CHAPTER XI
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!