Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

On the day we killed the porpoise we discovered a new hobby: coal-sifting. It was necessary, in order to maintain a working head of steam, to separate the dust from the lumps—much dust to very few lumps—and all the useless stuff was hove overside. A messy, gritty job! But the rain helped us somewhat: and it did rain! Solid sheets of it came cascading down, so that to keep even a semblance of dryness was out of the question; but the weather was so warm that the downpour was more in the nature of a blessing than a curse. We were now fairly in the doldrums.

Just before lunch the sea presented us with a picture: one that is all too seldom seen in these days of mechanical progress and stern utility. A noble sailing-ship: a vast five-masted Frenchman, La France, hove in sight. She was becalmed, a painted ship lying still on a painted ocean; with her enormous spread of canvas and the beautiful tracery of her rigging reflected in every tiniest detail in the mirror of the sea. So taken with the sight she presented was Sir Ernest that he altered course in order to pass her at close quarters; and so we not only got an excellent view of this famous Horn sailing-ship, but also some really fine photographs. Moreover, as is the custom of the sea, we spoke to her and gave her information such as might appeal to a windjammer: telling her where we had lost the North-East Trades and the strength of them as they deserted us. Quite an animated conversation was carried on between ship and ship: and the amusing part of the business was that whereas the French skipper was compelled to use a megaphone to make himself audible, the Boss, simply by funnelling his hand about his mouth, made himself perfectly well understood across the intervening space of lifeless sea.

“She looks peaceful enough now,” said one of the crew to me; “but you ought to see her as I’ve seen her: ratching round the Horn under her topsails, scuppers awash, and the big fellows piling aboard as if determined to overwhelm her. Then you see a windjammer as she really is: a sea-fighter, depending not at all on machinery and the ingenious contrivances of this present-day civilization; but just a conglomeration of steel and wood and wire and hemp, built to “euchre God Almighty’s storms and bluff the eternal sea”; then you’d begin to understand a thing or two. Seafaring isn’t what it was—it’s a pastime instead of hard labour; but so long as such packets as that keep afloat there’s hope.”

And, alas for his enthusiasm!—we were to hear at a later date that the splendid fabric had been totally wrecked on a reef fifty miles off New Caledonia: that Ocean Graveyard might reasonably be called, “The Port of Missing Ships.”

Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley! The Boss, after informing the Frenchman that the North-East Trades had not entirely gone out of business, complimented him on the appearance of his ship—which was well-deserved—and so, with mutual good-feeling, we trudged past her into lowering cloud-masses that soon developed into noisy squalls—little wind and much rain, until we hit one squall with more wind in it, and were compelled to shorten sail to combat the breeze on even terms.

We had decided to call at St. Paul’s Rocks—a lonely outpost of Mother Earth almost exactly on the Line—and as we had no desire to overrun the land, engines were slowed down in order that we might sight the rocks at daybreak. There was nothing the matter with the Quest’s navigation; and soon after daylight we sighted our immediate haven, with the sun shining whitely on the barrenness of these deserted islets.

They are not in any way large: being merely the ultimate peaks of a deep-sunken mountain range, jutting up through the placid waters of the equatorial seas. The biggest of them is not more than two hundred yards long with a maximum altitude of sixty feet or thereabouts; and from one end to the other they are smothered in guano, thanks to the sea-birds that rest there in unbelievable clouds. In the frequent squalls that rage about them, the wind-flung sprays leap high over their insignificant bulk; and the hot tropical sun at once dries the spindrift into dazzling crystals of salt; it is these crystals and the guano combined that make the islands look, at a distance, as if they were covered with newly-fallen snow.

Arriving within easy pistol-shot of the largest island, all sail was taken in and the surf-boat lowered. Shoals of ravenous sharks swarmed about the Quest as she lost her way: the water was whipped to whiteness by their quick movements. Without loss of time the first exploring party loaded themselves into the surf-boat, with gear for observations and provisions for the day, and moved off from ship to shore. I counted myself fortunate in being included in this party, which comprised Mr. Douglas, Major Carr, and myself, with a notable crew of Dr. Macklin, Mr. Jeffrey, and Mr. Eriksen, Mr. Wild being in charge at the tiller. We were landed, through the sullen surf, on one of the smaller rocks, and the boat returned to the Quest for a fresh load. Mr. Wilkins, with Mr. Hussey and Mr. Dell, the electrician, landed on the largest rock; and by the time this difficult landing was effected Mr. Douglas, who was entrusted with the duty of making a comprehensive survey of the place, discovered that our small islet was not suitable for this purpose; consequently it was necessary to hail the boat, load in all our gear, and proceed to the big island. During the reloading process Douglas was so keen and zealous that he allowed himself to be soused repeatedly by the grumbling surf. It was, indeed, a matter of no little difficulty to get anything into the boat, since its motion was so lively; every time it came within reachable distance and we began to swing the load towards it, the backwash licked it out of reach again; and so it was for all the world like playing a somewhat exasperating game of cup and ball. To beach the boat was impossible, for the simple reason that there was no beach: the rocks being steep-to, so that the first part of the boat to touch land was her stem. However, we managed the transhipment after a fashion.

Enormous numbers of crabs were a prominent feature of the island when we reached it; they scuttled away with queer suggestions of terror at our arrival. Moreover, it was as though the rocks actually lived and breathed, by reason of the vast quantities of sea-birds that were everywhere, and so tame as to be ludicrous. You could go right up to them without their stirring, save to advance threatening beaks; and only when they were actually touched did they fly away, and then not very far. If they were sitting on their nests, as many of them were, they stayed put, contenting themselves with squawking and flapping their wings, which was their idea of defence.

So far as I could see—not being a naturalist—there were two kinds of birds common to the islands: the one was rather larger than an ordinary duck, brownish in colour, with big, webbed feet and a long, yellow, pointed bill. This bird—species unknown to me—emitted, when disturbed, a wild, squalling cry like an hysterical woman robbed of her only child: an infinitely pathetic sound. It made a fellow feel absolutely inhuman to touch these birds, once the queerness of it all had passed.