Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

I found out a way to make even this existence tolerable—man, especially a Scout man, being an adaptable animal. I threw down exactly sixty shovelfuls of coal, that being my extreme limit; then I dived for the stokehold, with the enthusiastic eagerness of a Bromley-kite after a dead Malay, and emerged into that comparative ice-chest in an avalanche of dust, small coal, and bigger lumps, with the shovel clattering triumphantly between my legs. In the stokehold I got a breath of air that was not entirely solid, remembered that mine it was to do or die, and got back to the bunker just in time to satisfy the demands of the stoker on duty. A great game!

Evidently my success at this ploy was so conspicuous that I was employed throughout the following day in the bunkers as a reward of zeal. But the weather was cooling somewhat now, and the conditions were not so irksome; yet sleeping on deck was becoming more of a pain than a pleasure, and I found my bunk in the wardroom quite inviting.

Then, on the next day, I completed my bunker work, to my great satisfaction, and resumed duty on deck. The weather overhead was fine, the sea was growingly vigorous. On this day I saw my first albatross. It was sitting on the water, and at first sight looked to be nothing more important than a large gull; but when it took wing and skimmed away, I got an impression of perfect and amazing flight. It took things in most leisurely fashion, obtaining the greatest amount of result with the least expenditure of energy—circling our mastheads with supreme insolence, without so much as the quiver of a wing. It was one of the Wanderer class, I was told; but its wanderings ceased when it came upon us, for it accompanied us south with the greatest pertinacity, living on the scraps thrown overboard from the cook’s galley.

Also, we saw a “Portuguese man-o’-war”—a nautilus; a flimsy, bewildering, beautiful sea-curiosity, with its sails that looked like mother-o’-pearl all fairly set to the breeze. Albatrosses and nautiluses are seldom seen in company—but we were favoured by witnessing this remarkable combination.

It was amusing to watch the envy and admiration with which our two flying men—Carr and Wilkins—studied the manœuvres of the albatross. Both of them, apparently, thought that if they possessed ingenuity sufficient to enable them to construct a heavier-than-air machine that would duplicate that effortless motion, their fortunes would be made and their undying fame assured. They talked throughout the day in a jargon that was entirely unintelligible to me about vol-planing, and stalling, and banking, and at the end resolved that Nature was a greater inventor than mere man.

Just about now, too, there was a certain amount of merriment in the ship owing to Carr being required to improve the accommodation below. It takes very little to arouse a laugh on shipboard, where stern hard work is the prevailing note; and we were grateful to our amateur carpenter for permitting us to laugh at his well-meant efforts, which, though rough and crude, suited the conditions. Despite the alterations that had been made at Rio, the down-below accommodation was still limited, and every man had to stow himself away in as small a space as was compatible with continued existence. If in a future state I am ever destined to become a sardine, I shall know that I’ve had good training in the art of close stowage!

As the wind was coming away fair and with a force that promised added speed, the foresail and staysail were taken in and the square-sail set. The promise was fulfilled, and now we romped along in an inspiring manner through a quickening sea that slapped happy little wavelets against our quarter and threw occasional wisps of spindrift aboard. In the main the day was somewhat misty, and there was a heavy swell running as though promising an increase of the wind—what Kipling calls “The high-running swell before storm, grey, formless, enormous, and growing.” It’s astonishing to me how Kipling, himself no sailor, understands the sea so well! He seems to have got right down to the very inwardness of open water, and if he’d been a trained sailor he couldn’t understand the sea’s mysteries and wonderments better than he does.

The day of Christmas Eve broke to show us a moderate sea and a refreshing west-south-west wind. During the entire day this breeze increased, with frequent squalls and a gloomy, lowering sky, and the wiseacres amongst us prognosticated bad weather. Of course it is always safest to prophesy bad weather at sea, because you naturally make up your mind that it is coming and prepare yourself for any emergency; and then, if it doesn’t eventuate, you thank your lucky stars for continued good times. But on this occasion the portents proved correct: before night a big sea was running, and the wind, from menacing whistle, increased to that deep thunderous note of striving which indicates the nearness of a pukka storm. We began to ship water—nothing to worry about, but still enough to drown out the dynamo, as a result of which catastrophe our lights were extinguished and we were compelled to resort to the oil-lamps by way of illumination.

While shortening sail one of the clews of the squaresail, carrying heavy block and shackle, whipped sharply across the deck and caught Carr a sickening blow in the face. He was literally clean knocked out, but contrived to come back to time, and with his hands to his face, and the blood flowing all too freely through his fingers, tried to carry on. But this wasn’t to be permitted; he was sent below for the attentions of the doctor, who diagnosed a broken nose. The doctor and his assistant worked assiduously to restore the unfortunate’s nasal organ to its pristine beauty, but though they satisfied themselves they failed to satisfy the sufferer, who did his best, in front of a mirror, to flatter his own mild vanity. He made such a poor attempt that the work had all to be done over again, and during the operation Hussey consoled him with impertinent remarks concerning the effect his face would have upon the women of England if he tampered with it any further.

This was a funny Christmas Eve, however, far different from those of the past. To palliate our present uncomfortable conditions, we endeavoured to create a vicarious atmosphere by remembering previous Christmases. Here were we, a congregation of desperate adventurers, collected from all the corners of the world, isolated for our sins in a little, tossing ship that seemed pitifully small to engage with the massed forces of the southern seas; all of us separate entities, dependent upon our imaginations for recreation. We talked about Christmases past, and groaned in spirit when we reflected upon their glories; and then, as nothing was to be gained thereby, we went on to picture the ideal Christmas we would wish to spend. Opinions varied very considerably. Sentimentally, we mostly drew passionate sketches of snow-covered fields and church spires pointing upwards, and waits and skating and honest Christmas fare, carefully omitting, needless to say, the consequent, inevitable indigestion! It is rather queer how the exile invariably pictures Christmas as a snow-smothered festival, whereas the average Christmas, according to my experience, is chiefly remarkable for its entire lack of snow!