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Into the Frozen South

<h2> CHAPTER XI All Ice Where Eye Could See </h2> 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 118 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 119 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 120 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 121 could have taken our little ship and tucked her away in a crevice and never noticed its tenant! <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_120a.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption"> The Quest Narrowly Escapes an Iceberg. </div> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_120b.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption"> The Midnight Sun in the Land of Ice. </div> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_121a.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption"> Finding the Magnetic Dip: Jeffrey and Douglas at work. </div> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_121b.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption"> Taking the First Sounding in the Frozen South. </div> </div> 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—27,000 122 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! 123 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. 124 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 125 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 126 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 127 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 128 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 129 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’ 130 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. 131 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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