Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

Peaceful days followed, during which we worked hard and played as hard. Some of our party went fishing, and returned with great catches of coarse fish which compared unfavourably with the toothsome spoil of our northern waters. We played football; overhauled the ship fore and aft, aloft and below; entertained the Shetlanders with impromptu musical evenings, and generally joyed in a return to moving life. The weather was Scottish in its changeableness: sunny days alternating with bleak misty days, so that it was almost possible at times to believe that one was back at home and the happenings, at the best, but a vivid dream.

Whaling proceeded with great activity during this present stay of ours in South Georgia; whales were constantly being towed in and flensed, and the white smoke from the trying-works hung constantly over the busy station, whilst the reek of rendering oil was appalling. Fishing, in which sport I indulged frequently, proved an easy occupation, especially amongst the thick kelp which everywhere clings to the coast. All that was necessary was to drop over a hook with a piece of fat blubber attached, and a second or so later came a tug, and there was a fat fish. So greedy were these rock cod that often they would bolt the bare hook and not trouble us to rebait.

By way of a change from sport, I blacked down the rigging with tar and made a filthy mess of things in the process, smearing as much of the delectable mixture on myself as on the rigging, I think, and earning a severe choking-off for dropping tar on our immaculate—or nearly immaculate—decks.

Bridge in the evenings, with music, honest work, plenty of play, and there you have the record of our South Georgian days. One pleasant break, however, came when I was ordered away in the whaler with Mr. Douglas, Mr. Wilkins, Major Carr and Mr. Jeffrey, for a survey of Cape Saunders at the entrance to the harbour. We were towed by a greasy old motor-launch which the Norwegians employ for towing the whales about the harbour, but it gave us headway enough for our purpose. A heavy sea was running, however, and this made it impossible for us to land on the cape itself, so we turned back and got ashore a mile farther inland where the going was easier on account of a bit of smooth beach. Having landed—it was very hot clambering up the rocks—we took observations enough to satisfy the most critical of surveyors, then returned, but the weather having become worse during our activities, we got a thorough drenching before we regained the ship.

On Easter Saturday, April 15, we left Leith Harbour. The battered old Neko, a disreputable packet, entered harbour from Deception Island, her holds crammed to bursting with oil barrels, and, thanks to our wireless, we gave her G.M.T. as we steamed past her, for which she was very grateful as her chronometers had not been rated for long enough. It was cold as we steamed down the harbour; and the mountains, from which much of the snow had departed, were covered with drift. We were bound for the Stromness whaling station, which lies at the end of another arm of the bay; and on arriving there we went alongside the Norwegian steamer Perth. Our manœuvres must have seemed clumsy to her crew, for a sudden gust of wind drove us down aboard her with such force that our bowsprit fouled one of her boat-davits and snapped like a match; so that next morning Dell and myself were early at work repairing the damage, stripping the broken spar of its tangle of foot-ropes, guys and outhauls, and the like. Here at Stromness we had fresh relays of visitors, both from the shore and the British steamer Woodville, which lay there; they wondered how we’d managed to win clear of the pack ice down farther south. Most of our after-guard went aboard the Woodville, where they were royally treated; but as the cook had departed on a holiday I helped Jimmy Argles and Oompah—a South African, whose real name was Young—to prepare lunch for the forrard party.

During the night following this day of carnival the wind increased to hurricane force again, and I was roused at 4 a.m. by the skipper yelling for a cork fender. His cries were almost drowned by a great crashing and rending; but the noise was the worst part of the business. We were rolling and churning against the Perth, thanks to the pressure of two whalers which lay outside us, but after they’d cleared out, the worst of our troubles were over. At ten o’clock we gave the Woodville a salute with our ensign and moved off, housing our boats in readiness for the rough weather that was only to be expected.

Out in the open we washed down, and as our hose was somewhat the “waur o’ the wear” we all got a satisfactory drenching, as a reminder that we were seamen and not shore-fellows. We entered Prince Olaf Harbour during the afternoon, where we tied up to a buoy. There is another whaling station here, and the backing of the great pinnacle rocks is very fine indeed. At 4 p.m. we went alongside the tank steamer Southern Isles and made fast for the night, during which the rain sluiced down in miniature Niagaras. Still, the rain laid the dust somewhat, which was a good thing, for our particular job next morning was to coal ship, and that as everyone knows is an uncleanly operation. From after breakfast until 5 p.m. we were hard at it: taking aboard 53 tons in that time. Argles, Young, Ross and myself shovelled on deck; three Portuguese trimmers from St. Vincent did the trimming below. To-day was Commander Wild’s birthday, and so, once we were bathed and presentable, we had a great dinner by way of celebration. After dinner he came down aft, where we drank his health generously, Jimmy Dell proposing a genuine sailor’s toast, “Long may your big jib draw,” and the night died away in song and story, in preparation for another muling day at coaling, which became hard work on account of the bright sun and considerable heat. But by noon we’d bunkered ninety tons in all—our quota; and after squaring up the decks and washing down I went fishing with Mr. Jeffrey and the skipper of the Southern Isles. During the day a large number of whales were brought in, and their swollen pink carcasses surrounded us on every hand, whilst their effluvia—phew! Whales and still more whales continued to arrive during the night, giving promise of a plentiful oil supply; and some of the whalers that entered were towing six whales apiece, each one as big as the ship itself.

But we cleared out of the immediate vicinity of the whales after breakfast and lay off Bird Island, a small, pleasantly green piece of land, where was plenty of tussock grass. Here we anchored, and whilst letting go the port anchor a joining shackle fouled in the compressor and broke short off like a carrot, so that we lost a good anchor and fifteen fathoms of cable. Mr. Wilkins and a few others went ashore in search of albatrosses, with which mighty birds the place was literally alive, many of them wheeling splendidly overhead or hovering like watchful hawks, whilst others squatted peacefully on the little hillocks which are their nests; though certain less peaceful members of the community squabbled fiercely, squawking like fishwives all the time, with their huge wings outspread to their utmost span. From a distance their uproar sounded precisely like the indignation of a world full of young pigs all being led to slaughter at one time.

Young albatrosses are good eating, and we killed some to replenish our larder. It was Commander Wild’s intention to remain here at Bird Island—well named—for several days in order to carry out an exhaustive survey, but the weather was not fair enough to permit our lying there, so we put back to Prince Olaf Harbour, there to await more favourable weather.

With good weather we got under way, housed the surf-boat, and steamed out into a moderate sea. We headed towards the bank at the north-west of the island, where we took exhaustive soundings, and the Quest, as though glad to be free from smooth water, gave an excellent display of liveliness. Lord! how we grew to loathe her dirty movements! It is easy enough to write of them in retrospect, but whilst they were happening our wearied bones and aching muscles caused loud protest in real deep-water curses, such as would have joyed the soul of the old-time Paddy Westers who went down to the sea in ships in a day when seafaring was seafaring.