Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

Whatever else we were doing, we were certainly making progress either with the ice or through it. We had made about ninety miles since working into our frozen dock, and that was something to be thankful for.

After breakfast I went for a walk with Dr. Macklin and Major Carr. There was a large berg in the distance which we wanted to inspect at close quarters, and this appeared to be a promising opportunity. But we could not get quite close up to it because of the scattered character of the ice in its vicinity, though from our position we could see it making its way through the pack, leaving a long lane of clear water behind as it came. The Quest bore up against the pack, throwing broken ice from the bows as a ship throws up spray; and we admired the spectacle—myself a little awestruck—never realizing that Commander Wild was feeling the gravest anxiety aboard, fearing lest the iceberg should charge the Quest and damage her badly. Fortunately the menace passed more than half a mile astern and then disappeared over the northern horizon.

These movements of icebergs in the pack are caused by strong currents under the ice which grip the vast submerged portions and urge the giant masses relentlessly onward through everything that lies in their path; and when, owing to the wind or other circumstances, the pack is moving in an opposite direction you get a wonderful illusion of uncontrolled speed and power charging blindly forward.

Getting back aboard, Dell and myself cleared the wire of the Kelvin sounding machine. After a hearty lunch we enjoyed another game of football with a more respectable ball this time—a ball composed of a canvas bag stuffed with cotton waste, which didn’t take so much out of our feet and shins. We found a perfectly flat floe whereon to play, though owing to the swell causing the ice to bend and undulate we got a new effect: it was like playing football on a rubber floor.

Throughout the night a sharp lookout was kept for bergs bearing down upon us: a menace of the Polar wastes not often taken into consideration, I fancy, by those who do not know the peculiarities of those parts. Several such bergs were in the vicinity and one crossed our bows rather too closely to be pleasant. The temperature was rising during the night, and, in anticipation of a start, the hands were turned to at 6 a.m., with instructions to ice ship. The pack was now much more open, and the engines were gingerly started at six bells—seven o’clock. Once more we were definitely under way, forging ahead with innumerable stoppages and much wheel-work, with “Hard a-port!” “Hard a-starboard!” “Midships!” flying from the watch-officer’s mouth like machine-gun fire. Tediously we wound in and out among the floes; but presently, coming to a clear lane of water, sail was set, which quickened our speed, and by eleven o’clock in the morning we were pretty nearly clear of the pack. During the day I counted fifty-six bergs, most of them large.

With an overcast sky and a strong easterly wind blowing, another dawn came. As the day continued the wind increased to a moderate gale. Commander Wild had practically proved to his own satisfaction that Ross’s “Appearance of land” was merely a flight of fancy, and he now decided to make for Elephant Island—primarily to obtain blubber for fuel. But apart from any material reason I think there is no doubt that he was inspired by a longing to see again the place where he had spent those famous four and a half months with the survivors of the ill-fated Endurance expedition. All aboard who had borne part and lot in that memorable adventure were imbued with the same desire. We headed to the westward and, with a stiff breeze to help us, bowled along at a merry six knots—for us, real clipper speed. But at 5 p.m. we came suddenly on very heavy pack and, dropping our squaresail with alacrity in order to avoid disaster, eased down for the night. With the morning we set sail again, amid extraordinary surroundings. The entire ship was sheeted in ice: upperworks, bridge and deck-house appeared to be determined to give an imitation of their environment. Ice was everywhere: bulwarks like hummocks, monstrous icicles pendant from every salient. The deck itself was overlaid with the frozen stuff; and all tackles, ropes and hamper were grotesquely distorted; whilst the rigging was simply solid. The Quest was completely transmogrified, like a fairy ship at first glance; but, owing to the freezing up, anything but a ship of dreams when it came to handling her. To go aloft meant breaking a way like pioneers—and, my! it was cold. Mac and I shovelled what seemed like half the frozen Antarctic overboard during the morning watch, and even then the other half was still aboard. Breaking off from this necessary task, we set the squaresail, which seemed scared at the changed appearance of the ship, for it took charge for several hectic minutes, slamming and banging—hammering its blocks against the bulwarks as though determined to sink the Quest out of hand. We philosophically decided that the sail was lending a hand in clearing the ice from the upperworks, and I must say the ice-splinters flew vigorously. Being under shell-fire was a small matter by comparison. As a foot or so of water was sluicing across the decks every time the ship rolled, work was not easy; but this water was nothing to worry about, it was merely the Quest’s happy little way of acting up to her usual reputation, though she did not lift big water over her rails. It was blowing hard and the cold was terrific as the wind came away from the southward; indeed, I believe that this day and the following—March 23 and 24—were about the worst we had experienced. Certain of the old-timers wondered what on earth had ever tempted them down again to the southern seas. Commander Wild said that any man who went Antarctic exploring once was mad, if he went twice he was an adjectived idiot, so that he himself—having made five voyages—was competent to inhabit an asylum all to himself. He said this with trimmings—not with flowers.

Conditions were more than a little unpleasant—quite enough to ruffle the normally placid calm of our souls. Every minute some whipping wisp of spindrift came slogging in our faces, and everything was saltily damp. The only place where it was possible to be even moderately dry was in one’s bunk; and the Quest did her best to heave a man out into the slopping water that flooded the floors below, even when he coiled down in blanket-haven. Poor Query suffered a lot. Dogs may be philosophers, but their philosophy deserts them under such conditions as those we endured when working along the edge of the pack. And although we were salted, pickled indeed, any amount of the people—even the hardiest veterans—succumbed to mal-de-mer; or, as this particular brand was even more atrocious than seasickness, let’s call it mal-de-Quest.

Wearing ship at midnight under these conditions among Antarctic combers was horrible. After a while we hove her to under a topsail, her head pointed to the east; and under these circumstances she revelled in dirtiness. Her rolls were jerky and fitful—so that, even below a fellow felt as if he’d been dropped down a bottomless pit with a long rope attached, which tautened at the unexpected moment and nearly jerked the teeth up through the skull. Whilst wondering what it was all about, another heave and lurch pitched him out of his bunk, and so on.

But even the worst of gales do not endure for ever; and after a while conditions improved. A great orgy of straightening up followed, for everything was filthy and saturated. Then we sighted land from aloft, what time the topsail was being made fast. After living in a wilderness of ice and water for so long my heart warmed to that good sight, for I had begun to wonder whether land really existed at all.

By seven o’clock on the morning of March 25, we had Elephant Island on the starboard bow and Clarence Rocks to port. The summits of the peaks were hidden by low clouds, but it was perfectly good land, and heart-warming to a degree, even though snow-flurries frequently hid it from sight. It was something stable in a whirling world of instability.