horses; but the smart soon disappeared, helped by
activities aboard.

The weather at this time was blazing hot, so hot that even to wind
up one’s watch was an exertion to be seriously considered for long
half-hours at a stretch before completing the operation. Sweat ran
from us in rivers, for we were all carrying flesh as a result of lush
feeding on the passage from Cape Town.

My general impression of St. Helena was that it was a derelict island;
its glory had departed. Its name rings down through the aisles of
history, and will probably never be forgotten, for here the Corsican
Ogre was housed in safety after peace was given to a war-ridden world;
but it is its name that matters and not the place itself. However,
I was very glad to have seen it, and it was easy to picture the
ambitious Man of Destiny eating out his heart in a galling captivity,
reflecting on the glories and triumphs that once were his.

We departed for Ascension Island the night Mr. Douglas and I returned
from our equine gymnastics, and spent a fairly lazy time on the
passage, for the heat was against arduous exertion. During these days
the dominant feature of the seascape—a placid plain of shining water
for the most part—was the enormous swarms of flying-fish that dashed
away from the warning of our thrusting bow and scattered wildly in
every direction, rising foolishly into the air until their wings
dried, then plopping and pattering back into their native element,
to become easy prey, one supposes, to the voracious bonitos who are
their natural enemies. We found amusement in endeavouring to coax the
last lonely albatross that had accompanied us northward to continue
its journey; but an uncanny instinct prevented it from venturing. It
is said these birds will never under any conditions cross the Line,
and this fellow seemed a living proof of the fact.

In the afternoon of August 1 we sighted the sharp peak of Ascension
Island—where the turtles come from—and after dark we came to anchor a
few hundred yards from the naval barracks. I went below into the hold
to find some clean clothes, and the Chief, entering the ward-room,
fell down through the open hatch. Under normal conditions he would
have expressed his feelings with such words as occurred to him at the
moment, and I should have wilted under his torrential profanity; but
the homeward-bound feeling was evidently strongly within him, for he
maintained a silence that was more pregnant than many words. He made
a game struggle against his natural feelings and won—all credit to him.

During the war there was on Ascension a big wireless station, with a
coaling station for our patrolling cruisers also; and the garrison
of marines is still maintained, probably in readiness for the next
war, or it may be that they have been forgotten. Anyhow, there the
garrison still is, and also the Eastern Telegraph Company have a
cable station on the island; so no doubt the two groups keep each
other company.

Ascension lies very near the Equator, and is naturally hot. With the
exception of St. Paul’s Rocks it is, I think, the hottest place I
have so far struck. It is an amazing contrast to St. Helena; utterly
barren of vegetation except, strangely enough, on the very summit of
the peak, which is 3,000 feet high or thereabouts, there is a single
farm, which supplies the garrison with fresh meat and vegetables. For
the rest the island is nothing but a monotonous series of huge red
mounds of ashes and piles of clinker, due to the one-time extraordinary
volcanic action here. There still remain some two dozen perfectly
discernible volcanic craters, any one of which appeared ready to
start into immediate eruption.

Early on the morning of arrival I accompanied Mr. Douglas ashore, clad
weirdly in his garments for the most part, for hard work had taken a
bitter toll of mine. We walked for a little while along the road that
leads to the farm on the ultimate peak, and then struck off towards
a hill known as Dark Slope Crater. The geologist had learned that
there was some ejected granite to be found there, and was curious to
investigate.

Our way led us across many piles of clinker, which emitted a strangely
musical tinkle when we set foot on them. It was intensely hot; the
scorched cinders struck through our boot soles as if they were merely
paper. They say at Aden that there is only a single thickness of
brown paper between them and the nether regions; the same remark
applies to Ascension. On top of the crater we ate our modest lunch
and inspected the crater itself—extinct, though suggestive. At the
bottom was a yellow, sun-dried area like the bottom of a pond in a
severe drought. Mr. Douglas took samples of this dried mud, thinking
it to be fuller’s earth, and no doubt dreamt of uncountable riches;
he also got samples of the granite he sought. Having satisfied our
hunger for the unusual, we entered Wideawake Valley, called by this
unexpected name because it teems with millions of wideawake birds.
When I say millions I mean millions; there is no exaggeration. It was
nesting time, and the noise as we walked through amongst the sitting
mothers was deafening, whilst the air was literally darkened by the
wheeling, startled birds, who pecked gallantly at our headgear in
the endeavour to beat off our innocent intrusion. Unfortunately they
were in the right of it, for so thickly were the nests strewn on the
open ground that we trampled eggs and so on into a hideous omelette
in our progress, without in the least wishing to do anything of the
sort.

From this yelling tornado of ornithological resentment we made a
detour, the general direction being toward the peak road. Ascending a
dried-up creek we came upon a beautiful specimen of a lava flow. The
flow was in the act of rounding a bend, and was so good an example
that Mr. Douglas took photographs and measurements. Ascension is,
indeed, a rare spot for a geologist. Farther on I picked up half a
volcanic “bomb,” and a piece which might have been a “teardrop.” Mr.
Douglas took samples from many striking dykes, one running for half
a mile down the side of a hill. Every foot of the journey brought
some new surprise, something of keen interest. A large mass of grey
rock—trachyte, I think it is called—was weathered into fantastic
shapes. We also found ejected gneiss, and the presence of this,
together with the granite, supports the theory that Ascension is
connected, under water, with the main African continent.

Presently we gained the peak road at “God-be-thanked Well,” a most
appropriate name, for I was dying for a drink, as were unquestionably
those who originally named the well. A long draught of cool water
bred feelings of profound thankfulness in our souls.

At length, with what seemed at least a hundredweight each of rock
specimens slung on our backs, we arrived at the station, racing
the swiftly falling darkness during the last lap of the journey, to
discover that a mail-boat was in the harbour. Whilst awaiting the
arrival of our boat it was interesting to watch the marines working
by the light of acetylene flares; and there was superior joy in
realizing our own immediate immunity from labour of this trying sort.

Next day, securing shore leave again, I dressed myself appropriately
to the consuming heat that threatened, and Mr. Douglas and I pushed
off for the land. When aboard ship for a long time even a naked rock
promises a relief from cramped surroundings, and we welcomed these
shore excursions very cordially. We started at once up the hot, dusty
road to the peak, halting three miles inland at God-be-thanked Well
for a relished drink and an equally enjoyed smoke. As the gradient
began to steepen we encountered sparse vegetation—thin-growing grass
and cactus plants, palms and casuarinas—which vegetation culminates
in the fertile farmland of the peak. About two and a half miles from
the actual summit we left the road and climbed a steep grassy ridge,
but frequently crossed the main thoroughfare, which ascended in a
series of remarkable bends. Emerging on the road at one of these
bends we met a fine old gentleman in khaki shorts, with a horse and
a little daughter. He was very tall, with silver-grey hair and a
fresh countenance. This was Mr. Cronk, who runs the peak farm. With
astonishing generosity he lent me his mare, which promptly bolted up
the hill as I set foot in the stirrup, being exceptionally spirited
from long confinement in the stable. Nor did she slacken speed,
notwithstanding the steepness of the way, until she drew up with a
clatter at the stable door. She gave me a hazardous passage, for every
time she swung round a bend I was nearly off, retaining my seat only
by dint of my sailor’s grip.

At the farm we bathed and were entertained most regally, afterwards
making our way round the left slope of the mountain, along a path
cut with no little skill by Mr. Cronk. On the way Mr. Douglas poked
his stick into what seemed very like an ordinary rabbit burrow, and a
huge land-crab immediately emerged, ready for battle. He presented a
most ferocious front, but decided that the odds against him were too
heavy, so promptly retreated. We saw many more of these unsightly,
nightmarish brutes. We made a thorough inspection of the country
surrounding the peak, saw many strange sights, and returned to the
farm, where Mr. Cronk served us with an excellent dinner; and then
to bed. How deliciously inviting a landsman’s bed can be!

The following morning, in clear sunshine, with a swift, cool breeze
to temper the heat, we set forth again. Mr. Douglas promptly occupying
himself with photography, secured some amazing views. The vistas were
beyond description, and well worth recording permanently. One gazed
on a scene which, except for the dirty yellow-white of the scattered
patches of withered grass, had but little variation in colour. The
dominant features were the bright red of the conical hills and craters
and the darker brown of the piles of clinkers; and the impression
conveyed was that one stared out over the raw world as it must have
been almost immediately after the creation. Growing on the distant
lower slopes were palms, casuarinas and green grass, and on the peak
itself was an extensive vegetation of conifers, greener grass and
bamboos, these last being on the very summit, sheltering a small pool
made by Mr. Cronk.

After a breakfast to treasure in memory through many years—never
were such delicious cold chicken, such sweet eggs, such vegetables
and fruit!—we listened to our worthy host’s pleadings that we should
inspect a bridge of his own fashioning, and followed him along through
tunnels and arches and cuttings, balancing ourselves on precarious
ledges with sheer drops on the one side that terminated thousands of
feet below, until we reached the bridge, which spanned a small gully
and was composed of steel piping, cemented smoothly over and giving
the impression that it had existed from time immemorial and would
continue to endure for ever—a striking piece of work.

Those who gave the place-names to this island were evidently obsessed
with a belief that the entire country owed its origin to Plutonic
ingenuity. There’s the Devil’s Punch Bowl, there’s the Devil’s Riding
School—this latter a peculiar crater, perfectly circular and looking
from above precisely like a giant target that has fallen over on its
back. There would seem to have been successive volcanic eruptions
here, and the resultant deposits are laid out in concentric circles
of varying colour, quite conveying the idea of the conventional target.

The flaming sun took toll of us during the return journey. My face,
back, neck, arms and legs were baked bright scarlet when I boarded the
ship at five o’clock, just before she weighed anchor; and in some way
I’d picked up a temperature, too, which resulted in my being ordered
to my bunk for the night.

But the temperature did not long endure; in the morning I wakened
quite normal, to find the _Quest_ in open water and practising
her rolling evolutions with gusto. Beyond a few blisters and much
smarting, my sunburn failed to trouble me. From Ascension we brought
the beginnings of a menagerie—sailors must have pets of some sort—and
in addition to a monkey and a canary we boasted quite a flock of
young turtles, as proof we had visited Turtleopolis. We tended these
fellows carefully, changing their water frequently and feeding them
regularly on salt pork. This Saturday night, as had been our custom
throughout, we drank the old navy toast of “Sweethearts and Wives,”
to which the inevitable joker solemnly added, “May they never meet!”
an amendment as customary as the toast itself. We then turned on the
faithful gramophone, suffering by this time from much hard usage,
but still determined to do its best and producing quite decent music.

Next day we cleaned ship, and, with the wind dying down into puffs,
encountered heavy rain, which gave us all the joy of baths. This being
Sunday I took opportunity for a “sailor’s pleasure,” and turned out my
bunk, which, from its peculiar situation just below the companion-hatch
into the wardroom, seemed to be the harbouring-place of every oddment
in the ship. The sum total of these accumulations is interesting.
Listen: Sea-water, sea-boots, enamel plates and other eating gear,
soup, salt pork and tinned fruit, and a sample of every article of
food ever consumed aboard.

August 8 we crossed the Line again in blazing heat. During the
uneventful days of the passage to St. Vincent we exerted ourselves
faithfully in cleaning ship, washing her inside and out, up aloft
and down below. She shone like silver as a result of our exertions,
but we wondered what would happen to her when the coaling began.
Still, aboard ship the hands must be kept employed, otherwise they
might grumble and slack and grow discontented. When there’s no other
employment for them they clean ship and go on cleaning. Then the
coaling crowd come aboard and take a diabolical delight in smothering
her with foulness. Still, no bones are broken, so no one is any the
worse.

The hours spent at the wheel during these fine-weather days were
enjoyable in the extreme. With the sun shining across the easily
rolling sea in a broad dazzling beam, and a cool north-north-east
wind blowing gently six points or so on the starboard bow, the heat
of the day is delightfully counteracted and sailing conditions are
perfect. During such hours a man is allowed to think—those deep
thoughts which cannot be put into so many prosaic words, but which
lift the soul gloriously out of itself and teach one the majesty of
God. One drifts aimlessly from subject to obscure subject, lost in
a hazy dreamland of introspection, until——

“Hallo! What might you be trying to do with her? Write your name with
the —— —— ship?” comes from the officer of the watch, and you spring
to alertness and stare aghast at the loops and twists of the bubbling
wake.

In due course we reached St. Vincent, and found it and the adjacent
islands in even a sorrier plight than when we visited them on the
outward journey, for the drought had spread to the neighbouring
islands, and as they supply St. Vincent itself with cereals and
vegetables and water, a condition nearly approaching famine existed.
Throughout the day of our arrival we were surrounded by bumboats in
charge of extremely ragged boatmen, who endeavoured to tempt us into
buying their trifling variety of fruits. Certain of these enthusiasts
varied their hours by diving for the chunks of coal which fell
overboard from our coaling, and they inevitably secured their loot. We
coaled ship, smothered ourselves in grime, bathed, and finally left
St. Vincent on Sunday, August 20, in a whirl of excitement, firing
rockets lavishly, and sent on our way by much cheering from women
and children who had massed in a high place to see the last of us.

Placid workful conditions continued until, on September 3, we reached
San Miguel of the Western Isles and anchored there. A very pretty
picture this island presents from the sea, reminding one greatly
of our own northern land—green fields, much vegetation, and regular
walls. Going ashore here, I enjoyed a Portuguese Sunday—the busiest,
most careless day of the week, apparently, for the cafés were all
wide open and doing a roaring trade, and the streets were thronged
with islanders dressed in their best, determined on enjoyment. A
very different scene from Tristan da Cunha, let’s say! I enjoyed this
colourful scene immensely, it was such relief from the monotones which
had been our experience for so many months. But all things have an
end, and on Monday, September 4, we weighed anchor and headed out
upon the final lap of the homeward trail. After certain sunny days
we ran into screaming hard weather, with a fortunate fair wind that
bade the _Quest_ do her best—an order she obeyed, both as to speed and
rolling. Her firm intention seemed to be to leave us with poignant
memories of her activities in this direction. But we endured, and
we blessed her for carrying us so far so worthily; and now that the
hazards are past I retain nothing but the tenderest recollections of
what we used to call in our wrath “that perishing old wash-tub of a
rolling son of a gun.”

And so the closing stage of the memorable voyage approached. Long
before there was even the remotest hope of our sighting England
we commenced our packing, three parts of which had to be promptly
unpacked; and then we painted the weird assortment of boxes which
contained our accumulated possessions, and hoped they would look a
little less disreputable than they actually did. Late on the evening
of September 15 we crept into Plymouth Sound and dropped our anchor—an
anxious anchor that had repeatedly tried to break loose from its
moorings on the homeward trip—in Cawsand Bay. We were home—home from
the great adventure!

On September 17, the anniversary of the day on which she had left St.
Katharine’s Dock a year before, the _Quest_ was finally berthed and
our work was done. Here in her resting-place I said farewell to the
many staunch friends I had made and to the stout, plucky, wonderful
ship that I had grown to look upon as a second home.

And now I can hardly believe that it was all true. Yet it _was_
true—gloriously so. I, too, have seen and known and learnt; I, too,
have companioned with the great souls who help to make our island
history. Sir Ernest Shackleton, Commander Frank Wild and the others,
all great of heart and fearless of soul, had been my shipmates and
my friends.

It was a memorable year indeed, and for all time I know I must carry
with me a vision of tumbling waves by day and phosphorescent breakers
in the darkness; the grind and bellow of the closing pack, the rush
and roar of broken waters at the growlers’ feet; the hushed noises
of the seals as they come to the surface in the still water of the
pack; and always shall I see in mind’s-eye the glory of the Antarctic
night.

And most poignant yet inspiring of all my memories there is that of
the lonely cross outlined against the whirling drive of the South
Georgian sleet, the sign which remains to tell of the great spirit
that led us forth into the Frozen South and died, yet lives again,
as a magnet to draw the brave away from the sleek comforts of life
into that outer world of daring where men may gaze in awe upon the
wonders of the Lord.




INDEX


     Adelie penguin, a solitary, 160

     Albacore, a shoal of, 55

     Albatrosses, fishing for, 183, 191
       flight of, 80, 88

     Antarctic Circle, weather in the, 139

     Antarctic exploration, Commander Wild on, 172

     Argles, Mr., 155, 156, 157, 190
       a series of accidents, 157, 221
       catches a penguin, 163

     Ascension Island, 231
       intense heat of, 231 _et seq._

     Aurora Australis, a glimpse of the, 158


     Bergs (_see_ Icebergs)

     Billiards at Gritviken, 194

     Binney, Mr., and his dog, 194

     Bird-covered bergs, 118, 119

     Bird Island, 191

     Bird-shooting, 207, 210

     Biscuit-pie, recipe for, 221

     Bonnivale, a week-end at, 227

     Bull-fight, a Portuguese, 34

     Bull-fights, Spanish, 37

     Bullock-cars, 42

     Burlings reef, 29

     Butterfly-hunting at St. Vincent, 52


     Campbell, Captain Gordon, war work of, 14

     Cape Saunders, a survey of, 188

     Cape Town, welcome at, 227

     Cape Valentine, 174

     Cape Verde Islands, impressions of, 49, 51

     _Carl_ (whaler), 108

     Carr, Major, accident to, 82
       as barber, 154
       in a football match, 169
         meteorological experiments of, 40, 62, 64, 66, 109, 178, 215
       studies manœuvres of an albatross, 81

     Christmas in Southern Seas, 82 _et seq._

     Clerk Rocks, volcanic eruptions on, 116

     Coal-sifting, 59

     Coal-trimming, 15, 18, 47, 79, 155

     Coaling at Port Olaf Harbour, 190

     Cod-fishing in South Georgia, 188

     Compass adjustment, experiences of, 11, 15

     Cook, Captain, discovers South Georgia, 97

     Cornwallis Island, 175

     Crabs on St. Paul’s Rocks, 62, 64

     Cronk, Mr., and his farm at Ascension Island, 234

     Cumberland Bay, 196


     Deer-hunting in South Georgia, 109

     Dell, Mr., as coal-trimmer, 155
       asked to carry on, 102
       electrician of _Quest_, 62, 64, 97, 122
       injured in a gale, 90
       skins a sheep, 225

     Divers, light-fingered, 50

     Donkey riding at St Vincent, 51, 52

     Douglas, Mr., 206, 208, 215
       and a defective harpoon, 143
       and Sir E. Shackleton’s grave, 194
       as footballer, 169
       buys lace at St. Helena, 229
       geological researches of, 44, 52, 233
       rejoins _Quest_, 109
         replaces _Quest’s_ cook in the galley, 45
       scientific observations in South Georgia, 77
       surveys St. Paul’s Rocks, 62, 64


     Eastern Telegraph Company, cable station on Ascension Island, 231

     Edinburgh, Tristan da Cunha, 212

     Elephant Island, in sight, 174
       weather of, 178
       why so named, 177

     _Endurance_ expedition, 171, 174, 175

     Eriksen, Mr., 62
       harpoons a giant porpoise, 58
       returns home, 72

     _Expedition Topics_ and its editor,  123, 126


     Falmouth Bay, Tristan da Cunha, 210

     Firemen (ship’s), and their duties, 15

     Fishing in South Georgia, 188, 191, 193

     Flensing, 99, 177, 188

     Floating ice, risk of navigation amongst, 120

     Flying-fish, 63, 230

     Football on the ice, 166, 168, 170

     Funchal, bullock-cars of, 42
       steep streets of, 43


     Gales in Southern Seas, 88 _et seq._, 127, 130, 151, 157, 164, 173

     Glacier ice, dangers of, 177

     Glass, John, agility of, 207
       welcomes _Quest_ holiday-makers, 212

     Glass, John, first settler at Tristan da Cunha, 203

     “God-be-thanked Well,” Ascension Island, 233, 234

     Gough Island, 214
       a derelict hut on, 216
       exploration work on, 215 _et seq._
       landing on, 215

     Green (cook of _Quest_), 31, 86, 91, 128
       accident to, 44
       and Worsley’s birthday feast, 151

     Green, Henry, a Tristan da Cunha inhabitant, 204

     Gritviken, harbour of, 98
       Shackleton’s grave at, 186, 194, 195
       the British quarters at, 101

     “Growlers,” definition of, 96

     “Gubbins Alley,” why so called, 198

     Gulls, Skua, 113

     Gymnastics extraordinary, 111


     Hansen, Mr., manager of whaling station at Leith, 110, 111, 186

     Horn sailing-ship, a famous, 60

     Housing problem, the, how solved at Tristan da Cunha, 203

     Hussey, Captain, 62, 64, 83, 102
       and the death of Sir E. Shackleton, 104, 186
       meteorological experiments of, 40


     Ice and wind, a rough time with, 177 _et seq._

     Ice, football on the, 166, 168, 170

     Icebergs, 117
       beauty of, 95
       capsized, 97, 125
       source of, 96
       tabular, 115

     “Ice-blink,” 96

     Ice-water, and how obtained, 147, 154

     Inaccessible Island, 199
       a landing on, 209


     Jamestown, 229

     Jeffrey, Mr., 62, 124, 152
       an accident to, 76, 102
       and an albatross, 183
       as ice-catcher, 160
       convalescence of, 118
       rocket-fire by, disturbs penguins, 119


     Kelvin sounder, the, 113, 114, 183

     Kerr, Mr., engineer, 143

     Killer whales, 133, 135, 165

     Kipling, Rudyard, his understanding of the sea, 71, 82, 122


     Lace-buying at St. Helena, 229

     _La France_ becalmed, 60
       wrecked off New Caledonia, 61

     Land-crabs, 235

     Larsen Harbour, and its cliffs, 115

     Leith Harbour, South Georgia, 186, 187, 193

     Lifeboats, daily overhaul of, 126

     Lisbon, a remarkable cinema exhibition in, 32
       _Quest_ overhauled in, 33
       the Pena Palace, 31, 38

     Locomotion, primitive, 204

     London’s farewell to _Quest_, 6

     Lysaght, Mr., a farewell dinner to, 50
       embarks on _Quest_, 15
       popularity of, 44
       returns to England, 53


     Macklin, Dr., 62, 178, 179
       an urgent message to, 75
       billiard-playing at Gritviken, 194
       plays football on the ice, 169
       seamanship of, 90
       Tristan islanders’ offer to, 201

     Macleod, 131, 156
       and a refractory squaresail, 149
       and a wireless installation, 211
       and Sir E. Shackleton’s cairn, 194, 195
       as instructor in seamanship, 161
       averts a disaster, 198

     Madeira, first sight of, 40
       flora of, 42
       remarkable atmosphere of, 41
       sight-seeing in, 42

     Mailbags delivered at Tristan da Cunha, 201

     _Mal de mer_, and its terrors, 19 _et seq._, 39, 173

     Marr, Scout, alone on Gough Island, 220
       as butcher, 134
       as helmsman in a gale, 88
       as lamp-trimmer: Sir E. Shackleton’s hints, 25
       Christmas Day on _Quest_, 84
       experiences miseries of _mal de mer_, 19 _et seq._, 39, 173
       first day among pack-ice, 133
       first meeting with Shackleton, 2
       football on the ice, 163, 169, 170
       fraternizes with Lisbon Scouts, 38
       his wages increased, 49
       joins _Quest_, 4
       meets brother Scouts at Plymouth, 14
       on the sick list, 150
         presents Sir R. Baden Powell’s flag to Tristan Scouts, 205
       reaches home, 239
       selected for _Quest_ expedition, 1
       Shackleton and, 55, 56, 66, 97
       sight-seeing in Madeira and St. Vincent, 42, 51

     Mason, a martyr to seasickness, 39, 40
       leaves _Quest_, 41

     McIlroy, Dr., a game of billiards at Gritviken, 194
       and Shackleton’s cairn 195
       tends Worsley, 124

     Meteorological experiments, and how conducted, 66

     Mice-hunting on Gough Island, 218

     Middle Island, 208

     Mirages, Antarctic, 162, 163, 174, 181

     Monte Video, Shackleton’s body taken to, 105, 180

     Moon-blindness, 57

     Mooney, Scout Norman E., his duties, 10
       joins _Quest_, 4
       leaves _Quest_, 41
       selected for _Quest_ expedition, 1
       suffers from seasickness, 19, 21, 28, 39
       welcomed by Portuguese Scouts, 38

     Motor rides in Lisbon, 33

     Mountaineering on Inaccessible Island, 210


     Naisbitt (cook’s mate), edits _Expedition Topics_, 123
       falls overboard, 220
       falls through the ice, 166
       fashions a tobacco-pipe, 219
       plays football on the ice, 169

     Napoleon I at St. Helena, 229, 230

     Nautilus, first sight of a, 80

     Navigation among floating ice, dangers of, 120

     _Neko_ enters Leith Harbour, 189

     Nelson, Admiral, his tendency to seasickness, 20

     New Year’s Day (1922), 94

     Nightingale Island, 206


     Octopus, a baby, 211

     Oil on troubled waters, 91

     Oompah (_see_ Young)


     Pack-ice, 153
       colour effects of, 141, 142, 158
       _Quest’s_ entry into, 131
       the helmsman’s difficulties in, 132

     Pagoda Rock, 125

     Pancake ice, 110

     Parcels, unaddressed, 213

     Parr, Mr., addresses Scout officers, 14

     “Peggying,” definition of, 111
       in a gale, 130

     Penguin, a, witnesses football on the ice, 166

     Penguin-chasing and its humour, 163

     Penguin hunting in South Georgia, 114

     Penguins, 95, 163
       and how they resented rocket-fire, 119

     _Perth_ at Stromness, 189, 190

     Petrels, photographing, 113

     Phosphorescent fish, 226

     Pig, a, Query and, 196

     Pilots, Portuguese, 30

     Plymouth welcomes the _Quest_, 14, 15

     Plymouth Sound, _Quest_ anchors in, on her return home, 239

     Polar exploration ships, accommodation on, 4

     Porpoise, a shoal of, 58

     Portugal, first sight of, 29

     Portuguese bull-fight, a, 34

     “Portuguese man-o’-war,” a, 80

     Portuguese Sunday, a, 230

     Prince Olaf Harbour, 190, 192, 193

     _Professor Gruvel_, Sir E. Shackleton’s body conveyed on, 105

     Pumping, the rigours of, 122, 145


     Query (wolf-hound puppy), and a killer whale, 161
       and a penguin, 163, 166
       and a pig, 196
       embarks on _Quest_, 15
       his cold bath, 176
       his curiosity regarding pack-ice, 132
       how he fared during a gale, 129
       loss of, 225

     _Quest_, a blaze aboard, and its cause, 143
       a description of, 12
         a nigger volunteer for, 101
       a rough time with ice and wind, 177 _et seq._
       alfresco meals on, 46
       amongst floating ice, 120
       anchors in Funchal Harbour, 41
       arrives home, 239
       _en route_ for Cape Verde, 44
       engine trouble, 28, 40, 47, 55, 71, 79, 92
       first impressions of, 3, 4
       hemmed in by ice, 134, 141, 165
       her wireless installations, 13
       leaves Lisbon, 39
       London’s good-bye to, 6 _et seq._
       makes for Elephant Island, 171
       narrow escapes of, 120, 121
       Plymouth’s welcome to, 14
       runs into ice, 95 _et seq._
       Sir E. Shackleton’s cabin, 48
       top speed of, 22


     Revolutions, and how fostered, 68

     Rigg, Mr., entertains crew of _Quest_, 227

     Rio de Janeiro, 67
       a month at, 72
       beauty of, 68, 73
       departure from, 76
       past and present, 68, 69
       _Quest_ in quarantine at, 69

     “Rio Doctor,” the, 74

     Rogers, Rev Martyn, and his wireless station, 211
       and the Scout movement, 205

     Ross (stoker), 169

     Rowett, John Quiller, a dinner to officers and crew of _Quest_, 15
       author’s tribute to, 5
       bids farewell to _Quest_, 16
       finances _Quest_ expedition, 4, 13
       prearranges Christmas fare, 83
       sends wreath for Shackleton’s funeral, 187

     Royal Bay, 196


     Saddle-soreness, an experience of, 230

     Sailing-ships, mysteries of, 19

     St. Helena, 228
       geological researches at, 232
       natives of, 229

     St. Paul’s Rocks, a call at, 61

     St Vincent, and its harbour, 50
       _Quest_ at, 238

     San Miguel, 238

     Scouts, a troop at Tristan da Cunha, 205
       Brazilian, 74
       Plymouth, 14
       Portuguese, 38

     Scurvy, and how it is encouraged, 137

     Sea-birds of St. Paul’s Rocks, 63

     Sea-elephants, a school of, 112
       flensing, 177
       harems of, 178

     Sea-leopard, a discreet, 145
       fate of a sleeping, 168
       first sight of a, 137

     Sea-leopards, pugnacity of, 176

     Seasickness, reflections on, and remedies for, 19

     Seal-hunting, 153

     Seal-shooting, 134

     Seals, schools of, 112, 136
       shot and flayed on the ice, 137, 143

     Shackleton, Lady, her wishes as to funeral of her husband, 105,
       186, 187

     Shackleton, Sir Ernest, a dictum of, 156
       a motto of, 45
       a pen-picture of, 2
       and author, 55, 56, 66, 97
       death of, 102
       his cabin on _Quest_, 48
       his makeshift berth, 93
       his thought for his men, 77, 94
       hints on common-sense sailorizing by, 25, 26
       inspects candidates for _Quest_ adventure, 1
       last resting-place of, 186, 194, 195
       sudden indisposition of, 75
       talks of a previous expedition, 97, 98

     Shark-fishing, 208

     Sheerness, _Quest_ at, 9

     Shetlanders as barbers, 111

     Ships, essential discipline of, 7 _et seq._

     Simon’s Town, _Quest_ at, 227

     Skua gulls as food, 115

     Sleep as recreation, 23

     Smithers, Mrs. A. H., hospitality of, 227

     Snow petrels, 155

     Sounding under difficulties, 183, 184

     Soundings, fruitless, 121, 122, 125
       old and new method of, 113, 192

     South American ports, rules as to entry and leaving, 67

     South Georgia, discovery of, 97
       kindness of Norwegians of, 110, 111
       _Quest_ at, 98 _et seq._, 186 _et seq._
       Shackleton buried in, 186
       the administration of, 101
       typical weather of, 102, 106, 109, 184, 188, 193

     South Sandwich Islands, 118 _et seq._

     _Southern Isles_, 190

     Spanish bull-fights, 37

     Stars of tropical skies, 46

     Stenhouse, Mr., his farewell to _Quest_, 16

     Steering, reflections on, 21

     Stoker, first experiences as, 15

     Stores, shifting, 7

     Stream-ice encountered, 131

     Stromness whaling station, 189

     Sugar-cane groves in Madeira, 42

     Sugar Loaf, the, 67
       ascent of, 73


     Table Bay, _Quest_ at, 226

     Tobacco-pipe, an unusual, 220

     Tree parasites, 217

     Tristan da Cunha, a spell on, 198 _et seq._
       first sight of, 199
       graveyard at, 202
       islanders of, 199, 200, 213

     Turtleopolis (_see_ Ascension Island)

     Tussock grass, rank growth of, 207, 210


     Vao d’Assucar (_see_ Sugar Loaf)

     Volcanic islands, 119, 120


     Water, fresh, need for conserving, 57, 87

     Waterfalls, 210, 214

     Water-sky, a, and its cause, 139

     Watts (of _Quest_), and a wireless aerial, 211
       plays football on the ice, 169

     Wearing a ship, method of, 148

     Weddell Sea ice, 163

     Western Telegraph Company as hosts, 43, 53

     Whalers and whaling, past and present, 99 _et seq._

     Whales, a school of, 153
       process of flensing, 99, 177, 188

     Whaling stations, 98, 188 _et seq._

     Wideawake Valley, Ascension Island, 232

     Wild, Frank (Commander), an attack of influenza, 227
       and a runaway boat, 124
       averts a disaster to _Quest_, 120
       birthday celebrations, 190
       contracts a chill, 178
       imparts news of death of Sir E. Shackleton, 102
       on Antarctic exploration, 172
       plays football on the ice, 169
       seal-shooting by, 134
       seamanship of, 125
       shoots a porpoise, 59
       takes command of _Quest_, 103, 106 _et seq._

     Wilkins, Mr., a narrow escape from death, 180
       as photographer, 45, 64, 112 _et seq._, 141, 153
         bird-shooting on Nightingale Island, 207
       butterfly-hunting at St. Vincent, 52
       rejoins _Quest_, 108
       scientific observations in South Georgia, 77, 109
       shoots an Emperor penguin, 137
       studies manœuvres of an albatross, 81

     Wilson’s Island, 74

     Wireless in Tristan da Cunha, 211

     _Woodville_ at Stromness, 189, 190

     Worsley, Captain, accident to, 124
       and the _Endurance_ expedition, 175
       as mimic, 160
       birthday celebrations on _Quest_, 151
       sailing master of _Quest_, 16, 24
       seamanship of, 90
       unfailing courage of, 128


     “Young ice,” 110

     Young, stoker of _Quest_ (“Oompah”), 169, 190, 211


     Zavodovski, island of, 118


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     20.1123