Cape Pigeons at South Georgia.
Gentoo Penguins. (Note the Baby Penguin in Centre.)
So the Old Year came to an end; its departure signalled by a double ringing of the ship’s bell; and we looked forward with better heart to 1922. I had the first wheel of the New Year—from midnight to 2 p.m.; the sea was smooth and the wind just sufficient to be comfortable, so that we ran along easily under fore and aft canvas alone. After breakfast I came in for a bit of amateur engineering, being detailed to assist the second engineer to repair the deck-winch—an interesting if somewhat greasy task. The wind was dropping; in place of the turbulent waters which had thrashed us so unkindly, a long, oily swell ran across to the narrowed horizon, and a wet mist drooped over all, a mist that later turned to heavy rain, persistent rain, which was by way of being a blessing to people limited in their fresh water supply. To-day I sighted my first penguin; it was swimming some distance away from the ship, and, as an inhabitant of the waste world of the South, was an object of considerable interest.
The weather was becoming increasingly cold; and already many of the members of the crew had donned clothing that gave them the look of Antarctic explorers; most of them, also, were growing beards, which gave them the aspect of pirates who had lost all self-respect. Early on the morning of the 2nd of January we passed quite close to a large school of whales, and later on vast numbers of penguins and other Antarctic birds. The temperature having dropped to 38, a close look-out was kept for the ice this temperature indicated, and at 10 a.m. our first iceberg was plainly in sight, though but a mere speck on the horizon. I don’t know what the others felt; I know I was decidedly thrilled, for this was the far-flung sentinel of those vast defences that it was our aim to penetrate. It was like seeing an enemy’s picket and knowing that away behind him were massed formidable odds against which, indomitably, we must pit our strength and courage.
Course was altered, and by one o’clock we were abreast the berg; no monster, but all the same, quite big enough to be impressive. It was a hundred feet high—which means seven hundred feet were submerged, as icebergs only show one-eighth their bulk above the surface; and, judging by the gaping fissures in its sides, it was an old-stager, rapidly tiring of life and returning to its native element as quickly as it could. It looked very austere, very cold, though undeniably beautiful, with the blue cavern boring into its massiveness. The sea about was strewn with smaller pieces of ice which had broken away and not yet melted; these formed what I was told is called the tail of the berg. By the time we had passed it fairly the sun was dropping down the western sky in a blaze of scarlet and saffron and gold; an inspiring sight that reminded me of that picture of Turner’s, “The Fighting Téméraire.”
During the middle watch two more bergs were seen, without difficulty, for they show up whitely, and seem to give off a curious illumination, called “ice-blink” by old-timers; so there is slight difficulty in avoiding them. The blacker the night is the more perceptible the ice-blink; it is chiefly between lights that the sharpest look-out must be kept. Nevertheless, whenever in the neighbourhood of ice a very careful watch must be maintained, for in addition to the lofty bergs there are also “growlers,” washed masses of ice that lie low in the water, lurking evilly as though anxious only to tear the bottom out of a ship and fling her helpless to the seafloor below. But even with growlers the seas that race over them and cause the growling note, from which they take their name, create sufficient noise to give a timely warning; and sharp eyes can detect the thin, white line of the water breaking upon them.
Bergs come from two sources. Either they may be large pieces broken away from the Great Ice Barrier which hems in the Southern Continent, or they may have detached themselves from some great glaciers, which glaciers “calve” periodically, on account of their resistless forward movement down the ravines they create towards the sea. Most Antarctic bergs are flat-topped, lacking those fantastic pinnacles that are usually associated with bergs; but many of them are enormous masses, several square miles in extent and weighing millions of tons. Not that the bigger fellows are the more picturesque, they are only awe-inspiring. Gradually, acted on by rain above and warm currents of the sea below, the berg wears away, whole acres are detached, and in the course of time the vast concern capsizes; and it is a capsized berg that is the most beautiful, for its outlines—worn by the action of the currents—are indeed picturesque.