Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

We were now moving over a sea that was empty of bergs completely; the floating outliers of the Great Barrier had gone north on their summer journey; but at 10.30 a.m. on February 4, the sea then being calm and a thin mist hanging over the horizon, a few small pieces of ice were sighted ahead. Was this at last the pack-ice of which I had heard so much from the old-timers? Yes; the mist lifted, and there, unmistakably, were long white belts of ice fragments—stream-ice, as it is called, the heralds of the heavier pack not far off. The Quest entered loose pack at about noon, in latitude 65° 7′ south, longitude 15° 21′ east, and now it was necessary to take in all sail, because the courses to be steered in order to avoid the heavier fragments of ice were most erratic, and as often as not the ship was thrown wholly aback as she turned and twisted along the narrowing channels.

Everyone was now in the highest of spirits. To enter the pack was the goal we had set ourselves—one of the goals, at least; and we were entered. Moreover, the ice had lessened the sea greatly; we were moving along on an even keel; the wind had dropped almost to nothing; and, too, so far as the veterans were concerned, this was to all intents and purposes a home-coming. Especially noticeable was this delight in old Macleod, an iceman to his finger-tips. He paraded up and down the main deck ceaselessly, with his face wearing as beatific a smile as ever human countenance carried, I warrant; so that to me, an amateur, it was as though he himself had placed the ice there for the general entertainment. Undoubtedly his mind was soaring to unimaginable heights; his eyes shone, uplift radiated from him—until he slipped on some loose ice on the planking and came sprawling somewhat ludicrously down to the deck and the realities of existence.

At two o’clock I took my trick at the wheel, and enjoyed two hours of genuinely strenuous exercise. Dodging ice is a most fascinating sport. Ordinarily a trick at the wheel is a dreary and eventless matter enough, except when hard weather is running, but in the pack the helmsman hasn’t a moment for cogitating on his woes, for the officer of the watch, eagle-eyed and vigilant as they make them, is everlastingly yelling: “Hard a-port; hard a-starboard! Give it to her quickly—quickly! Hard over with her!” and so on, and the muscles must follow the bidding of the brain simultaneously with the order being received. It is very good exercise for the arms and chest, far more invigorating than frowsting over a stove or snugging down into blankets for warmth; and as you realize how dependent the ship is for continued safety on your activity, you take a keen pride in almost anticipating the orders, waiting for the next one with all the eagerness of a terrier alert for a stick to be thrown.

The pack thickened as the day went by; the open lanes of water between the congealed masses grew fewer and fewer. One or two seals, lying prone on the ice-floes, lifted their heads and looked at us with astonishment and supercilious disdain as we ploughed forward, but betrayed otherwise no symptom of alarm. Over all was the solemn mysterious stillness of the frozen wastes, broken only by the crunching of the young ice our sheathed bow parted on its determined progress. And somehow the nearness of the ice bred up a queer kind of exhilaration; it created a sort of “do or die” feeling that is not easily expressed in words. I fancy, though, judging by what the veterans said, that it was very much the same effect as is produced on old soldiers who smell powder—it recalls past victories and gives promise of further achievement. These mysteries are beyond my ken; I can only speak of what I experienced, and I know that my first day amongst the ice left me tingling all over.

Even Query seemed to get a dose of the prevalent feeling; he could not keep still for long at a time, but kept jumping to the bulwarks, where, with forefeet propped, he stared out over the pack, his nostrils distending, giving a curious whine every now and then, as though he, too, wanted to join issue with the vast power that we were opposing. Every now and then, too, in the open stretches of water, we sighted whales—killer whales, as they are called—who occasionally, in search of air, charged wildly upwards to break the newly formed ice with their heads; it gave me quite a shock to see broken ice flying upwards in a cloud, with water and spray mixed amongst it, and then, below the flurry, to detect the heads and piggish little eyes of the whales themselves, like weird denizens of the hither deeps who had appeared to protest against our violation of their sanctuary.

During the morning watch of Sunday, February 5, I was kept at the wheel for nearly the whole of the four-hour watch, as Mac, who usually shared the duty with me, was otherwise employed in Peggying duties; and, because of the vigorous exercise, I was quite ready for a rest when eight bells sounded my release. As the wind was now favourable, and as every added inch of headway counted, we set the topsail to assist our hard-striving engines. After lunch we passed a very large floe, on which, entirely indifferent to our approach, three seals were basking lazily, and Commander Wild, who, like a careful leader, realized that the success of the expedition depended on the health of its members, decided that now was the hour to replenish our larder. Consequently he shot all three of them, and their carcasses were hoisted aboard by means of the yardarm tackle of the squaresail. Certain of the old-timers at once set to work with vast enthusiasm, and in three short minutes the quarry was flayed, the tidbits obtained from the general bulk—brains, kidneys, liver, the heart and the back steaks dissected from each seal, and the refuse thrown overboard. The skins, with their two and a half inch thickness of blubber adhering, I helped to cut up and convey to the bunkers, in readiness for use as fuel for the boiler fires, since every unit of heat producing material was now of extreme value.

This was my first experience of the gentle art of butchering. An unlovely job, entirely lacking in romance, but very necessary, and so not to be growled at.

During this Sunday the pack hourly grew thicker and the weather became colder, but not unpleasantly so, and I found this crisp cold much easier to bear than the wet, soggy cold of the lower latitudes. Altogether the day was very pleasant, for the sun was shining throughout and the sky quite clear of cloud. Daylight, too, lasted all the twenty-four hours, even though the sun did disappear for a little while. But I was getting hardened to the lack of night by this time, just as I was getting hardened to all the other peculiar features of exploring the vicinity of a Pole.

Coming on deck at four o’clock on the following morning, I discovered the ship hemmed in with close pack-ice of a heavy kind. There were very few visible areas of open water, but the lanes amongst the ice had disappeared. It was still possible to make headway, and the Quest pushed slowly on, with a suggestion of purposeful striving about her that was very good to see. It was as though she said: “In spite of all disadvantages, and no matter what sort of bad luck I’ve had in the past, I’m going through with the job now that I’ve started!”

Though from the deck it was impossible to see any open lanes, from the crow’s nest it was different, and by dint of stationing a keen-eyed lookout in that breezy eminence, who shouted out whenever an open stretch of water showed, and indicated to those on the bridge in which direction to steer, steady progress continued. The noteworthy feature was the appearance of many more killer whales, who welcomed us by breaking through the young ice with their backs, and as soon as they reached open air, blowing with a very unpleasant noise and then, as though playing a game of surprises, whisking from sight like lightning. Ugly brutes they were; seafaring nightmares is the best way of describing them. Having reached latitude 67° 8′ south, we expected to get a sight of land at any time.