LEARNING THE ROPES
Sunday (4th) is a calm, restful day. I think most people on board slept
well after the gale. “Rise and shine, Mr. Taylor, sir,” is the curious
reveillé of the steward at 7.30. I don’t know how we are to shine, for I
haven’t had a wash for three days, except a bucketful of sea-water
caught with my own (by no means) fair hands. Many of us have had all our
suits soaked, and as to-day is really sunny and almost warm, some queer
garbs are seen. One scientist reverted to a fashionable Tudor garb—to
wit, a long speckled knitted tunic reaching the knees, and a pair of
very long thick blue stockings! Now that the ship has stopped rolling
through 40°, it is possible to wedge oneself among the stanchions under
the deck-pump and obtain a bracing bath. But, as the gentleman who
occupies the cabin under the pump ungallantly objects to the water, so
to speak, killing two birds with one stone, and bathing _him_ also, we
are deprived of this pleasure, and revert to the even more chilly method
of heaving up buckets from the vasty deep. The deck-house balcony—an
enclosed strip of the poop overlooking the wardroom—forms our
dressing-room, and was invaluable during the gale as a changing stage
between the howling outer void and the snug wardroom below.
The first duty was to secure the loose boxes and cargo. The coal sacks
were all emptied into the depleted bunkers, and the cases of petrol for
the motor sledges transferred from the poop further for’ard.
A glance at the sketch-plan of the deck (p. 39) will show that the three
enormous cases containing the motor sledges were almost as large as the
permanent structure. Two of them, just in front of the main mast, help
to form the walls of a snug “hangar” or enclosure for the dogs. Large
tarpaulins overhang at the sides, and partly cover the central space;
and here the dogs are snugger than they are likely to be in Antarctica.
On the port side the broken bulwarks have been roughly barricaded by
ropes and planks; the narrow alley alongside being largely occupied by
spare timber and scantling, on which three or four other dogs are
chained.
A prominent building is the ice-house, with a flat roof, on which are
two most important instruments and some half-dozen dogs. The ice-house
has walls a foot thick, and contains carcases of sheep, with, I believe,
just three of beef. It may well be believed that there is little need at
present (latitude 68°) for careful insulation; indeed, half a dozen
carcases have been preserved by hanging them in the rigging; alongside
some penguins, though the latter are not for food, but consecrate to the
taxidermist. Mention has been made of the standard compass—tested by
swinging the ship early in the voyage—by which the helmsman’s compass
and various others on board are verified. In the centre of the ice-house
is the range-finder—an historic instrument, which was used on the
_Scotia_ in her Antarctic explorations. It will be mentioned later, when
the icebergs are described.
Merry are the meals we have in the wardroom. Gigantic meals; four per
diem, and one extra if you are on night-watch. Eight o’clock, twelve
o’clock, four o’clock tea, and 7.30 for dinner. Let me try and give some
idea of a dinner, say, on Saturday night. About three-quarters of an
hour beforehand the steward, who is dressed, as are the officers, in
grey jersey and corduroy trousers, appears with the remark, “Table,
sir!” This is a sign to clear off charts, calculations, diaries, and not
unusually novels, from the oilcloth, that he may set the table. If any
books are missing after this clearance it is safe to examine the
“nursery,” for our steward has a fixed idea that untidiness is a
characteristic of the latter cabin, and so deposits findings on the
pianola, whence they may emerge after many days. Tin mugs, bottles of
lime juice, ship’s biscuits—either captain’s or digestives—butter, and
enamel jugs of water are the table furniture. As the bell is jangled the
afterguard pour into the wardroom. Four men do not get seats, but if you
stand up the range of action is much greater, so that it really compares
favourably with a seat. Captain Scott seats himself in the office chair
at the head, and Lieutenants Evans and Campbell, if they are in time,
sit next him. Dr. Wilson (chief scientist) has a fondness for the stool
out of the pantry. I have a suspicion that his shrewd mind has realized
that this combines the comfort of the seat with the mobility of the
stander. The others sit where fancy lists; geologist next to pony
expert, chemist, and motorman, taxidermist, navigator, lord of the dogs,
doctors, etc., etc., each with his elbows lovingly exploring his
neighbour’s anatomy. Two of our ’Varsity men, from Cambridge and Oxford
respectively, prefer an elevated perch on a “sausage,” or clothes-bag,
at the far corners. Perchance thus they feel like dons at their college
high table. Enamel soup-plates are passed along, and the steward brings
in two enormous jugs of pea or tomato soup. Meanwhile requests—one might
say demands—of a nature strange to a landsman’s ears fly across the long
table. “Carry on with the bread, Marie!” “Give the butter a wind, Jane!”
(pronounced “wined”). “Belay with the biscuit!” “Where’s that drunkard’s
companion?” (This last remark, terrifying to a teetotaler, merely refers
to a knife with a _corkscrew_, a very precious possession.) I should
like to record the ship-names bestowed on my esteemed comrades, some of
whom rejoice in three or four synonyms, but forbear, for personally I
should hate it to be known that I—a staunch Imperialist—have
occasionally answered to the cry of “Keir Hardie.”
Soup despatched, plates of roast mutton are handed out from the pantry,
with potatoes and beans, or some weird fibrous vegetable which was
originally kale, I believe. Limejuice is practically the universal
drink, and is extremely palatable. Indeed, this and the mutton and
butter are most excellent, while all the food is good. There follows
plum-duff, roly-poly, apple pie, or stewed fruits and blancmange, surely
the best sweets, if the homeliest, yet devised by cooks. By this time
hunger’s pangs are dying, and some one starts a chorus. We seem to
prefer choruses of a rousing nature, though “it doesn’t much matter what
words we sing, so long as the tune hath a right good swing.” For
instance, “Rings on her fingers,” etc. (or as the Canadian sings it,
“Fings on her ringers”), is very popular. “My name is Gertrude,” “Did
she plant a tiny seed of love in —— —— stony heart?” (with an honoured
member’s name inserted in the song) are always encored. Then, since it
is Saturday night, “Sweethearts and Wives” is drunk in something
stronger than the juice of the lime by about half the party. (I imagine
this toast does not appeal to the other moiety.)
After dinner some dozen adjourn to the nursery for a concert. An upper
bunk forms the dress circle, the washstand is the royal box, and the
others crowd round the pianist. We have two flautists, two banjoists,
and an expert on the mandolin, but are badly off for pianists. However,
two of us can strum a little and are practising to eke out the
performance. At any rate, there’s no need for the piano except the final
chord of the bar, for the goodwill if not the execution of the other
performers is so great that the piano is lost. After an hour of
“Scottish Student,” the party disperse somewhat, except an enthusiast
who plays favourite music on the pianola. Certainly ours is a
quick-change programme; from “The Tarpaulin Jacket,” rather badly
strummed, to “Lohengrin,” as played in grand opera!
By ten or eleven all but the watch have turned in, and we are one day
nearer the Pole.
The 6th and 7th were days of dull weather, with some rain, and a wind
veering to south-west, but we made good progress under steam, with just
sufficient sail to keep her steady. As a matter of fact, in ordinary
weather, she is a very steady ship, and anticipations of five weeks’
mal-de-mer have in my case not been realized in the slightest. All but
one unfortunate turned out throughout the gale—an heroic effort in the
case of two of the afterguard, who had no interest in the dinner-bell
for over a week.
Indoor work perforce occupied us, except when the setting of sails
required volunteers at the ropes. I hesitate to describe this operation,
for up to the present I have not been able to distinguish the “main
weather braces” from the “fore to’gallant lee shrouds.” However, I am
busy learning them and the words of some of the chanties.
One of the most popular describes the adventures of a mythical hero,
“Ranzo,” who “was no sailor” at the beginning of the epic, but being
taught navigation by an unusually affable captain, ends up by realizing
that proud position himself! The chorus, “Ranzo, boys, Ranzo,” is easily
remembered. Moreover, it is etiquette to pull only during the chorus. No
wonder the sailorman loves this chanty. At the conclusion of the hauling
some mysterious signal passes along the “centipede” of sailors, and the
experts let go, while the novice is jerked forward off his feet by some
one coiling the rope rapidly round the belaying pins. Then we troop back
to the wardroom, leave our oilskins and sea-boots in the “balcony,” and
resume our reading, writing, or embroidery. This last may seem unusual,
but was a fact.
Many of the afterguard were provided with silken sledge flags given to
them by friends before leaving. Others had had them made in
Christchurch. One of the officers, nothing daunted by feminine and
professional examples, boldly set to work and evolved a fine one under
the jeers of his companions. The first sledge flags were carried in the
north on the Franklin Relief Expeditions, and they are all made on the
same pattern. They are three feet long and one foot wide, the end having
a triangular notch a foot deep. At the staff end is worked a square St.
George’s Cross (red on white) while any desired design, such as a
private crest, school shield or professional emblem, occupies the centre
of the flag. A cord or ribbon of appropriate colour runs all round the
flag. Some are very ornamental, and they will make a brave show down
south. A maple leaf, and a map of Australia are patriotic signs. A flash
of lightning adorns the meteorologist’s banner. Shields of the Cambridge
colleges are numerous, and several well-known schools, both in Australia
and England, are commemorated.
Members of the party were soon seized by Dr. Levick in the interests of
science. He was armed with a wonderful array of slips of coloured
glasses, and with a simple telescope, across which the glasses could be
inserted. With these he examined the colour of all our eyes, for it is
maintained that there is a perceptible change in the iris after a
sojourn in polar regions. I do not suppose green eyes would change into
the more popular violet, but on our return we may find we have moved up
or down his scale of colours; just as one learned ethnologist declares
that the hardy Norsemen are Africans decolorised by a changed
environment!
In the evening a few of the afterguard may bring out novels, but there
has been little time except a day or two in the Pack for this
relaxation. It is interesting to see how tastes differ. Some swear by
Conan Doyle and dislike Merriman. Others find the White Company tedious
(though they are rare) and revel in biography. One officer—with an eye
to the penguins may be—is carefully perusing the “Amateur Poacher,”
while all of us have studied the book on Ski-Running. A most acceptable
and suitable gift from Mr. Reginald Smith and others was a complete set
of those handy sevenpenny and shilling books containing almost all the
best English fiction of the last fifty years. They are well printed,
fairly strong and not so valuable that one needs to don a dress-suit to
read them. The strong book cupboard (now on the “balcony”) will be a
most welcome addition to our winter quarters during the long night.
One problem, or set of problems, is engaging the attention of every
class of officer, be he doctor, biologist, or geologist. It is that of
field astronomy, for it is obviously essential that each sledging party
should be able to locate itself fairly accurately by the sun or stars
without reference to the natural features. The latter will probably be
uncharted, or—in the Barrier and plateau journeys—non-existent. It is
not a specially easy business, but bulks largely in exploration, and I
should feel proud if I can briefly explain the two simplest methods so
that a layman can follow them.
_Latitude_ is distance (in angular measure) north or south of the
equator. The South Pole is 90°, and Melbourne 38° (subtended at the
centre of the earth).
The sketch shows a vertical section through the earth, the polar
explorer being supposed at I in the midst of illimitable ice plains. The
position of the sun at midday is shown. With a sextant or theodolite he
measures the angle between the horizon (H_{1}H) and the sun (which
equals SOH). He knows the angle SOP; for this is given in the nautical
almanac for the time of the observation. Now the angle IOE is the
required latitude, and we have all the data needed to get it; as thus:
Latitude, IOE = IOS + SOE = (90° − SOH) + (90° − SOP) (_i.e._ a right
angle less altitude from sextant, added to a right angle less the
almanac angle). By this short calculation the explorer can tell his
exact distance from the equator; for a degree equals sixty-nine miles.
[Illustration:
The celestial triangle is shaded. The earth is to be considered a
point.
]
But he does not know whereabouts is his position on this parallel of
latitude. To do this we require the _longitude_. All that is necessary
is to find the difference in time between that at Greenwich and the
local time (as shown by the sun) in the aforementioned illimitable
plain. A chronometer (a watch with a special compensation for
temperature changes) gives him Greenwich time; and the problem is to get
the exact local time and to transform the hours into degrees by
multiplying by fifteen (24 hours = 360°). Our next diagram is on a
larger scale. We have increased our spherical surface so that the sun
lies on its surface at S. A vertical line, OZ, above our explorer hits
this celestial sphere at Z. (The earth is really a mere dot at O
compared with this huge sphere.)
Now we have a problem as clear as that involved in determining latitude.
The position of the sun (S) on the sphere’s surface is determined by the
intersection of two lines, PS and ZS. Of these PS is tabulated in the
almanac, and SZ, between the sun and the zenith (directly overhead), is
measured by the sextant. The remaining side PZ of the triangle PZS is
given by 90° minus the latitude EZ. Hence PZ the colatitude is known
from our previous calculation. Given three sides of a triangle (even if
it be on a curved surface), we can, as in Euclid, determine the angle at
the pole ZPS. But this angle is the angle between the required meridian
of longitude PZE and the longitude of the localities at that moment
experiencing midday. It is extremely simple to find out what the latter
longitude is, since we know Greenwich time from the chronometer. For
suppose our chronometer says it is seven in the morning at Greenwich,
then at this time it will be midday at 75° east (five hours difference)
at Bombay. If our angle ZPS turns out to be 100° under these conditions
(and we know it is midday at Bombay), our longitude is 75 + 100, or
175°; about that of Cape Crozier.
I feel rather proud of this explanation. I have never seen the problems
so described before, and it has passed the critical review of a
navigator. May it help every reader who may chance to be lost with a
sextant and nautical almanac!
After the gale the dogs took some time to recover their normal spirits.
We had heard that the Peary dogs were huge, ferocious beasts, ready to
eat a man on sight. But they tamed down wonderfully, and, truth to tell,
seem somewhat afraid of the stockier Siberian horde. It is prophesied
that they will fall victims to the latter when shore fighting starts,
and consequently they may be sent with the Edward VII. Land (or eastern)
party. They are fed on biscuits, and (lately) on seal meat, and are
certainly not kept very hungry, for one often sees a little food left.
Poor Osman, the leading dog, was very sick after the gale, and was
accommodated with some straw in an iron washing-dish. In this he curled
up snugly, and recovered in a few days. The ponies and dogs consume
about 80 per cent. of the drinking water; but the latter were not so
thirsty as expected, so that for some days each officer was allowed
about as much as a dog in his cabin! Of course, with special soaps it is
possible to get off a certain amount of grime with salt water, but fresh
water is a great treat.
There are several pets on board. Firstly, a beautiful collie, who spends
her time in the foc’sle, snuggled in some sacks. Then there’s “Niggsy,”
the cat, “that walks,” as Kipling says. Imperturbable, as usual, he
tolerates fulsome fondling, and escapes as soon as may be. Smaller fry
in the shape of rabbits and a guinea pig accompany us. Early in the
voyage one of the rabbits seems to have challenged a pony to mortal
combat. At any rate, its flattened carcase was found in the stall. Poor
piggy inhabited a cigar-box on occasion, and this was carelessly dropped
overboard one day, so that unless a crab-eating seal carries him there
he will never reach Antarctica.
During the next few days the geologists were busy discussing the first
sub-expedition in Antarctica. It will probably be of interest to readers
to know how the amount of sledging stores is arrived at. It is a problem
almost as intricate as a determination of longitude! The first factor to
be considered is _time_. We will work backwards. The middle of March is
getting very cold and dark, and this fixes the end of sledging. The
_venue_ of the proposed survey lies around Mount Lister, across MacMurdo
Sound, and towering some 13,000 feet (see Map at end). Here, near Butter
Point, three scientists (and perhaps one other officer) and a sailor
will be landed from the ship as soon as possible after the winter
quarters are well started. This may be about the 20th of January. The
_time_ factor is therefore two months.
Our programme will be approximately as follows:—To leave the ship at
Butter Point and march two days up the Ferrar Glacier to Descent Pass.
Here we depôt four weeks’ provisions, and push on with two weeks’ to the
Dry Valley, which we explore and map. Meanwhile the ship has made
another depôt (near the Dailey Isles) of a fortnight’s stores, which we
pick up on the 1st of March. So that we have to carry with us from the
ship only _six_ weeks’ provisions, and of this only four weeks will need
to be moved over long distances. So much for the distance factor.
A man can drag 200 lbs.; there are five men in the party, and the time
is six weeks. Two pounds of food per man per day is roughly 12 lbs. a
day for the party, giving a total of 500 lbs. food. One gallon of oil
will last five men for a week and weighs with its tin 10 lbs. Hence for
six weeks, say 70 lbs. oil.
Now for equipment. Two sledges weigh 130 lbs.; one tent, 35 lbs.; five
sleeping-bags, 65 lbs.; finneskoes (shoes, etc.), total 50 lbs.;
cookers, 25 lbs.; ropes, repair tools, ice-axes, a spade, etc., total 70
lbs. Finally, since we shall have much rock work and hard glacier ice, a
pair of Day’s under-runners for the sledges—made of =Ꭲ= steel—will be
carried. They weigh 40 lbs., and the equipment amounts to 400 lbs. in
all.
Instruments are essential, and weighty. One of the five-inch
theodolites, specially built for the expedition, only weighs 11 lbs.
Thermometers (two), aneroids (three), clinometers (two), hypsometers
(one), prismatic compasses (three), hammers and chisels will add 40 lbs.
to our load. For personal gear (tobacco, diaries, socks, etc.), one is
allowed 10 lbs. each, totalling 50 lbs. Cameras and oddments, 30 lbs.
Now let us see how the grand total stands:—
lbs.
Food 500
Fuel 70
Sledges, etc. 400
Instruments 40
Personal gear 50
Cameras, etc. 30
————
1090 lbs.
to be discharged from the ship at Butter Point. This, it will be seen,
nicely balances the pulling power of five men, which (at 200 lbs. each)
equals 1000 lbs. The party live day and night in the clothes they start
off in, so that there is no load due to blankets or change of clothing.
Non-smokers are, however, advised to carry a pair of socks instead of
Navy Cut among their personal gear.
At any time now we might expect to see icebergs and the pack. From New
Zealand we had been accompanied by albatrosses and petrels. During the
gale it was almost comic to glance overboard during a rest from the
bailing, and watch the sea-birds swinging to and fro over the angry
waves or even settling down on them. With perfect unconcern they
carefully tuck in their wings and float quite comfortably in strong
contrast to our position. On the 8th Dr. Wilson hung out a snare-line
from the mizen shrouds. It was merely a long looped thin wire, without
hook or bait. Soon one of the Antarctic petrels, as it swung back and
forth in the wake of the ship, was caught in the snare and pulled in to
join the zoologist’s collection. The bird was dark brown with a white
breast and a particularly fierce action with its pointed beak. So our
assistant zoologist discovered when he posed before the camera and was
requested to let the bird look pretty! The most curious feature was the
central nostril in the form of a bone tube over the beak. This is the
characteristic of the petrels and distinguishes them from the
albatrosses.