Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

My first meeting with Sir Ernest Shackleton did nothing to lessen my enthusiasm, for he satisfied my imagination most completely. Here was a man to be followed anywhere—everywhere; a man whom it would be a great thing to serve. A tall, broad man, with a strong, determined mouth, a man whose smile gave confidence, whose voice seemed always to be laughing at danger. A full-sized man, judged by any standard, though his great shoulders carried a just perceptible bend, as token of the heavy burden laid upon him by his gallant struggles and endeavours of former years.

Naturally enough, when face to face with him this first time, I had little to say. But he possessed the ability to size one up almost at a glance.

“Why do you want to go?” he asked crisply.

“I want to do something,” I said. It was a period when every right-thinking boy felt he must do something to be worthy of the sacrifices of Britain’s dead in the recently ended war. I wanted to say all this, yet words failed to come; but Shackleton read right enough and smiled. I was chosen, and even to this day I cannot understand why. My lucky star had climbed into the zenith, I suppose.

There is really no need for me to record that I counted myself the luckiest fellow on earth, nor to declare how strenuously I vowed myself to loyal and helpful performance of all such duties as should come my way. I wanted to be worthy of my companions. Here were men who had flocked to a well-loved leader’s standard from all the ends of the earth; and I was chosen to stand beside them!

Once the decision was made, the days were full of anticipation. They seemed tedious and endless, because, being committed, I wanted to tread the Quest’s planking and feel that it was all really true. There were so many things that might happen, so many chances of misadventure. However, fortune stood my friend; the appointed hour arrived. Not that those final farewells to loving friends were pleasant, but high resolve made light of them. Others had dared the long out trail that’s everlastingly new; and homesickness is no fatal disease.

Nevertheless, let me be honest and say that my first sight of the Quest somewhat tarnished the gilt of the gingerbread. She seemed so very tiny to be destined for so great an adventure—merely a minnow amongst whales compared with other craft. Still, I doubt if any power on earth could have tempted me to draw back.

Mooney and I joined ship on September 15, 1921, and I was allotted a bunk in the little mess-room in the ship’s after-end. Cramped quarters enough, make no mistake on that head. The Quest was no leviathan, and personal comfort was a thing that seemed to have been left out of her controller’s calculations. So much for first impressions. If I had had previous sea experience I might, at that first glance, have counted my quarters almost luxurious. For in addition to the actual sleeping-place, at least as roomy as a coffin, I was granted a locker beneath for clothes and a shelf for the careful stowing of trifling personal belongings. This was my stateroom de luxe. At first it seemed so tiny, so stuffy, so generally uncomfortable, that I wondered how any human being, not to mention a well-grown youth of my proportion, could exist there; but the time was to come when I should consider this corner of a seagoing ship the most desirable spot in all the world for my seagoing requirements, and count the minutes until I was able to fling myself full-length into that seven-by-two sleeping shelf to sink into the dreamless slumber that rewards hard toil.

Aboard a Polar exploration ship there is scant room for luxury. Every available inch of space must needs be crammed with gear that is to further the expedition’s interests. The human side of things is apt to be lost sight of by those who have the greater vision, and who understand, as our leader understood, the amazing adaptability of mankind.