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.