Yet even when seasick it was possible to realize something of the splendour of the sea. Big ships went past, thrusting white water grandly before their bows, with gay-coloured bunting streaming from their spans to wish us the best of fortune. A noble windjammer, clothed in shimmering canvas from truck to rail, overhauled us, leaning to the strenuous breeze, with the dark shadows playing mysteriously in her bulging canvas and the foam flicking over her catheads. I was one of that goodly brotherhood, even though a sick one. It was my right to laugh at the whipping white-caps, though I hardly felt like laughing at anything. Never mind! Nelson was sick every time he left port, so who was I to complain?
At midnight I went down below again and got to work, though my stoking would not have won a prize. Since no one likes to admit that Neptune has beaten him, I deluded myself into believing that I had caught a chill by sitting in the cold air on deck after the stifling heat of the stokehold. Any excuse serves a victim to mal de mer! Then, too, there was the question of sea-legs. There were so many things to fall against, and most of them were either very hot or very sharp. The things one tried to grab when the ship took one of her soul-shifting rolls floated away out of reach; the floors were mostly on end, so that, without exaggerating, I decided that death could hold no greater terrors. Limp and sore and miserable, I found it difficult to stick it out through the watch; but by assuring myself that it wasn’t really seasickness at all so much as that chill, I managed it, and crawled bunkwards feeling several times more dead than alive. No doubt I could have succumbed, thrown up the sponge, and let the unkindly sea have its way with me; but already, short as had been my sea service, I was beginning to learn the deep-water lesson that aboard a small ship every man counts, and that if one man shirks his job that same job must be divided amongst others who already have enough to do.
In my bunk I lay for eight forlorn hours, and then it was up again and down to that pestiferous stokehold, where the same programme was gone through. I told myself that I wasn’t the only victim; others were perhaps even more miserable than myself. And here’s a curious fact: if you think that it helps you to carry on. Queer, I admit, but it does. You have a sort of pride in your own powers of resistance. It gives you something to think of; and as they tell you that mal de mer is more a mental ailment than a physical, your mind can’t concentrate quite so closely on its own woes. That’s my opinion, anyhow, whatever others may think.
About now all available hands took part in coal trimming, and my labours were consequently lightened. Scout Mooney was clean out of the running, suffering ten times as much as I was. And then, by way of a bracer, came a welcome change in work. Instead of shovelling coal I was set on to scrubbing and cleaning, part of every ship’s everlasting programme. Inside and outside I scrubbed the engine-room, and like the First Lord of the Admiralty in the play: “I scrubbed that engine-room so thoughtfully that soon I was”—well, not the ruler of any navee, but at least granted the boon of joining the deck squad and ordered to take my first trick at the helm, from eight o’clock at night. After a bit of instruction they handed the wheel over to me, and I had the ship between my own two hands. That was something worth while. I counted in the scheme of things. The wind had dropped somewhat and the ship’s motion was easier. The topsail was furled, and I found that once I’d got the hang of things steering was enjoyable. A ship is as responsive to her helm as a horse is to its bit. You can do practically anything you like with her. And the clean, strong air up there cleansed me more than I can tell; the shuddering misery of seasickness lessened. I had the ship to watch and to learn to understand; she was given to little restive tricks that had to be guarded against; and when your mind is so closely occupied, your own woes diminish amazingly.
It was a quiet, placid night, very enjoyable, with the ship noises joining together into a chorus that was rather thrilling. Ropes flapped in the wind, for all the world like distant drums calling to action. The gently parted water gurgled past our sides and seemed to chuckle a welcome to the Quest. Mysterious lights loomed up through the growing haze—red, white and green. The magic of the sea was closing its grip on me, and I took that strumming as applying to myself. It was my battle call.
During the rest of the night—I got to my bunk at midnight—we ran down into fine weather. Coming on deck at eight in the morning, I saw a bluer sea than I’d ever seen. It was wonderful, beautiful, and the air was caressingly warm. The wide horizon was flawless, there was never a cloud in the serene blue sky. Everyone’s spirits vastly improved; there was laughter and the hearty note of a high endeavour in the voices of nearly all hands. Because the wind had dropped, all sail had been taken in, and the ship was proceeding under steam alone, and, I fear, not making much of a job of it. At her best the Quest was no ocean greyhound. The top speed we were able to make under engines alone was about five and a half knots an hour—a little quicker than we could have walked! But, judging by the stern pounding of the engines below, we might have been breaking records.
I was standing the morning watch, 8 to 12, the watch when most of the ship-work is done; and always there is a lot, even in a little ship. Before I trod a deck-plank I had a notion that being at sea consisted for the most part in sprucely pacing the decks and pointing a telescope at the horizon, hoisting my slacks and singing thrilling sea chanties. The reality was very different. Apart altogether from taking a regular trick at the wheel—the easiest part of seafaring in many ways—there are look outs to be kept, decks to be washed—if the ship is going down you give a final scrub to her planks, remember!—paintwork to be wiped over, sails to be loosed and set and furled and overhauled; old ropes to be spliced, whipped and served; new ropes to be coiled and recoiled and trailed out astern in order to remove the annoying kinks that take up so much space on a crowded deck; the cook demands assistance, there are always errands to go, and so the time slips by so rapidly that almost as soon as a watch begins it is ended. Then you go below, where you are at liberty to do what you like—in reason. Your time is more or less your own, and it is wonderful how many odd jobs you can find to occupy that time. Of course, you sleep a lot; that’s the sailor’s favourite recreation, according to my way of thinking. Sleep aboard ship is a very sacred thing; you never disturb a slumberer unnecessarily.
But apart from sleep you’ve got innumerable “chores” to perform in your own interest. There are your clothes to be washed and mended, since laundresses don’t form part of an Antarctic ship’s crew; also, if you are interested in cleanliness, there is yourself to be kept immaculate, though in none too much fresh water. At first I didn’t believe it when I was told by one of the crew that he and seven others had enjoyed a perfectly sumptuous bath apiece in one half-pannikinful of warm water; but afterwards I quite understood. They used a shaving-brush!
Keeping a diary, too, always occupies a certain amount of time, and from the outset of the voyage I kept as faithful a record of the little happenings of every day as I could. Of course, I missed many of the most important happenings that were the property of the seniors of the expedition; but I have hopes that this casual record of the life we lived may prove of interest to those who have never braved the frozen South in a 125-ton cockboat.
Already, although only a couple of days out, we seem very remote from ordinary life. We’re a little self-contained community all on our own, bound together by the bonds of a common determination, aware of the dangers and discomforts that await us, but cheerfully resolved—at least, I was—to make the best of anything that came our way.