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.