Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

Taking the First Sounding in the Frozen South.

A very considerable sea was running down here, and the Quest set up a lively motion, rolling with the purposeful thoroughness she had always displayed. Next night we had another narrow shave of colliding with a deceptive berg. As we progressed we got case-hardened to these risks, and the ship’s work went on much as usual. Whether you’re under the Line or nearing the Pole, your work must be done; the ship must be cleaned and kept in weatherly condition, for she is your only home, your safeguard against death. The most scrupulous cleanliness goes as a matter of course, for dirt breeds disease, and in a small, tightly packed community like ours anything in the nature of an epidemic might have truly appalling consequences. Snow fell for a while during this Sunday, and though the wind was not high the restlessness of the sea was very marked, and the Quest was as lively as a ball on a piece of elastic. That more nearly describes her movements than anything else I can think of. Ice was everywhere, and big combers where the ice was not. But beyond the ordinary routine of eating, working and sleeping I find there is little enough of interest to narrate during this portion of our journeying. We ate heartily and spent practically all our leisure in sleep. It is astonishing what a great amount of sleep a man can stand down there in the Antarctic. Astonishing, too, the quantities of food he can consume! Life was just one darned meal after another, we used to say, with spasmodic interludes of work, and then deep, deep, dreamless wells of slumber.

But on January 25 we took the first really worth-while sounding of the expedition, an event of no little importance, in which all hands could bear a share. Something like 4,550 fathoms of wire were run out—27,000 feet separated us from the sea’s hither floor. Then—snap! the sounding wire parted, and the operation proved fruitless. It was just the luck of the game; a kink in the wire, no doubt; but that sounding was never recorded in the archives.

The ship had been leaking extensively ever since we left Rio; but now the leaks were becoming so considerable that active pumping was necessary. It is a much overrated pastime, let me say. All right enough in smooth water when the decks are dry; but when the ship is piling white water aboard with every heave she gives, when that white water, as cold as the ice itself, is tearing at your legs, drenching you, insinuating itself into your sea-boots, sweeping over your bent shoulders, as generally happened, pumping leaves much to be desired. Still, we couldn’t have the old hooker settling down beneath us, and what Kipling calls “the ties of common funk” helped us to endure the rigours and make the best of what was a bad job amongst many bad jobs.

One day’s fine weather rewarded us. We mopped up the worst of the wet, endeavoured to dry saturated gear, flattered ourselves that good times were coming, and then—promptly ran again into vile conditions. But during the spell of fair weather another deep sounding was attempted. Since the general opinion aboard was that the reason for our initial failure was the too eager willingness of all hands to take a share in the operation, this occasion was marked by the astonishing lack of helpers, Watts and Jimmy Dell alone officiating. Nevertheless the luck was out: 480 fathoms of wire were lost, and with it the sinker and the snapper. All in the day’s work, of course, but disappointing enough to make some whisper, “Quest luck again!” The best of good fortune was most certainly not accompanying us on this expedition!

There were whispers that a ship’s magazine was to be started—Naisbitt was to be responsible for it. We welcomed its advent, and hoped that some bright brain might dig up some new joke from its depths and favour the company with it. The old stories had been told and retold, and we were pining for some new jest. In Expedition Topics we got lots of humour—all of it at our own expense! Our pet weaknesses were enlarged upon, our chiefest foibles exploited in the sacred name of literature; and without a doubt the mirror was held up to nature with a vengeance. There were secret meetings a many—low-voiced conversations held in obscure corners, and all of them had the same objective: the blood of the editor! But we laughed, and laughter is the finest antidote known to boredom. So after our natural passions had subsided, we accorded Naisbitt a cordial vote of thanks.

On January 30 what might have proved a tragedy happened. Commander Wild, who seemed to prepare for every possible emergency well in advance, gave orders for the provisions of the various boats to be rearranged. This was done; all our sea-boats were made ready to take the water for thirty days at a stretch in the event of the Quest being nipped between two bergs and sinking; but as the surf boat was likely to be in constant use, and as the stored provisions in her were in the way, these stores were shifted and equally divided between the two lifeboats. Then, in order to give more room on our hampered decks, it was decided to swing out the port lifeboat, and by an arrangement of spars and fenders, keep her swung out. All hands were accordingly mustered for the task, for as the ship was rolling heavily to a big beam swell, all hands promised to be necessary. We manned the davit tackles and hauled the heavy boat clear of her chocks, swung her outboard in the davits, and then—the big roll came. She came back with a rush, as though determined to crush us to fragments, for between us and the funnel was very little space. Those who dodged nearly fell down the engine-room hatches. But Captain Worsley didn’t dodge in time. He was always the head and front of this sort of offending; delicate work invariably found him eager and willing. The heavy boat’s prow jammed him between itself and the wheel-house, and the timber of the structure surrendered at discretion. There was a cry, the splintering of wood, the awful snapping of human bones, and Worsley’s ribs gave to the impact of the weighty craft. But for the smashing of the wheel-house he must inevitably have been killed outright, so there’s something to be said in favour of defective construction! Commander Wild, who was inside the boat, and having an exceedingly thin time of it, called to McIlroy to tend the injured officer, who was promptly carried to his cabin, where it was found that the damage, though alarmingly serious, was not necessarily fatal.

Meantime the boat was swinging wildly to the uneasy movements of the sea, and Mr. Jeffrey, with language to correspond, shouted to us to hold on to her; but this was easier said than done, for the boat, heavy enough when empty, now carried something like a quarter of a ton of stores in addition to her normal equipment. For a time she seemed to be filled with angry life; she was like a mad bull, determined to destroy. So there we were, grappling the runaway boat, bracing ourselves determinedly, our teeth set and the skin flying off our hands in square inches, so it seemed, and we could do nothing to quieten her. No doubt she would have banged herself to wreckage against some of the ship’s top-hamper, but Commander Wild, with the presence of mind of your proper sailor, suddenly saw a chance, and as the boat swung inboard, cut the rackings that held the lifeboat suspended, and she dropped with a thud into her chocks. Working like ferrets, we clapped on the gripes, bolted the chocks into position and mastered her, telling her meantime in round, deep-sea phrases what we thought of her. She’d nearly won, though; it was only the lightning-like skill of the commander that gave us the victory. As the Quest seemed to take rather a delight in the scrimmage, throwing herself about all this time gleefully, like a bad boy who has been chidden for some wrong-doing, it was decided to let the boat stay out; and since we were all handy, another deep sounding was taken; but once more the wire parted at the critical moment. But forty fathoms remained to be wound in, when—snap! More wasted effort! Some seventy-eight years before the Quest passed over that particular spot an officer of the Pagoda had logged the existence of a rock there, and it was our intention to prove the worth of his record; but as we got a depth of close on three thousand fathoms where the rock—named the Pagoda Rock—was supposed to be, we decided that even if there, it was deep enough to be out of the way of such scanty shipping as crossed over it. But when we satisfied ourselves that the older navigator was in error, we almost called ourselves mistaken, for a big blue berg was sighted four points on the port bow, and in appearance it was so much like a rock that we must needs alter course and trudge right up to it before we were satisfied that it was merely ice. An old capsized berg it was, hence our mistake. The day was fine and sunny, and although there was a long oily swell running, which accounted for our drastic rolling, there was no sea as “sea” is understood by shipmen.

Under canvas, when any wind worth mentioning blew, and consequently blessedly steady, we proceeded on our unexciting way. I managed to get in a bit of reading in intervals of work. Mason’s “Four Feathers” proved uncommonly interesting and exciting; and we all of us had a look at our new newspaper, which exceeded the wildest expectations, as I said. Apart from the biting personalities, Expedition Topics contained some very clever drawings, and gave us something to think about outside ourselves. To harp on such a comparative trifle may seem waste of time; but it is the trifles that count when folk are situated as we were situated. I have heard that aboard certain small ships in lonely waters a sort of green mould settles down on the crews, silly trifles are exaggerated and magnified into enormous proportions, and bitter enmities are aroused simply through the unvarying monotony. The Quest didn’t come into this category in any way, but we caught at any happening that promised the faintest interest, for only those who have experienced this sensation of being entirely clipped off from the outer world, that might easily shift its moorings and vanish into thin air in our absence, this brooding loneliness, can understand what possibilities such isolation can possess for enlarging the worst traits of humanity.