Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

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.