Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

INTO THE FROZEN SOUTH

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

In the beginning it was the intention of Sir Ernest Shackleton to give Scout Marr the benefit of his guiding hand in the writing of this book; and indeed up to within a few days of the great explorer’s death, he spent many moments in talking it over with Marr, and incidentally gave valuable hints as together they went over the Scout’s notes of his observations. In this way the framework of the book may be said to have been laid down by Sir Ernest, and the earlier chapters bear the impress of his kindly advice as well as the reinforcement of his wide and wise experience.

From the sad moment of his death the narrative was continued by Scout Marr, and then when the MS. was completed, the young author’s work was given the valued editorial overlook of so experienced a writer of the things of the sea as Captain Frank H. Shaw.

In this way the book grew into its present form, and may be considered the more acceptable insomuch as it reflects the personality of the “Boss,” and is, moreover, just one more instance of his comradely spirit toward one on the threshold of life.

Into the Frozen South
By SCOUT MARR, of the Quest Expedition With Twenty-nine Half-tone Illustrations

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1923

First Published, September 1923
Reprinted, October 1923
“ November 1923

Printed in Great Britain.

To
JOHN QUILLER ROWETT

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Photo: Topical.

Raising the Union Jack given by King George V to the Quest.
(Scout Marr is Hoisting the Left Signal Halyard.)

INTO THE FROZEN SOUTH

CHAPTER I
Hope Realized

It was difficult to believe that I stood a fighting chance of being chosen as one of that band of gallant adventurers bound for the Frozen South. Hope ran high when it was made known to me that I was among the ten candidates who were to be inspected by Sir Ernest Shackleton; but, even so, my heart misgave me. True enough, we ten had been weeded out of thousands who had applied, in response to the wide appeal published in the early summer of 1921, for volunteer Scouts to accompany the famous explorer on what promised to be an ideal adventure; but that such good fortune as came would be mine was wellnigh incredible.

Yet the miracle happened. A dream grew into reality. Together with Scout Norman E. Mooney, of the Orkney Islands, I was selected as one of the crew of that famous Quest which, driven by the compelling determination of Sir Ernest Shackleton, was to attempt to penetrate the Antarctic fastnesses, and to explore not only those icy wastes, but also certain little-known islands in the sub-Antarctic seas.

Imagine how my heart leaped when the news was told! Here was romance personified. I think that any youth of my age would have felt with me that all the adventure books ever written were but tame affairs as compared with what the future promised. We were to follow in the footsteps of brave men who had dared much; of men who had died because of their love of perilous adventure. Anything might happen; imagination filled in the coming years with pictures that set the mind alive with delight.

Oh, yes, it was good to be young and ambitious—and chosen! The doors were to be closed for indefinite years on England—commonplace England, as I thought it then—and our ship was to bear us, high of heart, clear across the threshold of adventure.

Often and often had I thought how splendid it would be to visit those wastes of snow and ice and furious seas. Like every other healthy British lad, the hot blood of desire to achieve ran in my veins. And here were my biggest dreams coming true. Fill in the blanks for yourselves.

I was glad to think that my lot was to be cast amongst such tried and proven men as Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. Frank Wild. Every boy has his private heroes. Shackleton was one of mine. Moreover, I, a landsman, was to learn the craft of the sea, and under the most fascinating circumstances imaginable. I thought of Drake, Hawkins and all those hardy adventurers of the past. I was one of them!

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.

Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. John Quiller Rowett.

Not that Mooney and myself were called upon at once to “render down” into these cramped quarters. Probably with an idea of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, Mr. John Quiller Rowett, who, by reason of his personal admiration for Sir Ernest Shackleton, was responsible for financing the expedition, took us under his comforting wing and gave us a great time at his Sussex home, Ely Place, Frant.

The Quest’s Goodly Company of Adventurers.

In my opinion Mr. Rowett deserves a high place in the records of Polar exploration. The bravest adventurers imaginable cannot fare forth in quest of the unknown without monetary backing; born adventurers, by reason of their very indomitableness, seldom have sufficient capital to finance their expeditions. If the Quest was to be a cannon ball designed to thrust herself into the frozen fastnesses of the South, Mr. Rowett unquestionably supplied the powder that fired her on that lengthy journey. Expecting nothing in return for his very considerable outlay, satisfied to know that he was helping a courageous man towards the realization of his ambition, Mr. Rowett cheerfully provided the major part of the funds for this, Shackleton’s last adventure, out of considerations of personal friendship for our leader and in the general interests of scientific research.

CHAPTER II
London’s Good-bye

On Saturday, September 17, precisely at one o’clock, Sir Ernest Shackleton gave the word to cast off, and the Quest started from St. Katharine’s Dock, Tower Bridge, on her journey across the foamy leagues. Enthusiastically she endeavoured to celebrate the occasion by a stentorian blast on her whistle; but no matter how diligently the lanyard was tugged, nothing beyond a hoarse moan resulted. The watching crowd, realizing the intention, cheered resoundingly; and as if put on its mettle by this tribute of farewell, the whistle made another and more successful effort; a fairly creditable note resulted as the Quest was towed and warped out through the dock-heads into the open river. With the great Tower Bridge opened for us, as if we were a liner of repute instead of one of the stormy petrels of the sea, we passed up to London Bridge, where we swung about and then dropped down-stream under our own power.

We had a wonderful send-off. To me, unaccustomed to crowds, it was as though all London had conspired together to bid us a heartening farewell. Crowds and bigger crowds massed on the quays and the banks of the Thames. Both the Tower Bridge and London Bridge were packed with cheering people who clustered like flies. The bigger shipping in the river roared welcome and farewell to the little Quest; every siren was bellowing at its fullest blast, and our ineffective whistle was hard-set to make even a decent showing in reply, since the custom of the sea ordains that every signal given shall be scrupulously answered. Naturally the Press was strongly represented, writers and photographers alike; and since, in a way, we were public property, the whole ship’s company posed for the pointing lenses, whilst Shackleton, desirous that those at home should hold a pleasant final record of us, kept us laughing broadly at his swift shafts of wit.

So much for the picturesque side of exploration; but as soon as we were fairly in the river, work began. Shifting stores is no pleasant job. Gunny-sacks that hold hard-tack rub the neck and arms unmercifully; cask-chines cut the fingers; every muscle in one’s body collects its own individual ache, which joins with every other ache to create one enormous agony of pain; but it’s a proud horse that won’t carry its own nosebag, and during the journey down to Gravesend we put our backs into the commonplace but very necessary job. Probably enough, Nelson himself had shifted similar stores in his younger days, and he died an admiral! We realized—I know I did—that we were necessary to the general welfare of the cruise.

Anchored at Gravesend, Scout Mooney and myself were permitted no easement. That’s the way of the sea, I found. She breaks in her disciples thoroughly at the beginning, so that none of her later surprises can astonish. Helping the cook prepare supper mightn’t seem heroic, but it was necessary, for these shipmates of ours depended on us for their creature comforts on this occasion. Maybe enthusiasm overreached itself a little, for, serving the prepared meal at table, I contrived to spill hot coffee over the hand of one of our members. Scout lore teaches one early to be a philosopher, and here was an excellent opportunity of acquiring a working knowledge of the ready-for-use language employed on shipboard, to which we were initiated by the injured explorer’s remarks. You don’t hear language like that every day of your life!

Having served, Mooney and myself ate, and did it heartily. The sea creates an appetite all of its own; and I have not the slightest doubt that our attention to the victuals caused some concern in the minds of those responsible for the supplies of the ship. Then, full-fed and happy, we washed up the dishes and turned into our narrow berths and quickly fell into sleep, though the day had been memorable and full of mild excitements. Just before I dropped off, just as the varied aches and abrasions with which I had afflicted myself began to get in their fine work, I remembered those stentorian cheers that had wafted us down-river.

“Some of those were for me!” I thought. It made the labours seem light.

“All hands on deck!” was the cry that wakened me in the early morning of the Sabbath. There was a note of purpose in the cry, and no wonder. The Quest was dragging her anchors and running down to foul the rigging of a near-by steam hopper with her bowsprit. Darkness everywhere; a medley of men in pyjamas, and not yet familiarized with the geography of this, their latest home, some shouting; then a twang of snapping wires, a vast looming shadow sliding away into darkness, and we were clear, at cost of two of the steamer’s stays, cut through by some opportunist. Evidently the sea did not permit of long, placid reveries; there was always something happening or about to happen once you got afloat. But after the moment’s breathlessness my bunk seemed doubly inviting, and I was just getting accustomed again to being asleep when—six a.m. happened, four bells in the morning watch, and up we youngsters were roused to get breakfast for our seniors. By seven-thirty the Quest was already under way, and my first real misgivings troubled me. I, a landsman, had to minister to the needs of tried and tested seamen! Something of an ordeal, believe me; but it’s a poor scout who fears to climb! I overcame my tremblings by dint of sheer determination, and no crockery was broken by being thrown at my devoted head that meal. Maybe the good spirit that animated all the company permitted them to overlook my crass deficiencies.

Not an heroic day this Sunday, my first at sea, by any means. We were at once initiated into that shipboard creed which dictates that, even if your ship be sinking, she must sink clean. Cleanliness aboard the Quest, as aboard most other ships flying British colours, ranks ahead of godliness. Mooney and I washed dishes, washed floors, washed everything that could be washed, by way of justifying our existences. We made the little ward-room, where ten of us all told eat and sleep and generally have our being, shine like silver. By tea time—still washing something—we reached Sheerness.

Now, a voyage such as lay before us is not a trifling affair of days or weeks, with the assurance of thoroughly equipped ports and dockyards under one’s lee to comfort us. The Quest must needs be prepared for any hazard that might arise—and there were many to be anticipated. Divers came off and busied themselves with fitting copper plates to our hull, to form a suitable “earth” for the wireless installation. Oddments had to be secured from the shore, other oddments were returned. A new bowsprit was shipped. There was abundance of work for all hands; scant time for homesickness. So that the evening was upon us almost before we realized it; and since, even aboard ship, men must rest and take their pleasure, the cook accompanied us ashore to see the sights of Sheerness. The principal one was a picture house. We saw it, and when we’d seen it it was high time to renew friendship with our bunks.

Early in the voyage Mooney and I found the worth of systematic co-operation in our labours. In cramped quarters, over-packed with humanity, there must be a place for everything and a definite time for every duty. We put on our thinking-caps. At present we were having allowances made for us; but—even a youngster may be allowed to look into the future. A small ship, many men of varying temperaments, these might make for friction, and human nature being what it is, friction under such conditions is inevitable. I had heard of the chaos that can result aboard ship from discordant elements being present, and I decided at this early hour that blame for discord should not rest on me. Mooney and I seemed to have it in our power to lighten irksome days by swift and diligent service. We accordingly drew up a programme of duties, which answered very well. I attended to the table, Mooney washed up as the dishes came away from the board. All the ward-room crowd being fed, I assisted in that endless washing up; then, all utensils snugly stowed away in proper Bristol fashion, we combined to carry out such further duties as were required of us. In a surprisingly little while we’d reduced the thing to a fine art; and I firmly believe the senior members of the expedition hardly realized our presence, so automatically did the work proceed.

One good thing I discovered about hard work faithfully performed: it teaches you to enjoy pleasure. Tuesday evening found me ashore in Sheerness at a whist drive, with a dance to follow. There was room to breathe, room to stretch oneself. I enjoyed that evening very much. Ordinarily I might have been bored; but I’d earned the relaxation, I fancied, and I went into it with all my heart and soul. Yes, you can play very hard when you’ve worked hard to earn it.

On Wednesday morning the ship was taken out to the buoys to be swung for compass adjustment. Not posing as an experienced navigator, I am unable to describe this very necessary operation in detail; but I gathered that a ship’s compass is about as uncertain an instrument as can be imagined. About the one place to which a compass needle doesn’t point is the Pole. There are so many opposing forces at work to defeat—or is it deflect?—that slip of magnetized metal that the wonder is it doesn’t give up the task in despair and point straight upwards to the spot where Paddy’s hurricane came from. Apart from the wide difference between the magnetic poles and the true poles—and that is called variation—there are the wonderful effects of the metal contained in the ship—the immovable metal of her structure—and every shroud and every barrel hoop is some sort of a magnet; the other no less wonderful effects created by the ship’s heeling and pitching, when what was previously horizontal magnetism becomes vertical magnetism; and a multitude of chancy irregularities that bewilder me when I think of them. However, the experts concerned in the matter contrived to reduce all these warring elements to something approaching order, and we left Sheerness with the conviction that whatever happened to the ship her compasses wouldn’t fail. It was after lunch when we finally got our ground tackle and slid away towards the Channel, across a sea as flat and smooth as the ice of which we were later to see so much. Under such conditions, being at sea was about as pleasurable an experience as one could hope for. It was possible to get familiar with the thousand and one details of shipboard life which at first sight seem so baffling. Already, short as had been my time aboard, I had a sneaking belief that I could pass some sort of examination in seamanship.

Here’s a chance now, with the Quest in open water, to say something about her. She was to serve as a stage for all the comedies and tragedies of the coming months, and she is worthy of as good a description as I am able to give. I said before she was no leviathan. In your mind’s eye, you who read my impressions, please don’t create a fancy ship, equipped with such gadgets as make ordinary seafaring a picnic. The Quest, originally a small Norwegian wooden barque of 125 tons, was mighty little bigger than a Thames barge. Her auxiliary steam engines developed one horse-power per ton, 125 h.p. in all. Ketch-rigged as she originally was, she was supposed to be capable of steaming seven knots per hour in smooth waters. Being originally intended for the Arctic sealing trade, she was naturally very strongly built in every respect, even at a sacrifice of room inboard. Her bow was solid oak sheathed stoutly with steel—capable of taking a very severe ice nip; her timbers were doubly reinforced by massive beams with natural bends. Give her an overall length of 111 feet from bow to taffrail, a beam of 23 feet or thereabouts, sides 24 inches in thickness, and there you have her, this twentieth-century Argosy of ours, as Shackleton bought her from her original owners.

She underwent a thorough overhauling prior to my joining her. She might have been much more thoroughly made-over but for the fact of certain strikes and restlessness amongst the dockyard workers. She might have been ridded of her steam engines and been fitted with Diesel oil engines; but this alteration was impossible. Consequently her already limited accommodation was still further limited by the creation of new bunker space—the forehold suffered here—which was estimated to give the Quest a working radius, allowing for the use of sail and economical steaming, of something like five thousand miles.

Her rigging was altered to a considerable extent. She was square-rigged forward, her mizenmast was lengthened, really in order to give the wireless aerial a chance; her ’thwartship bridge was thrown clear across the deck from rail to rail, and completely enclosed with Triplex glass windows. Her foredeck developed a curious growth in the shape of a deckhouse as big as an average dining-room, twenty feet by twelve. This house was partitioned off into four small cabins and a room for housing special scientific instruments. New running rigging was fitted, also new canvas; and as Mr. Rowett was determined that every detail of the ship must be as perfect and safe as was possible, no matter what the expense might be, nothing was left undone that would assure her being eminently seaworthy.

Within her diminutive hull, twenty hands, picked from innumerable volunteers, were bestowed in very limited space, as might be imagined. She was, indeed, so packed with gear of one kind and another that I still wonder how her timbers stood the strain. Piecing together a jig-saw puzzle was child’s play compared with the stowing of her equipment and stores; not a single inch of space was wasted anywhere.

She was fitted with two complete wireless installations; not merely receiving sets, but also transmitting gear. Moreover, she was lit throughout by electric light, at all events during the earlier stages of the voyage, but the need to economize in fuel later compelled the use of oil lamps everywhere. A great quantity of her sea stores and the equipment that would be required when in the Antarctic was sent ahead of her to Cape Town, to be kept in store, awaiting our arrival; but even so she was packed full; and the port alleyway was pretty completely blocked by the seaplane which we were carrying. Everything that human ingenuity could devise or demand was there in that little ship.

I have forgotten to mention the spirit of loyal determination of all aboard. There was enough to equip a whole armada of Dreadnoughts. What did cramped space and minor discomfort matter? We were going South with Shackleton, and that was enough for us. Everyone possessed good temper and the determination to rough it without outcry—about the most desirable qualifications for a crew on such a voyage.

Throughout the easy run to Plymouth there was nothing to disturb us; voyaging under these fine-weather conditions was glorious. We were all in high heart, adapting ourselves rapidly to the existing conditions; and the time flowed by with that curious smoothness so noticeable at sea.

By half-past nine on the morning of Wednesday, September 23, we sighted Plymouth and passed up through an almost empty Sound. Here the Quest was welcomed by the mayor and other notables, including Captain Gordon Campbell, V.C., the man who made himself such a terror to German submarines during the war. There were speeches—stirring speeches that exalted the courage and, so far as I was concerned, made me feel even more heroic than before, so that once again I thanked my lucky stars for the good fortune that had fallen my way.

Mooney and myself were given an extra special send-off on our own account, being invited ashore to a meeting of Scout officers of Plymouth, where a stirring address was given by Mr. Parr, who is chief of the Wolf Cubs in London. Then there was tea—we were the served, not servers! It was a thoroughly good blow out, and afterwards a sing-song worth thinking twice about, though all through the festivities Mooney and I were being pestered for our autographs in such a fashion as threatened to give us stiff wrists and swollen heads. Then they took us round Plymouth in taxi-cabs and showed us the place from which the Mayflower sailed on a journey that promised to be even more difficult than ours; yet Mooney and I thought scornful of Mayflowers, as Mulvaney thought scornful of elephants!

Until Saturday we lay at Plymouth. Prior to sailing we embarked two passengers, one temporary, Mr. Gerald Lysaght, who was invited to accompany us to Madeira; one permanent, in the shape of a very fine Alsatian wolf-hound puppy, presented to “The Boss” as a mascot. “Query,” we called this pup, and, as usual aboard ship, he became a firm favourite with all hands. So now we were all complete. Mr. Rowett came down from London to see us off, and he gave us a joyful dinner. We moved off into the Sound, where our compasses underwent another careful testing; and as the ship swung round the circle she was surrounded by such swarms of small boats as seemed impossible of belief. We were a magnet to draw all water-going Plymouth that day, believe me. Drake himself never had such a send-off as we had, I swear.

This day was memorable for two reasons. First, the Quest made her real start on her southward journey; second, I took my first spell in a ship’s stokehold, not as a spectator, but as a genuine working member of the black squad! There are some men, I believe, who consider stokehold work almost a pastime. I didn’t. To learn to become an efficient stoker you must first acquire the art of coal-trimming. You go down into bunkers packed tight with coal, breathless caves below the waterline, where the stench of bilge is thick and clogging, and you shift coal to within easy reach of the men who are tending the fires. You breathe coal dust and you absorb coal dust at every pore. In a little while, if you persevere, you actually begin to think coal dust—it’s everywhere. Coal is a very fine thing in its proper place—and that is on a fire—but the getting of it to the fire is an overrated sport. Coal dust as food leaves much to be desired; my mouth was full of it; so were my eyes and my ears and my hair and my nose and my lungs. Still, they say that ship’s firemen are a healthy race, so there must be some good in coal dust after all. But, having shovelled and breathed and eaten sufficient of the black and unpalatable stuff, I was deemed qualified to serve the fires, and contrived to get on well enough for a beginner, though the heat was excellent preparation for a future existence. Not that I’m grumbling, observe; I am merely trying to set down my early impressions as they came to me. I registered a solemn vow during those hours that my ambition should carry me higher than a steamer’s stokehold, or I’d know the reason why.

It was during this 12 to 4 engine-room watch of mine that the Quest got properly under way. Her second send-off, and a good one it was. Plymouth excelled itself that day. An Admiralty tug helped along the first lap of the journey, a comforting sight, for she was very much bigger than the Quest. Mr. Rowett and Mr. Stenhouse, who had remained aboard till the last possible minute, now left us with cordial farewells that made one feel uncommonly lumpy about the throat, and all hands manned ship to reply. We gave them our fiendish war-cry, its “music” devised, I think, by Captain Worsley: “Yoicks, tally-ho!” and gave it them again and again, until our throats were sore. Then quite suddenly, so it seemed, we were all alone, trudging down-Channel through a perfect evening, with a sea as smooth as polished glass, and busy porpoises welcoming us to the glory of deep water. And so, with the English land dimming into the evening mist, we were really up and away at last.

CHAPTER III
The Voyage Begins

There was a great deal to be done before settling down, however. The ship was so deep-laden with stores and equipment that every precaution was necessary in the event of our meeting bad weather. Our decks were still littered with every imaginable object under the sun. Lifeboats were crammed with supplies; ropes in coils, ropes in flakes, canvas in bolts, innumerable gadgets connected with science, art and the human stomach filled the planking. So it was “Lash up and stow” with a vengeance; for all this clutter had to be brought within reasonable bounds of safety, and until this was done steady rest was out of the question. My chief concern, I found, was to keep out of the way of more skilled seamen than myself. I was uncommonly willing, but a trifle lacking in ability, like the Irishman who tried to sound the depth of water in the ship’s boilers by dropping a stone down the funnel at the end of a rope!

At midnight I went down to the stokehold again for another watch amongst the coal dust. They told me that the ship had been literally bombarded with wireless wishes from our countless friends. But for the coal dust I should have been as happy as a sandboy; but you can’t have everything, even when you’re Antarctic-bound.

In the morning we saw the last of England, or rather the foam that guards old England, for the big seas breaking on the Scilly Isles and the Bishop Rock practically hid them from view. As a fair wind was blowing we stretched our canvas, and I tried to familiarize myself with the mysteries of a sailing-ship. I decided that I had a lot to learn that even scouting hadn’t taught me. Ropes are queer things; they always seem to turn up where least expected; they always foul something just when they are most needed. Try for the first time to coil down a split-new rope that hasn’t had its kinks taken out, and you’ll understand what I mean.

I should like to draw a thick veil over what happened next. But even a Scout, selected for such an eventful experience as this, must bow his head to certain circumstances. Perhaps Neptune didn’t quite understand how important an individual I was. At all events, the smell of the engine-room when next I went on watch at noon began to be afflicting. It hadn’t been attar of roses before, but now——! They said it was because the Quest was so deep-laden that she rolled so much, but I wasn’t concerned so much with causes as with effects. Those rolls seemed unending. At first I was afraid the ship would sink; later I was afraid she wouldn’t!

More seasoned men—I wonder why seasickness is always considered amusing?—advised various remedies. To drink hot salt water steadily was one; to swallow salt pork at the end of a string was another. The best remedy proposed was hard work, so I clenched my teeth and resolved to stick it out. I had to be one up on Mooney, who had thrown up the sponge by now, as well as practically everything else. I will draw the veil.

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.

I went on watch again at four o’clock—the first “dog.” Good times and decent health returned: life lost a lot of that brownish-yellow tinge that had hung at its edges lately. At four a.m. I was roused out for the “graveyard watch,” turning out into darkness, cold and reluctant to leave “Blanket Alley.” At daylight I was put on the general housemaid’s work of the ship: scrubbing decks, polishing brasses, washing the paint.

A strong breeze was blowing during this watch, and the ship was more than a little lively. She shipped a little water, too, wetting us to the skin; but we were all cheerful and there were no complaints. We were, as the Boss said, shaking down, dovetailing ourselves into our allotted places and rubbing off the awkward corners, for aboard a little ship there’s no place for corners.

To-day Captain Worsley, the sailing master, gave me the job of lamp-trimmer, and in pursuit of my duties I went forward to find some oil, since even Antarctic lamps won’t burn without fuel. I had just unlashed a drum and was in the act of opening it, when Sir Ernest Shackleton, who was near by, gave me a needed lesson in common-sense sailorizing.

“Don’t try to do too many things on your own until you’ve got the hang of them,” he said. “If any accident happened and that drum fetched away, the boatswain would be blamed, because safe stowage is his job. When you mix in with another man’s job, always remember that he might have to take blame that’s rightly due to you.” Consequently I lashed the drum up again; and the Boss, watching closely with those eyes that always seemed to see everything down to the last little detail, said: “I see you’ve made it good and fast; but you’ve put on a slippery hitch. Here’s the right way, and it’s the right way that counts at sea.” Then he explained carefully how the thing should be done, and afterwards gave me a lesson in whipping frayed rope-ends. With all the weight of responsibility he carried on his shoulders, and all his worries—for he had many—he still found time to interest himself in an obscure Scout. But he was like that; I think that was one of the qualities that made him great. The ship was already proving something of a disappointment to him. Her speed was far short of what was expected, and there seemed a probability of our reaching the ice too late; but he still had time and consideration enough to teach me my job personally.

Of course, with the freshening wind we had set sail again to help along our insufficient engines. Under her press of canvas the ship made fairly good weather, but the amount of water she brought aboard was considerable, and gave the Boss some concern. We were so stacked and cluttered with important gear that any sea might seriously damage our equipment. Sir Ernest wondered what was likely to happen when we got into the Roaring Forties; but even so, when next day we had to take in sail he was still able to interest himself in my progress and safety.

In taking in sail it was my lot to help make fast the staysail, and to do it effectively I got into a somewhat precarious position in the bows. When I went aft Shackleton called me to him and said: “I saw you right forrard just now, youngster. I like to see you do it—it shows zeal; but just remember that a sailor isn’t made in a dog-watch. I don’t expect you to do that sort of thing until you’ve got your proper sea-legs.” He was always like that; always considerate of his people, anxious for their safety and comfort and general well-being. Then he gave me to understand, without a lot of flapdoodle, that I wasn’t shaping so badly; and I left him in a glow of satisfaction, because it is something to please such a leader of men.

We got shortened down in time, but none too soon, because before very long a real gale, that had got up with astonishing rapidity, was blowing. In five minutes or thereabouts the ship was rolling alarmingly, taking such heartful sweeps that I, who knew little of the capabilities of a ship, wondered how soon she would capsize. She put her whole soul into that rolling, swinging her yardarms to the water on either side. White water piled over our rails, and the strumming and harping of the wind in the stripped spars was awe-inspiring. Everywhere the sea was whipped to white-capped anger; the sky was lowering, covered with black-edged clouds; and the rattle of the hurled spindrift was deafening. You’d never think there could be so much noise as during a gale at sea. At ten o’clock I went, not without trepidation, I admit, to take my trick at the wheel; but the Boss interfered here. I can’t say I was sorry. The ship that in fine weather seemed friendly and docile under my hands, promised in this flurry to be more than a bit of a handful. Shackleton told me that I hadn’t enough experience as yet to handle the Quest in a seaway, so I got busy with other work.

I dare say that from the deck of a forty-thousand-ton Atlantic liner this gale might have seemed a trifle, nothing more than a capful of wind and a very slightly disturbed sea; but seen from the Quest it was an eye-opener. Big seas came cascading over the bows in an unceasing procession, and at every roll the ship seemed eager to bale half the Atlantic aboard over her rails. I found this everlasting erratic movement very tiring; the wind sort of confused one, and the annoyance at the unending slashing of the sprays was great. To steady her we tried to set the mizen; but almost as it was sheeted home there came a ripsnorting squall that split it badly, so all our work went for nothing. The sail was taken in, and the steadiness that might have resulted from the weight of wind it could have carried was denied us.

Officially, this breeze was termed a moderate S.W. gale; at the time I wondered what a real storm was going to be like. To me the waves seemed to pile up like mountains, towering high and very high above us, swinging down towards the shivering hull as if determined to overwhelm it, only to swing us up and up to a watery, noisy crest, on which we perched like the Ark on Mount Ararat, to stare down into vast caverns, veined with milky white and noisy to a degree, until down we swooped, with a curious, unsettling corkscrew motion that made one’s middle-part seem like water, to wallow and riot in a very pit of anger.

Well, later on I was to learn to my satisfaction what a real gale was. This was only a fleabite; but it served to give us all some idea of the seaworthy qualities of the gallant little Quest.

So lively was the motion that it was an impossibility to pretend to serve a meal below; the dishes and plates refused to remain on the tables, in spite of the fiddles and the devices seamen use at sea. Consequently we were supplied with meat sandwiches on deck, which we ate as best we could, and counted ourselves lucky if we found our mouths. In my pride of recovery—for seasickness was now little but an unpleasant memory—I felt sorry for Mooney. He was having the thinnest of times, but game to a degree with it all. He tried his best to overcome the complaint, but it was too much for him; during this snatch of bad weather he was incapable of stirring hand or foot. He made no outcry about it, but his face told more than many words could have done. And there was no comfort to be found for him anywhere; he simply had to stick it out and make the best of it.

We were making no headway worth speaking of all this time; the wind was foul, and the lop of the seas undid any useful work the engines might have done. On account of the slamming and pitching, something went wrong with those engines; and though, during the afternoon, the wind lessened and the sea began to smooth itself out rather agreeably, there was a curious knocking note down in the engine-room that convinced us all that things were not as they ought to be.

Later this disorder down below became so pronounced that Sir Ernest Shackleton decided to put into Lisbon for overhaul, even at the cost of wasted time.

During the night the gale decreased into nothing, and in the morning the weather was quite decent. Very decent, I called it; but that was possibly by way of contrast—you have to weather a blow before you can appreciate good times. Sunday though it was, the ordinary work of the ship had to be performed, and the grimy disorder resulting from the gale removed.

We managed to get into wireless touch with Lisbon, and asked that a tug might be dispatched to help us in our limping progress. We needed it, for though the weather was growing gloriously fine and the sea was smooth, we were hardly making headway. A tug was promised, and we began to look forward to the joys of the land.

When I went on deck at midnight to stand the middle watch, the lights of the Portuguese coast were already invitingly in sight. Sir Ernest Shackleton was in charge, peering anxiously ahead. The Portuguese coast is not a particularly friendly one, especially at night, for the Burlings are an awkward reef, on which many a good ship has come to disaster. At the wheel I was constantly busy, obeying orders to alter course as this light and that hove in sight. To me there was a fascination in this creeping through the night that is hard to describe. But by two o’clock the Boss decided that I had had enough of it, and sent me below to prepare some food, whilst Mr. Lysaght took my place at the helm. At four o’clock I answered the frantic call of my bunk and lost all interest in everything for four gorgeous hours.

Turning out again, with a thrill of expectancy, I found the ship some two miles off the coast. Because of the clearness of the atmosphere I got a very good view of Portugal, which from the sea is very beautiful and quaint. The land rose steeply out of the placid, colourful sea, and the green slopes were plentifully dotted with red-roofed, whitewashed houses. A bright sun bathed the picture radiantly, and the discomforts of the recent storm were immediately forgotten. Here was something new, something foreign to occupy attention; now it was a cluster of smiling houses, again it was a frowning castle perched high on a mighty peak. We crawled along at slow speed, envying—oh, how we envied!—the big, powerful liners that steamed vigorously past; all of which, recognizing in the little, dishevelled cockboat a ship that was to fare farther and see greater marvels than they had ever seen, signalled us greetings. An enormous P. and O. boat came charging up, ran so close alongside us that we swung and cavorted in her wash like a dinghy, and, with bright bunting slatting from her span, raced out of sight ahead. She could have carried us on her deck with the greatest ease, yet we flattered ourselves that we were proper sailormen and not merely steamboaters!

Watching the shifting panorama of the coast was not the only occupation, however. The ship, in preparation for her visit to civilization and the far from remote possibility of her again becoming a show-ship, must needs undergo her spring-cleaning; and so sougee-mougee became the order of the day. Everything washable was washed, until we shone from stem to stern; and the deck-hamper was shifted so as to present some appearance of tidiness. But at noon we got a wireless from Lisbon to say that the ordered tug found it impossible to face the short, steep seas that were then running, and consequently we crawled into Cascaes roadstead, at the mouth of the Tagus, and anchored there on the advice of the pilot who boarded us. Portuguese pilots like their comforts, I think, and cordially dislike night navigation; but this one found little to his liking on board the Quest. If the ship was uncomfortable in open water in any sort of a sea, she was doubly so at anchor, for instead of being permitted her free, even rolling, every time she started one the anchor-cable fetched her up with a short, agonizing jerk that seemed to lift a man’s spine up through his skull and threatened to throw him clean out of his bunk. So little did our gallant Portuguese pilot like this motion that he found a means to secure a tug, and at eleven o’clock we were piloted into quieter water in the river’s mouth; after which we got what was really the first decent rest since leaving the mouth of the Channel.

That was a good sleep; the only trouble was that it was far too short. At 6.30 in the morning we got up our anchor, and, escorted by the tug, moved serenely up the Tagus. A very fine panorama of Lisbon unfolded itself as we progressed. Backing the general view was the high-thrown Pena Palace, where ex-King Manoel fled to join his mother during the revolution; almost alongside it was the old Moorish castle built in days when the Antarctic was unknown to human ken.

Lisbon being built on several hills, the streets are consequently steep for the most part. Most of the buildings are white, with red roofs, showing up finely against a background of olive-green; and the general effect is one of almost Oriental quaintness. But over the city there hangs an atmosphere of forlornness and decay, as though this place, from which set sail explorers as intrepid as those contained in the Quest, in search of unknown lands, had Ichabod written largely across its clustered roofs.

At nine o’clock we made fast to a buoy, about which the muddy waters of the Tagus swirled greedily, whilst a suitable berth was found for us. Lying there, bathed in sunshine, almost oppressed by the warmth, we indulged in the glory of a bathe, a privilege which, after long abstinence, must be experienced to be appreciated. All the caked salt of our voyaging was washed away, our pores were given a chance; and the ensuing sensation of vigour and well-being was almost too delightful for description. In the late afternoon we were taken in hand by fussy tugs and punted and hauled and wedged into our berth. During all the working hours of this day I was on duty with Green, the cook, an enterprising man who thoroughly revelled in his job. His ability to contrive and make shift was remarkable; and there were those aboard the Quest who solemnly vowed their belief that, given an ancient pair of sea-boots, Green could serve up a dinner that would leave the Ritz or the Carlton amongst the “also rans.”

On this night we began to understand wherein we differed from the Elizabethan voyagers. Times have altered since Francis Drake set forth from England with a high heart and an abounding ignorance, intent on discovering a short cut to India. Such entertainment as his ships were provided with was meagre; musical instruments for the most part. This, our first night in Lisbon, was enlivened by a remarkable cinema exhibition in the ward-room. Not that we were given hectic Wild West pictures; we were shown our own hazards during the gale of October 1—realistic pictures enough, taken on the spot without any suggestion of faking, and developed and completed aboard. Not a few of us, seeing how the Quest looked to the camera, came to the conclusion that we were bigger heroes than we really were, for the seas appeared so enormous that it was a miracle to us to know how our ship remained afloat. One thing is certain: had I seen those pictures before sending in my application to join the expedition, that application would never have been written. Even the blood of an enthusiastic Scout turned cold at thought of the dangers he had passed! But it all gave us confidence in our floating home when we saw how doggedly she met the big grey seas and trudged resolutely forward on her southward way.

Amongst white seafarers the word Dago stands for mild dishonesty. With a genuine thrill, as one tasting the real salt of adventure, I heard the order given for the night-watchman to arm himself in order that the countless valuables aboard the Quest might be properly safeguarded; and with a big revolver bulging his pocket the selected man took up his duties, whilst we, more fortunate, went below and coiled down for the sweet delight of an all-night-in.

CHAPTER IV
Lisbon to Madeira

Our stay in Lisbon was prolonged by reason of the engine-room defects. No wonder the engines had knocked; the shaft was found to be badly out of alignment. As a natural consequence the bearings heated, and this, coupled with the fact that the high-pressure connecting-rod was bent, accounted for all our woes. The work of repair was set in hand at once, and our people began to readjust the ship’s stores in order to make her more weatherly, having learnt much during the passage out across the Bay.

Certain alterations in the ship’s rig were also put in hand; but as all work and no play makes Jack but a dull boy, in the afternoon of this first real day in Lisbon certain of us went ashore to see the sights, including a bull-fight. We forgathered at a café, and from there were motored to the bull-ring. Looking back on the past, I have come to the conclusion that I would sooner go ten times to the Antarctic than take one motor ride in Lisbon. Their motor-drivers seem to run mad immediately the engines begin to revolve. In Lisbon, so far as I could see, there is neither rule of the road nor speed limit. The streets are blocked, for the best part, by slow-moving bullock-carts, three, four and even five abreast. Through this welter of sluggish traffic the cars charge like six-inch shells; and if the road isn’t wide enough they use the pavement. Our driver performed motoring miracles, and I firmly believe that if the pavements had not helped him he would have climbed the sides of the buildings along the way. You’d think it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a high-powered motor to navigate the streets of Lisbon, but our driver did it without turning a hair, and deserved a V.C. every minute of the time he was driving. Of course, accidents happen, and the tale of dead dogs must be enormous. If our driver so much as saw a dog he let out a yell and charged straight for it, and lucky was that dog if it escaped. As for the ordinary, unconsidered pedestrian, he never troubles to look round when a motor-horn blows—he just jumps for it; up a convenient lamp-post if necessary, and then shouts thankfulness to all the saints for safe delivery from the perils of the streets.

A Portuguese bull-fight is not quite so bloodthirsty as those held in the neighbouring land of Spain. In Spain the main idea is to get the bull killed, after suitable tortures have been inflicted; in Portugal the bull’s horns are padded thickly at the tips, and the principal scheme seems to be to show the agility of the bullfighters.

As soon as the bull, always a magnificent animal, is admitted into the ring he is annoyed and excited by the waving of gaudily-coloured cloaks and flags. Being only a bull and not a philosopher, he naturally gets angry and promptly puts his head down and goes for his tormentors, who, after risking as much as they dare, leap over the barricades into safety. These cloak-wavers are merely pawns in the game; for all the time they are busy the genuine hero of the hour is in the ring, either afoot or on horseback, showing himself off to an admiring audience. A successful bull-fighter on the Tagus is a very much more important personage than the captain of a Cup Final team or a hero who has knocked up a couple of centuries in a county cricket match.

Presently the bull gets angrier—very angry indeed. His bovine nature impels him to cast about for something on which to wreak his spite. I don’t blame the bull. Even a Scout would be annoyed if a crowd of yelling idiots waved coloured blankets in his face for half an hour at a stretch! Seeing the idol of the audience proudly prancing about, the bull quite naturally lowers his head and goes for him. Here’s where the sport begins. The bull-fighter, with a twirl of his moustache and a sort of hand-kiss to the ladies, promptly retreats and turns, and as the bull slithers past he plants a dart in his hide. It is a sign of skill and daring to get that dart as near the animal’s head as possible. As soon as it is embedded in the skin the bull-fighter, in case anyone didn’t see him, unfurls a paper flag and waves it exultantly in the air. Then the people cheer and the ladies kiss their hands, and the temporary hero bows and smiles and pretends that he is the identical man who won the Great War. Then he goes to get another dart; a shorter one this time. The shorter the dart you plant in the unfortunate bull’s neck the greater the glory that comes your way, it seems. True enough, it is a sign of agility and courage, even though the bull’s horns are padded; and to hear the spectators cheer you’d think it was what the Americans call “the cat’s pyjamas.” To my way of thinking, though, football is streets ahead of bull-fighting for downright thrills.

If the toreador happens to be dismounted, he is given even shorter darts than if he were mounted. The footman’s weapons carry no paper flags, and he usually sticks them in two at a time, because he’s only got two hands, I suppose. It must require a bit of nerve to do it, even though it doesn’t quite come up to a Britisher’s idea of sport. The bull charges like an avalanche, and I fancy, from the ring, must look about as big as a landslide. He looked gigantic from where we sat, with the wine sellers offering us heady Portuguese drinks every time we breathed; and to the toreador that bull must have seemed as enormous as the P. and O. boat did to the little Quest outside the Tagus. I held my breath more than once during those charges, I assure you, for I was certain the bull-fighter was going to be smashed to smithereens; but just at the critical moment the man stepped aside, took a short run, plunged in his two darts fairly into the back of the animal’s neck, and got clear before he bellowed and turned. Yes, it was very dexterous indeed; but it didn’t please the bull. He swung about, scuffling the sand and roaring, and the toreador streaked for the barricade like greased lightning.

Another took his place and did the same thing. Instead of trying to knock up a century in Portugal you try to plant a dart shorter than any other dart in the back of a mad bull’s neck! And you go on doing it until the bull begins to look like an animated pincushion. If Stephenson’s first locomotive was “bad for the coo,” bull-fighting must be very bad for the bull!

Folks tire of this exhibition, so presently a whole crowd of funny-looking fellows in red and yellow are let into the ring. One of these steps forward as if he intended to be properly introduced to the bull; whereupon the bull promptly goes for him, because he thinks he’s responsible for the pain he is suffering. But the man of the moment leaps fairly between the lowered horns, gets one of them under each armpit, and then starts a wrestling match with his four-footed opponent. His object is to throw the bull, and to do so requires more skill than most of them possess. There’s the indignant bovine doing its best to throw the man off and stamp him or gore him to death; there’s the red-faced man working as hard as you like to pitch the bull over on his side. It seemed rather a waste of energy to me, but it is the national sport down there, and we Britons must live and let live. Anyhow, this wrestling was uncommonly exciting. It would have been even more so if the bull’s horns hadn’t been padded.

Not that the sport is as bloodthirsty as might appear from the foregoing description. The darts which are employed have only very tiny barbs, not much bigger than fish-hooks, intended merely to pierce the skin and not draw blood. And the bull is not killed, as I’ve said; it is simply baited. All the same, my sympathies were with the bulls all along. Get about fifty fish-hooks stuck through your skin and you’ll understand what I mean.

Those of our party who had seen genuine Spanish bull-fights, where the bull’s horns are not padded, said this show was only a mild imitation of the real thing. In Spain the horses—shocking screws, taken out of the trams after they’re used up—are gored savagely, and when they scream with pain they are spurred and lifted clean on to the murderous horns for another dose of the same medicine. Sometimes even the toreadors and matadors and picadors get gored in their turn. I won’t say “Serve them right,” but it’s my own affair what I think.

We Quests kept our end up so far as cheering was concerned. Whenever anything really exciting occurred we got up and yelled our famous war-cry of “Yoicks! Tally-ho!” which naturally aroused interest and amusement amongst the general run of the spectators, who got to their feet and cheered back at us very heartily, and no doubt described us to their friends at a later hour as “Those mad English!” This bull-fight was particularly honoured by the presence of the President of Portugal. I’ll say it was an unusual day, very different from an average day in England!

Naturally enough, during our stay in Portugal we were swarmed with visitors. The British and American Ministers were shown over the Quest by our leader. Like the sight-seers in London and Plymouth, these visitors seemed to imagine we had joined a sort of suicide club; they were astonished at the tiny proportions of the ship and expressed grave doubts as to her future safety.

The day after the bull-fight was nothing out of the common. I was detailed for galley duty with the cook, who was now revelling in still waters, a stove that would burn, and grub that a man could take a pride in cooking. In the evening I went ashore with some Portuguese Scouts, who insisted on giving Mooney and myself a truly top-hole welcome. That’s what Scouting does—it makes you firm friends wherever you go. But being a Scout, and especially a kilted Scout, makes you a bit too conspicuous, so I shed my uniform whenever possible and tried to pass along with the crowd. All the same, the Lisbon Scouts were good pals and showed us all the sights of the place. In return we showed them the sights of the Quest and got the debt squared in some measure. They were keenly interested, and there were so many of them that we could have filled in all our time in explaining things to them in such language as Scouts can understand.

The ship during these days was a hive of activity, for the repairing gangs were extremely hard at work straightening the shaft and refitting generally.

There was so much to be done by all hands that time went by very quickly during this halt on our voyage, but beyond bull-fighting and sight-seeing there was nothing extraordinary to recount. I missed the trip to Cintra, being busily engaged in work, but those who went told me the view from the Pena Palace was rather gorgeous. Everything is left exactly as it was when ex-King Manoel had to seek fresh pastures; even the papers of that day are still lying on the tables; and the view from the palace top is superb. You can see all Portugal lying as a map at your feet, they said. But the horses that tug you up the final steep of the mountain make you gnash your teeth with sympathetic rage, they are so overdriven and half-starved and brutally ill-treated. It’s queer how few people beyond Britishers know how to treat a horse!

On Monday, the 10th of October, we left our berth, repairs having been completed, and made fast to a buoy in the stream. Here we restocked our tanks with fresh water, and made such final preparations as were necessary for a continuation of the voyage; and after all hands were well worked up we had another cinema show in the evening, and then turned in for the last long night’s sleep for a little while. Just after lunch on the 11th we left Lisbon.

I’d prided myself on overcoming the woes of seasickness before we reached the Tagus, but, alas! I boasted too soon. Once outside the river we hit up against a nasty kind of a sea, worse than anything we’d hitherto experienced, I think; so the old familiar qualms possessed me more vindictively than ever. But I had the poor satisfaction of knowing that others were in as bad case as myself, for very few of the crew escaped on this occasion. They blamed the smallness of the ship and her pronounced lack of comfortable accommodation. Maybe it was so. I wasn’t in a mood to argue, anyhow. So ill were Mooney and Mason that Sir Ernest Shackleton reluctantly decided that, failing an improvement, they would have to leave the ship at Madeira. So far as I was concerned, I think the Boss was quietly giving me a thorough “trying-out” to see if I could endure the still greater rigours that were promised us farther south; for I was set to work very hard—with the cook, stowing stores, in the stokehold, everywhere. It wasn’t pleasant, but I wasn’t going to let the Scouts down if I could help it, so I gritted my teeth and went at it for all I was worth. Praise was not too lavishly bestowed by Sir Ernest Shackleton, because his own standard of efficiency was so high that a man had to be pretty good even to be tolerated; but as he seemed pleased with the way I was carrying on I was satisfied.

There’s one thing about the sea, I find—it either makes you or breaks you. You get salted through and through, and in some cases it toughens you, whilst in others it rots all your pluck away and makes you feel you’d like to live in the very middle of the Sahara desert and never see salt water again in your life.

But during the passage from Lisbon to Madeira I didn’t feel like keeping a very exhaustive diary. Anyhow, there was nothing exciting to recount, for the weather wasn’t alarmingly bad; it was only the vicious run of the seas that made the little vessel so lively.

On the 15th, however, we had a reward in a brilliantly fine day, with smooth water and not much wind, and this brightened the spirits of all aboard, though Mooney and Mason still continued under the weather and longed for the peace of dry land.

Notwithstanding the exhaustive overhaul we’d been given at Lisbon, the engines developed trouble once more; the knocking began again, and it seemed as though the days spent in Portugal were completely wasted. Madeira promised to be another welter of refitting.

During this stage of the voyage Major Carr and Captain Hussey started in with meteorological experiments, sending up kites and balloons for observations of the upper air for the first time.

When I came on deck on the morning of Sunday, October 16, I got my first sight of Madeira, and that glimpse of beauty seemed to atone for all previous discomforts. Madeira is a beautiful island, with its rich vineyards, its noble gorge of the Wolf that literally splits the island in two halves; its typical semi-tropical houses, with red roofs and blue or white walls and vividly painted shutters to keep out the fierce noontide heat. The clarity of the atmosphere is so remarkable here—indeed, I believe it is the clearest in the world—that you feel you could toss a biscuit ashore even when you are miles away. We came to anchor in Funchal Harbour, about a hundred yards from the shore, and breathed deep sighs of relief as the fretful motion of the Quest ceased and she lay once more upon an even keel. We promptly went overboard for a bathe in that amazingly clear water.

The day after our arrival Mooney and Mr. Mason left the Quest for home. I know it was with the greatest reluctance that Sir Ernest parted from them; but both had been very ill during the entire trip, and Mr. Mason had, indeed, been seriously ill, developing a high temperature and alarming symptoms. Both were loth to go; their natural grit prompted them to remain and stick it out to the bitter end. They made no unseemly fuss about their tribulations; but things promised to be worse rather than better as the voyage progressed, and it was in their own interests that they were relieved from further suffering. I know how elated I felt that I’d been better favoured by fortune, so I think I know how depressed they must have been. Poor Mooney was a full-sized brick throughout; he showed all the best characteristics of the best sort of Scout, and there was not the slightest fault attaching to him in his inability to endure the rigours. But knowing that the whole weight of Scout responsibility rested on my shoulders was rather a startling realization. Still, I was managing to get hardened by this time, and I hoped for the best.

This afternoon the cook and myself went ashore, on shopping bent. Our principal desire was to find fruit, which shouldn’t have been a difficult matter in an island famous for its fruits; but somehow we contrived to lose our bearings and wandered into the filthiest parts of the town—and Funchal can be very filthy in places. We managed to count at least one hundred and thirty-five different smells—Green said there were two hundred and fifty, but perhaps he exaggerated—but all were vile. Every alley corner we passed, every open window, discharged its fresh offensive; and we seemed to walk for miles and uncounted miles before eventually we touched down in the market. There we ordered what we needed, and afterwards went on to see the sights.

Madeira is interesting. Its foreign note is very marked, for here the foliage is definitely approaching the tropical; hibiscus flowers are everywhere in the greatest profusion, and the vivid crimson poinsettias strike a warm and enlivening note. Huge clusters of wonderful blooms met our gaze at every turn, and drew our attention from the little cobblestones of the streets, which are uncommonly hard to walk upon.

There were not very many wheeled conveyances visible, for the island doesn’t lend itself to them overmuch; the few motors we saw were ancient and honourable members of the fraternity. The principal means of conveyance are the bullock-cars—wooden sledges, drawn by bulls, fine, big, sleek animals, though very leisurely in all their movements. One sees these cars going everywhere about the streets on well-greased runners. Some of the cars are very tastefully got up and drawn by bullocks as white as snow; and the motion when one gets inside is far from unpleasant. Of course, the streets are so rutted and worn in Funchal that ordinary wheels would soon come to grief; but the long sledge-runners sort of bridge the worst of the holes, as a big liner crosses from wave-crest to wave-crest without diving too deeply into the troughs, and consequently you don’t realize how ill-kept the roads really are.

As practically all Funchal is built on the side of a hill, you may be sure the streets are steep. We didn’t try to climb them unnecessarily, but contented ourselves with standing at the bottom and looking up, a much more restful occupation than working to the top and looking down. Then we had tea, where they apologized for a little meal with a big, an astoundingly big, bill. Still, although the little cakes they gave us were evidently relics of the ancient Portuguese travellers, the tea was wet and damped the dry, sawdust-like confectionery excellently.

A lot of sugar-cane grows in Madeira, and the sight of the groves is very pleasant. And all amongst the soft green of the young canes you see those marvellous splashes of colour from the poinsettias and the hibiscus, so that your brain, refusing to take in the full effect, perceives only a blur. They told us that the roads and paths between the groves were constructed by Portuguese convicts, and we believed them. Honest men could never have made such fiendish roads!

In the evening we were invited as guests to the mess of the Western Telegraph Company, who have a cable station here and who publish the only newspaper in English on the island. Our hosts were very cordial and did us nobly; they apologized for the general atmosphere of poverty that characterizes the island by saying that the Lisbon Government taxes everyone so heavily for Portugal’s good, that when the taxes are paid there’s nothing left for home improvements.

CHAPTER V
Experiences Afloat

Next day we hove up anchor and started off for Cape Verde. You’d hardly think a small ship so full of men could feel lonely, but the Quest seemed to me to miss our late shipmates. We still carried our passenger, however—Mr. Lysaght, who had intended to leave us at Madeira, but who was so well liked aboard that he was persuaded to stay on a little longer. Immediately on leaving Madeira we picked up the fine north-east trades, and with every stitch of canvas we could carry, bowled along nobly toward the South.

No doubt many interesting things happened aboard that never came under my immediate notice, though you might think it was impossible for anything to transpire within such narrow confines as those of the Quest without all hands immediately securing the fullest information; but other better qualified pens than mine have dealt with them. I am trying to give my own impression of this astonishing voyage as it appealed to me: a raw landlubber and a somewhat young one. And I suppose that to a mole, its own burrow is of much more importance than even a European war.

What chiefly concerned me about this time was the cook’s mishap. Prior to leaving Funchal, Green had run a fishbone into his hand, causing him considerable pain, and rendering him useless during the rest of the day; but with true pertinacity he stuck it out until the morrow found his hand in a much worse condition; whereupon Mr. Douglas, our geologist, volunteered to replace him in the galley. For, although all hands had specific duties allotted to them as regards the expedition proper—that is: one was meteorologist, another geologist, another flying-man, and so on, when not actually engaged in scientific duties, all took part and lot with the general crew. There was a good deal of the Drake spirit about our leader: “I should not care to see the gentleman who would refuse to hale and draw with the mariners” was one of his mottoes, and so—the geologist became acting “Doctor,” and celebrated his appointment by heaving the disabled cook from his sanctum sanctorum, as, being a new broom, he wanted to make a clean sweep. Let’s say Green’s hand recovered rapidly; we won’t blame the breakfast; but at all events, Green returned to duty after that meal was served, and so a possible mutiny was averted!

Beyond washing my clothes, this was about the only incident of the day. Next day brought us sight of a noble Royal Mail boat snorting magnificently along; and those who watched her regaled themselves with moving accounts of the comforts and luxuries to be had aboard. As Mr. Mason, our original cinema photographer, had returned to England, Mr. Wilkins, the naturalist, deputized for him, and managed to secure some very good shots at the moving monster. Daily duties, necessary and time-absorbing, filled in the hours not unpleasantly, and the usual even glide of day and night set in after its break in port. There is no way of eating time so thoroughly as by keeping regular watch-and-watch at sea: days slip into weeks, weeks into months, so very smoothly as to be well-nigh imperceptible.

The summery weather conditions now necessitated something of a change in our regular mode of life. The little wardroom, snug and warm farther north, was growing unpleasantly stuffy; and the scorch of the sun on the decks did nothing to mend matters. Consequently, awnings were rigged on the poop, and meals were served beneath it in alfresco fashion; a welcome change from the tinned atmosphere of down below. So genial were the weather conditions that I felt it incumbent upon me to celebrate the occasion, which I did to the extent of a much-needed shave: the first for ten clear days; though the private opinion of some aboard, I believe, was that I was growing unnecessarily dandified! Others thanked me politely and vowed that I had raised the water-line of the ship by a full two inches, thus guaranteeing her seaworthiness if further bad weather came our way.

We began, now, to use the deck much more than down below; it was not only our messroom and our music-room, but also our bedroom. Even the gramophone seemed to appreciate the change to open air, for it did its noblest this evening under the awning, when Shackleton’s favourite airs were played all through and a spirit of mirth and cheer animated all hands. Excellent amity prevailed: we were shaking down into our places, fitting ourselves into corners, and determined to make the best of these present good times in preparation for the prophesied bad times ahead.

Turning-in on deck was an enjoyable experience: free air blowing about your face makes for enjoyable rest; and it is possible, lying under open sky, to study and marvel over the radiant glory of the stars. There are no stars like those of the tropical skies; they are bigger and brighter than seen in English skies, and seem not so much to be set flat on a board as arranged in proper perspective. Why anyone should frowst below decks when there is room above, I fail to understand. Query, the wolf-hound, shared my opinion, for he slept at my head all night and aroused me at daybreak by licking my face. He showed promise of growing into a fine dog, and was already a good friend to all aboard. You’ve simply got to make a pet of something at sea; and you are lucky if you are given so excellent an object for your affections as was Query.

Fine weather at sea means—so I was told by those more experienced than myself—an orgy of painting. The craze bit the ship’s company now, and some wonderful decorative effects resulted. And the weather was really fine—sunny sky, sea like glass, and never an awkward movement to the ship, save for the long, even swell that was more like a steady breathing of the ocean than an actual heave.

But lest too much fresh, sweet air should harm us and increase our appetites beyond all reason, it was decided that now was the day and hour to trim bunkers; so all hands turned to to chew coal-dust. The engines were stopped and all sail was set. Once more our mechanical heart was showing symptoms of valvular disease; and the engineer was loudly of opinion that only extensive repairs and alterations could save the situation. During the day the breeze freshened somewhat, so that the good, clean rustling of the distended canvas sang a note of striving; but fair though the breeze was, we made indifferent headway; and in the evening the engines were started up once more. It appeared as if the ship was annoyed at this interference with her placid progress; for the first turn of the screw caused the hull to give such a fiendish lurch that the entire galley did its best to turn a somersault and capsized, spilling everything worth while over the deck. A big can of boiling cocoa plentifully bathed the cook’s legs; a tin of melted fat smothered the floor; and for an hour we were as fully employed as we had any desire to be. Cooling fat leaves much to be desired in the handling; and I was glad that I was over my seasickness! All that troubled me now was toothache, and that was getting better. But we mopped up the débris and scoured everything white again, and turned in with the sweet consciousness of work well done. Thinking it necessary, no doubt, to take his share in the common toil, Query contrived to discover a flying-fish which had blundered aboard in the blind fashion these fish have of doing things. It was a very toothsome morsel—but not for Query!

My own individual duties during these days lacked nothing on the score of variety. Turning-to at six o’clock, I proceeded to assist in scrubbing decks—as they call it in the Navy; washing down, as it is designated in the merchant service. A hose and a broom are in demand for this sea-ritual. Having satisfactorily completed this sanitary duty, I went aft and got all things in order for breakfast, and served at table whilst my seniors ate. Simple enough in the telling, but when the sea got up a bit, as it did about now, and the ship grew lively, not so simple in the actuality. Since no right-thinking man cares to have his breakfast spilt down the back of his neck, it behoved me to be careful, as I had no wish to figure as principal character at a coroner’s inquest. Another of my daily duties was to scrub out Sir Ernest’s cabin. Don’t, please, carry away from these pages an impression of a sumptuous stateroom. This sea-bedroom was little better than a glorified packing-case: it measured seven feet by six, and when you were in it you felt half-afraid to draw a full breath in case you carried something away or burst the bulkheads apart. The door of this cabin opened on the afterside; and on the port side was the bunk, stretching the entire length of the room, with drawers beneath and a single porthole above. A small washstand stood against the forrard bulkhead; shelves well-filled with books on the starboard side, and a small, collapsible chair completed the more elaborate furnishings. In addition, fixed to the forrard bulkhead, was a small, white-enamelled cabinet fitted with an oval mirror in the door, and an emergency oil-lamp for use when the electric supply gave out. That’s as good a description as I can give of this tabloid apartment, where you could do everything humanly possible without leaving one spot!

After daily breakfast I did whatever I was told to do—helped the cook to clean the galley and prepare the meals, took a trick at the helm, trimmed coal, gave a hand with the sails and rigging, and made myself generally useful. As one of my shipmates said: “It was a pity we had no clay aboard because I might have spent my leisure in making bricks!”

Wednesday, October 26, was a red-letter day: one to be recorded with all due solemnity. I had my wages raised! When cleaning out his cabin on this particular morning the Boss asked me what I had been doing in Aberdeen in addition to scouting. I told him that I had been at the University. Whereupon he laid the accolade upon my shoulders by saying, in that deep, pleasant voice of his which seemed designed to beat up against the fiercest gale that ever blew: “Well, you’re pleasing me very much so far, and I want to increase your pay to £12 a month. That will help pay your fees when you get back to the Granite City.”

I was enormously pleased. It wasn’t so much the increase of pay as the kindly words that accompanied the promise. I was giving satisfaction to such a judge of humanity as Sir Ernest Shackleton! That was what warmed my blood. I’d passed severe tests and was qualified to count myself properly one of the adventurous brotherhood! It seemed to me as if this honour had been bestowed on all Scoutdom, and I was glad.

Cape Verde Islands greeted my sight this morning, looming dimly into view. By noon we were closing the coast, rugged and inhospitable. Absolutely nothing but bare rock was visible; sun-scorched and lacking entirely in verdure; bare rock rising majestically some fifteen hundred feet into the clear air, never a tree to break its monotony, apparently no soil in which a single blade of grass might grow. St. Vincent has few charms at the best; it is used for little else beyond a coaling station and a connecting link in the world’s submarine cable system. Rain seldom falls in St. Vincent, and it is too remote from the rest of the world to be fertilized by passing birds. Its harbour, though, is a fine, natural roadstead, being composed of an assortment of smaller islands, and the native divers beat anything I have ever come across, though they are reputed to be as light of finger as they are deft of movement in the water, and occasionally they are apt to become truculent and peevish if interrupted in their favourite hobby of abstracting such movables as they can lay hands on. Not that it was necessary for an article to be movable. I was solemnly assured by one who should have known that these same modern buccaneers had on one occasion endeavoured to steal the funnel out of the ship that harboured him!

Bathing off the ship was vetoed on account of rumoured sharks, which did not appear to trouble the natives overly; but it was permissible closer inshore, and we only too gladly took full advantage of this opportunity. It was a delightful experience, for the water was so balmy as to be like a continued caress.

At night a farewell dinner was given to Mr. Lysaght, who was to leave us here and return to England, home and beauty. Throughout the journey he had quitted himself in most manly fashion, refusing to succumb when hardier men than himself went down, bearing part and lot in all that happened with the greatest good cheer. His principal wish seemed to be to continue aboard the Quest, indifferent to the call of home and comfort; but this was not to be. The ship did herself well that night: giving of her very best in food and drink, and the occasion was one to remember.

Next morning I dressed myself decently and went ashore in company with the geologist and the naturalist, Mr. Wilkins. At sea, I may mention, we dressed as convenient and studied our personal appearance very little, so that we often looked like a gang of scarecrows. The nigger population of St. Vincent turned out to greet us—not out of admiration for our noble selves, but with an honest—or dishonest—desire for gain. They literally mobbed us as we set foot ashore: snatching at our bags, thrusting diminutive donkeys under our noses, clamouring to be permitted to show us the sights, and generally buzzing about like gigantic flies. What they lacked in reserve they made up in enthusiasm; but we considered ourselves quite able to look after ourselves. We collected various tiny donkeys, and I found myself very greatly at sea when I boarded my noble mount. Steering the Quest was child’s play as compared with navigating that ass at first, but one got the hang of it after a while and contrived to make some progress ahead instead of sideways.

Nothing I saw ashore here altered my first impression of the Cape Verdes. They are, without exception, the barest, poorest lumps of land I’ve ever seen. St. Vincent, like the other islands, is purely volcanic in character, and what is not bare, vitreous rock is simply dry, reddish volcanic earth that contains no fertilizing qualities, so far as I am aware. There had been no rain for two years prior to our arrival; there was naturally no herbage growing, all was sheer sun-scorched rock and blazing heat, tempered only a little by the sea breezes. As nothing will grow ashore beyond a few miserable stalks of maize on the higher slopes, the inhabitants, set down there for their sins presumably, would starve but for another island in the group. From this island they secure water, which is ferried across in boats, and also all their cereals and fruits, though these are nothing to wax eloquent over. Even this water is not very palatable; it is obtained by boring down to a great depth, and as there had been no rain to liven the springs, the general result was stale and unlikeable. Until it is boiled and sterilized it is practically undrinkable. So that, taking one thing with another, it is not surprising that occasionally quite large numbers of the native population die off from sheer starvation. Their staple food is ground maize, and when it becomes scarce, as it so often does, they are in a bad plight.

We travelled up into the hills quite a distance, thanks to our donkeys. Joining Mr. Wilkins I went bug-hunting; we successfully pursued butterflies, caterpillars and other creepie-crawlies. Mr. Wilkins added a small lizard to his bag, and seemed delighted; whilst Mr. Douglas contented himself with his own particular hobby: studying the dykes, and hills, and volcanic formations of the island, collecting certain specimens that interested him on the way. Some of the butterflies, which we bagged in considerable numbers, were rarely beautiful, and seemed, in my opinion, to be wasting their time at St. Vincent. There’s a Scots lament called “The Barren Rocks of Aden,” but the man who composed it had never seen St. Vincent, or he’d have decided that Aden was nothing to make a song about.

Coming back, we seemed so much too big for our donkeys as they braved the precipitous slopes that out of sheer humanity—to say nothing of respect for our necks—we dismounted and proceeded afoot along the scorching rocks which seemed to burn through our boot-soles as if we walked across red-hot lava. The impression I received was of a weary plodding through a hopeless desert, and this suggestion was increased by the great swirls of vultures that were everywhere overhead. How they lived on St. Vincent I do not know; maybe, like the Maltese, they took in each other’s washing, or fed on one another.

Here, again, the Western Telegraph Company gave us warm hospitality: a rousing good evening with dinner and a sing-song to follow. By way of a leg-stretcher, and in order, I suppose, to rid ourselves of the superabundant energy accumulated in the close quarters of the Quest, we then let ourselves go; had a go-as-you-please rugger match in the passage—much to the consternation of the nigger servants—and generally took the place apart. When a score of hefty Britishers feel within them the spirit of movement things are apt to get smashed. But a rough-house is a good thing occasionally, and I dare say we should have had one or two aboard but that we were too much afraid of bursting the ship apart.

Whilst we sported others toiled, for we found to our unbounded satisfaction on returning in the ghostly small hours, that the Quest had been coaled and we were saved the grimy irksomeness of that unpleasant labour. I was glad enough, I assure you, for though I don’t profess to be any more afraid of work than the next fellow, there’s a lot of fine, heartfelt joy in knowing that someone else has done your job! Late aboard never meant late abed under Shackleton; six o’clock found me resuming the daily task. A homeward-bound liner, by which Mr. Lysaght travelled, replenished our lockers with fresh provisions—much better than the stringy goat obtainable ashore—and also granted us the inestimable boon of a ton of ice for the freezer. Ice counted for a lot there near the Line; but the time was to come—yet why anticipate?

During our enforced stay in St. Vincent our engines were once more tuned up, in the hope that the usual discords they played would cease. Visitors naturally came and went, for anything the least little bit out of the ordinary is an event in that sun-baked wilderness; but, with the engines reported fit and ready again, we once more put out to sea.

CHAPTER VI
On the Way to Rio

We steamed out on the Rio de Janeiro route on October 29. Endless numbers of albacore welcomed us to the open water, leaping vividly in the startling blue sea, crisping it with snowy foam splashes. The Boss drew my attention to them first—he was always very decent that way in pointing out such details as he considered might interest a somewhat ignorant first-voyager. That was one of the traits in his character that drew men to him I think; his infinite interest in the little things; no detail was too small for him, no trouble too great. Albacore are fine, plump fish; some that I saw must have measured quite five feet from nose to tail—perhaps more, for they’re as quick in the water as the sheep the Irishman couldn’t count by reason of their liveliness; you only get a fleeting impression of them as they leap clear into the air then splash back with a noble flurry into their native element.

Everything seemed propitious as we went rolling down to Rio; everything, that is, except our engines. No, it wasn’t the man-made machinery that played us up this time, but the precious St. Vincent coal—dust and such poor steam-making stuff that it was impossible to maintain a working pressure for long at a time. As a consequence, we crawled; but this lazy fanning along across a sapphire sea is an enjoyable experience enough. Down in the bunkers loud cheering announced the finding of an occasional lump of coal by way of a change from the dust, and after a while a better pressure was secured, thereby quickening our pace. Flying-fish were very plentiful, and the feeling now was that we were merely embarked on a yachting cruise.

Now, to detail each day as it passed would be but a reiteration, monotonous in the extreme. I find that during certain portions of this Rio run my diary reads much as Mark Twain’s did when he, as a boy, endeavoured to keep one. “Got up, washed, went to bed,” about describes it. And though the routine work aboard a ship at sea can be uncommonly interesting to the worker, as I always found it, it can also, in its description, be very boring to those who desire other things than a plain tale of plain, unexciting happenings. Daily I got up, did my work, went to bed. True, there were events which, unimportant in themselves, yet served to interest us who were dependent on the chance incidents of sea travel for our amusement. What pleased me personally was the continued keen interest the Boss took in me. When it would appear that my duties were somewhat monotonous and irksome he was there to console—not that I needed it, for duty aboard the Quest was always a pleasure—but the thought that he, with a brainful of responsibility, aware that his ship, secured after so much planning, lacked in many respects the perfection that was really necessary for a thoroughly successful expedition, with all his great plans constantly seething in his mind, could still take so lively an interest in the thoughts and feelings of the least-to-be-considered member of his crew, gratified me and bound me to him with bands of steel. His desire was that all aboard should be happy, for he knew how small a mite of the leaven of unhappiness can affect the entire personnel. The yarns he used to spin of his own youth at sea, too, were entertaining beyond the power of description; his bluff, hearty personality infused a happy content into the daily round.

Through the blazing days and the gorgeous nights of the Tropics we slid smoothly towards Rio: sleeping out in the open constantly, by reason of the stifling heat of down below. These nights on deck are a pleasant memory. No covering was needed save something thrown across the eyes, lest moon-blindness might result. Shackleton had some yarns to tell of careless boys in his sailing-ship days suffering from this curious complaint, as a result of sleeping in the full glare of a white, tropical moon, that rides like a silver cannon-ball in a purple velvet pall spangled bewilderingly with myriad stars. Boys, perfect of sight by day, became as blind as bats by night; they developed twisted necks and drawn faces, all through the baleful influence of this beautiful night illuminant, which can be an enemy as well as a friend to those who go down to the sea in ships.

Sleeping in the open air, I discovered, was infinitely more refreshing than sleeping in a cabin below-deck: one wakened instantly, with every sense fully on the alert, instead of the usual slow heaving up from the chasms of sleep. But, occasionally these restful slumbers on deck were rudely interrupted. A rain-squall fetched me from my plank couch one morning at five o’clock; brilliant lightning was searing the sky, and the wind, freshening in squalls, was whipping up a considerable sea. Thus we began genuinely to roll down to Rio, for the Quest—of which no ill be spoken!—could always hold her own at that rolling game, and seemed as much in earnest about this part of her work as she did about any other. The big square-sail had to be furled on account of these quickening squalls, and the staysail set instead; but the rolling continued; and there were those who vowed that even in dry dock our ship was capable of liveliness.

By this time we were learning the value of fresh water during a prolonged voyage. In every case where salt water could be used in the ship’s cleaning, it was used; and even our ordinary washing was reduced to the minimum. Aboard a small sailing vessel with a limited tank-capacity, fresh water is permissible for only two purposes: drinking and cooking. All rain-water that falls must needs be carefully conserved, too: and from the oldsters I received not one but many serious lectures on the value of economy in this precious fluid.

One outstanding event was the harpooning of a giant porpoise. Mr. Eriksen was our harpooner: taking advantage of a shoal of these sea-pigs being very much in evidence about our bows one morning, he grew animated, felt within him the northern desire to kill something, and equipped himself with a harpoon and line, with which he crept out on the boom-guys forrard and lay in wait. Presently he saw his chance: a porpoise, more daring or careless than the rest, shot within his distance. It was a good throw he made: clean into the back-fin went the steel; and away like a flash of lightning shot Master Porpoise. It went aft, towing the line with it. Every available hand promptly clapped on to the whirring line: one man endeavoured to snatch a holding turn round a bollard; but Mr. Eriksen yelled: “Steek! Steek!” in a perfect frenzy of excitement—I think he was surprised at the fairness of his aim!—and those on the rope hung on for dear life; the swing of their arms and bodies giving enough play to the line to prevent the harpoon being torn from its holding. But even so, the helpers seemed to apply too much strain to the light line; for Eriksen was far from pleased, and, English failing him in his dilemma, he had recourse to his native Norwegian, which, volleyed forth as he volleyed it, is a most expressive language. But though expressive it was not illuminating: confusion grew, until some of Eriksen’s meaning penetrated to our minds, and the line was slacked off sufficiently to permit the stricken fish to be brought to starboard, where we were able to see how truly Eriksen had struck. Blood poured from the wound; the blowing of the porpoise was fearsome; its strength was nearly spent, and it was wallowing somewhat pitifully when we drew it close alongside; so, in order to put a period to its misery, Mr. Wild promptly shot it. Then we got it aboard and gazed satisfiedly at our kill. Seven feet seven inches long he was, and seemed to weigh a ton; but we had no means of verifying that estimate.

Mr. J. Lister.

On the Way: The Quest in the Trades.

Photo: Topical.

THE SHIP’S PETS.
Query, the Wolfhound. Questie, the Cat, on Marr’s Shoulder.

Query and the cat betrayed curiosity mingled with awe of our catch. Especially the cat: it completely failed to understand the queer body with its piglike snout and its scaleless skin; and when, by way of hardening it to the realities of the sea, the cat was thrown on the porpoise’s back, you would have thought it had landed on india-rubber, so actively did it bounce into the air from the unpleasing contact.

But after a bit of skylarking, the porpoise was taken into stock: the best parts of the flesh, cut into steaks, were handed over to the cook, together with the brains and tongue; the tail was cut off to be used as a trophy of our prowess, and the rest of the carcass was returned to the sea.

On the day we killed the porpoise we discovered a new hobby: coal-sifting. It was necessary, in order to maintain a working head of steam, to separate the dust from the lumps—much dust to very few lumps—and all the useless stuff was hove overside. A messy, gritty job! But the rain helped us somewhat: and it did rain! Solid sheets of it came cascading down, so that to keep even a semblance of dryness was out of the question; but the weather was so warm that the downpour was more in the nature of a blessing than a curse. We were now fairly in the doldrums.

Just before lunch the sea presented us with a picture: one that is all too seldom seen in these days of mechanical progress and stern utility. A noble sailing-ship: a vast five-masted Frenchman, La France, hove in sight. She was becalmed, a painted ship lying still on a painted ocean; with her enormous spread of canvas and the beautiful tracery of her rigging reflected in every tiniest detail in the mirror of the sea. So taken with the sight she presented was Sir Ernest that he altered course in order to pass her at close quarters; and so we not only got an excellent view of this famous Horn sailing-ship, but also some really fine photographs. Moreover, as is the custom of the sea, we spoke to her and gave her information such as might appeal to a windjammer: telling her where we had lost the North-East Trades and the strength of them as they deserted us. Quite an animated conversation was carried on between ship and ship: and the amusing part of the business was that whereas the French skipper was compelled to use a megaphone to make himself audible, the Boss, simply by funnelling his hand about his mouth, made himself perfectly well understood across the intervening space of lifeless sea.

“She looks peaceful enough now,” said one of the crew to me; “but you ought to see her as I’ve seen her: ratching round the Horn under her topsails, scuppers awash, and the big fellows piling aboard as if determined to overwhelm her. Then you see a windjammer as she really is: a sea-fighter, depending not at all on machinery and the ingenious contrivances of this present-day civilization; but just a conglomeration of steel and wood and wire and hemp, built to “euchre God Almighty’s storms and bluff the eternal sea”; then you’d begin to understand a thing or two. Seafaring isn’t what it was—it’s a pastime instead of hard labour; but so long as such packets as that keep afloat there’s hope.”

And, alas for his enthusiasm!—we were to hear at a later date that the splendid fabric had been totally wrecked on a reef fifty miles off New Caledonia: that Ocean Graveyard might reasonably be called, “The Port of Missing Ships.”

Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley! The Boss, after informing the Frenchman that the North-East Trades had not entirely gone out of business, complimented him on the appearance of his ship—which was well-deserved—and so, with mutual good-feeling, we trudged past her into lowering cloud-masses that soon developed into noisy squalls—little wind and much rain, until we hit one squall with more wind in it, and were compelled to shorten sail to combat the breeze on even terms.

We had decided to call at St. Paul’s Rocks—a lonely outpost of Mother Earth almost exactly on the Line—and as we had no desire to overrun the land, engines were slowed down in order that we might sight the rocks at daybreak. There was nothing the matter with the Quest’s navigation; and soon after daylight we sighted our immediate haven, with the sun shining whitely on the barrenness of these deserted islets.

They are not in any way large: being merely the ultimate peaks of a deep-sunken mountain range, jutting up through the placid waters of the equatorial seas. The biggest of them is not more than two hundred yards long with a maximum altitude of sixty feet or thereabouts; and from one end to the other they are smothered in guano, thanks to the sea-birds that rest there in unbelievable clouds. In the frequent squalls that rage about them, the wind-flung sprays leap high over their insignificant bulk; and the hot tropical sun at once dries the spindrift into dazzling crystals of salt; it is these crystals and the guano combined that make the islands look, at a distance, as if they were covered with newly-fallen snow.

Arriving within easy pistol-shot of the largest island, all sail was taken in and the surf-boat lowered. Shoals of ravenous sharks swarmed about the Quest as she lost her way: the water was whipped to whiteness by their quick movements. Without loss of time the first exploring party loaded themselves into the surf-boat, with gear for observations and provisions for the day, and moved off from ship to shore. I counted myself fortunate in being included in this party, which comprised Mr. Douglas, Major Carr, and myself, with a notable crew of Dr. Macklin, Mr. Jeffrey, and Mr. Eriksen, Mr. Wild being in charge at the tiller. We were landed, through the sullen surf, on one of the smaller rocks, and the boat returned to the Quest for a fresh load. Mr. Wilkins, with Mr. Hussey and Mr. Dell, the electrician, landed on the largest rock; and by the time this difficult landing was effected Mr. Douglas, who was entrusted with the duty of making a comprehensive survey of the place, discovered that our small islet was not suitable for this purpose; consequently it was necessary to hail the boat, load in all our gear, and proceed to the big island. During the reloading process Douglas was so keen and zealous that he allowed himself to be soused repeatedly by the grumbling surf. It was, indeed, a matter of no little difficulty to get anything into the boat, since its motion was so lively; every time it came within reachable distance and we began to swing the load towards it, the backwash licked it out of reach again; and so it was for all the world like playing a somewhat exasperating game of cup and ball. To beach the boat was impossible, for the simple reason that there was no beach: the rocks being steep-to, so that the first part of the boat to touch land was her stem. However, we managed the transhipment after a fashion.

Enormous numbers of crabs were a prominent feature of the island when we reached it; they scuttled away with queer suggestions of terror at our arrival. Moreover, it was as though the rocks actually lived and breathed, by reason of the vast quantities of sea-birds that were everywhere, and so tame as to be ludicrous. You could go right up to them without their stirring, save to advance threatening beaks; and only when they were actually touched did they fly away, and then not very far. If they were sitting on their nests, as many of them were, they stayed put, contenting themselves with squawking and flapping their wings, which was their idea of defence.

So far as I could see—not being a naturalist—there were two kinds of birds common to the islands: the one was rather larger than an ordinary duck, brownish in colour, with big, webbed feet and a long, yellow, pointed bill. This bird—species unknown to me—emitted, when disturbed, a wild, squalling cry like an hysterical woman robbed of her only child: an infinitely pathetic sound. It made a fellow feel absolutely inhuman to touch these birds, once the queerness of it all had passed.

The other type was smaller, no bigger than an ordinary seagull, brownish-black in colour, and lacking webbed feet.

The young of the larger species, almost until reaching years of discretion, boast fluffy coats of white feathers of downy softness, and made one anxious to secure sufficient of their plumage to stuff a mattress that might be more kindly to one’s projecting bones than the “donkey’s breakfast” with which I was provided. The young of the smaller kind were quite ordinary: being, if anything, a shade darker than their parents. Flying-fish appeared to comprise the major portion of the larger birds’ dietary, for we found many of these curious fish lying about the rocks in the vicinity of the nests. Not that these nests were architectural masterpieces by any means: they were merely rough scrapings in the ever-present guano: trifling bowls just sufficient to contain the eggs or the downy young.

Mr. Wilkins soon found material for his cameras. He was keen on securing impressions of life on St. Paul’s Rocks; and quested about like a newspaper reporter in the silly season. He was fortunate enough to run upon what can only be described as a piscatorial drama: a huge crab that had discovered a dead fish and was working overtime to get it stowed inside. With all the stolidity of an Aberdeen granite-hewer, the crab was ripping off enormous chunks from its odoriferous catch and tucking them away. You’d have thought he was a small boy—not a Scout, of course—bagging apples from a forbidden orchard, with the owner of that orchard coming round the corner. Something like a score of smaller crabs were anxious to share his prize, but he had no intention of making a common cause of his salvage. Every time they advanced he dragged the fish bodily away; and when the smaller fellows showed a nasty, greedy disposition, he thought nothing of kicking them away to blazes-and-gone with his scrabbling hind-legs. Very evidently that apple “wasn’t goin’ to have no core!”

Throughout the interesting morning Mr. Wilkins took photographs, both still and moving, of the life of the island: birds, crabs, even the fish swimming in the rockpools; and Mr. Dell and I assisted him to the best of our ability. We were all busy according to our capacity. In the afternoon Mr. Wilkins killed such birds as he required for specimens, and went on with his picture-making in order that those who only Britain know might learn somewhat of the outlying pickets of the earth. Mr. Douglas made a comprehensive survey of this largest island, taking Mr. Hussey and Major Carr to assist him; the latter also did some useful meteorological work, besides helping me in the bug-hunting labours relegated to me by our naturalist. Spiders and moths formed the greater part of our bag; and all were of interest, because they were so entirely different from the spiders and moths of home.

As for the boat’s crew, they fished throughout the greater part of the day, catching small sharks and varied finny victims in considerable quantities. As sharks are not particularly appetizing food, they were thrown back into their native element after certain operations had been performed upon them which guaranteed that they, at any rate, would never more trouble harassed mariners.

All this work was done under a baking sun, striking with merciless savagery down from almost directly overhead. Our moving bodies threw no shadows whatsoever, but the glare from the rocks caused our skins to flame and burn with unbelievable thoroughness, so that when we returned to the Quest we looked more like a party of half-cooked negroes than white men.

That our observations might be thorough and of use to civilization, when once we were all embarked and the surf-boat housed on deck, the Quest steamed slowly round the entire group of mountain peaks, taking soundings as she went. Not until seven o’clock at night did we move off finally and wave farewell to what is, in my opinion, one of the most forlorn clusters of rock in all the world.

Forthwith we resumed the even run of shipboard duties: I myself acting as cook’s mate when required, standing watch, taking the wheel, trimming and sifting coal; and all the time the sea was running high and the Quest doing herself proud in the matter of rolling. Such of us as did the tedious bunker work, in ten-minute shifts because of the stifling conditions below, cursed that St. Vincent coal heartily enough to set it on fire on its own account, but felt high reward when we were granted an afternoon’s easy as a solace to choked lungs and aching limbs. There were no class distinctions among us, let it be known. I, the loblolly boy, worked side by side with the leaders of the expedition at what, ashore and in civilization, might have been considered menial tasks. The ship was absolutely a commonwealth, all hands working all-out for the common good; social distinctions were thrown overboard almost as soon as we left Plymouth. Thus were formed the bonds of a proved comradeship destined to stand us in good stead in the coming days of common peril, when every man might be required to depend upon his nearest neighbour for the boon of continued life.

Major Carr, during these days, conducted a series of meteorological experiments, although the uneasy motion of the ship rendered such work difficult in the doing. He sent up balloons and kites to test the currents of the upper air and secure the temperatures of those remote strata, all of which information is of great value in weather-forecasting and the like. One kite was lost. This work is rather interesting because, to one not versed in its complications, it is so infinitely mysterious. You send up a big kite, say, getting it up as high as you can, or as high as you wish; and then, up the same wire you dispatch a smaller kite—just as we used to send up messengers, as we called them—which messenger kite carries with it the complicated instruments by means of which the records are taken; afterwards these are tabulated day by day.

Infrequently, during the run to Rio—though it was more a crawl—I indulged in the luxury of a shave. I make a special point of mentioning this, because shaves were amongst the rarest events of existence those days. A memorable day; the Boss gave me further praise. I told the cook, because sometimes it is well to give others a correct estimate of yourself, as seen through eyes that are not biased by long and close companionship.

“The Boss asked me to make his tea for him this afternoon,” I said. “And when he tasted it he said it was the best that had ever passed his lips.”

“He always says that,” said the cook with a dreadful sneer, “when anyone makes it but me—who’d be a cook, anyhow? All the dirty work, none of the fat! Who’d go to sea at all, if it comes to that?” But I made allowances for his liver suffering from the constant nearness to our stove, and forbore to press home my triumph.

Occasionally becalmed, not infrequently labouring in high seas, we trudged along the long and uneventful road to Rio, and early on the morning of November 21 sighted the South American coast. It is bold in its outline hereabouts, with the Sugar Loaf hill at the entrance to Rio Harbour striking a dominant note, and as we progressed and closed the land we secured exceptionally fine views of the scenery, a welcome spectacle to eyes long used to staring out over the unbroken horizons of the sea.

It had not been the Boss’s original intention to make any call until we reached South Trinidad Island; but the engine-room defects were developing so rapidly, despite the overhaul at St. Vincent, that Sir Ernest discovered it absolutely necessary to secure further engineering assistance, and, moreover, the topmast and rigging were also giving no end of trouble, which it would not do to risk further. As Rio de Janeiro offered an excellent harbour of refuge, to that port we steered, and arriving off the harbour at midnight, cruised about until the dawn, for South American ports are all alike in the respect that no vessel may enter or leave between the hours of dark and dawn. I suppose this rule is enforced in order to prevent surprise revolutions taking place too often. The hobby of Latin America, so I was solemnly informed by those much older and wiser than myself, is revolutions, and there is a definite season for hanging Presidents to their own flagstaffs. I do not vouch for it; I only record what I was told. Apparently, when bored after a too long siesta, some South American will say: “It’s a fine day; let’s have a revolution!” And the others agree that life is lacking in excitement, so a revolution they have, and no one makes much ado about it, not even the late President, because he’s generally past caring one way or the other. Only sometimes it is the usurper and not the up-to-the-moment occupant of the Presidential chair who decorates the flagstaff—it all depends.

On a brilliantly sunny morning, with the sky and sea rainbow-like in a welter of vivid colouring, we passed up amongst the little network of islands, and ran beneath the frowning sheer of the Sugar Loaf into what is surely the most beautiful harbour in all the world. Jealous Australians will tell me that I am wrong, and that Rio cannot beat Sydney; but as I’ve never seen Sydney, and I wager most of them have never seen Rio, I’ll hold to my opinion. Rio is beautiful—with its richly clad slopes on either hand, its majestic size, and its clustering white-walled buildings along the cliff-tops. The water is as blue as sapphire; the sky above is radiant; and—there are worse places than Rio to visit, when one is wearied of much seafaring. And yet, not so very long ago, the very mention of Rio sent shivers through the spinal cords of honest sailormen. The place had an evil name for Yellow Jack, that most dreaded of plagues, and ships going there would lose every man of their crews; fresh crews would be sent out, these in their turn would die, and gradually the ships rotted away helplessly at their moorings for want of man-power to set them into open water. But those tragic days belong to past history. A progressive government, shaking off the apathy and lassitude of the South, drained the pestiferous swamps in which the fever-bearing mosquitoes bred, destroyed a few millions of the humming pests and made the port as healthy as any other port of the Southern hemisphere, perhaps. But here and there, in the backwaters of the harbour, they will still show the mouldering hulls of what once were proud ships—charnel houses of empire, I called them—which had failed to return to their homeland by reason of that dreaded “El vomito.”

Already, though the sun was not far above the horizon, it was growing amazingly hot; and when the port doctor visited us at 7.30, the heat was well-nigh unbearable. Until his visit took place the Quest was in quarantine, with the yellow flag flying at her foremast. No one might board her, none might leave, though boats swarmed about us as soon as we trudged up through the harbour-mouth and past the frowning forts that guard the entrance and make the bay well-nigh invulnerable. But the doctor surged up alongside in his speedy launch; there was an inundation of gilt-edge officials who all seemed to talk at once and very rapidly, so that our deck was like a fish-market; salutations were made, and—thanks to the magic of the White Ensign which we flew astern—the formalities of giving “pratique” were not overlong drawn-out. You begin to get some clear impression of the worth of the White Ensign when you stray beyond your own coastline. It is a veritable Open Sesame; bureaucratic difficulties melt away before the sight of it, and instead of doing all they can to hinder, the foreign Jacks-in-office bow and salute and oil the wheels to some effect.

Prior to making Rio we had treated the Quest to another spring-cleaning, painting her thoroughly inboard and out. She was now no longer white and yellow as to upperworks and funnel, but battleship grey, and her appearance was enormously improved. No one could ever call her beautiful, even at the best of times, but in her new clothing she certainly looked dignified and what she was: a pioneer ship embarked on a hazardous cruise. Even the country that owned the White Ensign had no cause to be particularly ashamed of her, I thought, as I saw her reflection mirrored in the crystal-like waters of the harbour.

We passed up the harbour and anchored off the city: a city of terraces and palms and much rich foliage. Many anchored craft dotted the surface of the water: handsome sailing ships, their spars a black forest against the eye-aching blue of the sky; powerful steamers, coastwise craft—there was no end to the variety. And now we were treated to real tropical fruits and vegetables—luxuries that were trebly enhanced in value by reason of long abstinence. Sink your teeth into a juicy pineapple, bought for a penny, if you want to know what I mean. Or wolf a few of those queer, turpentiney mangoes, which disappoint you so much by reason of the big stone with its tough fibres, to which clings all that’s best and sweetest of the pulp, until, in your aggravation you seriously contemplate getting into a filled bath—the best place by far wherein to devour mangoes—and indulging in a very orgy.

CHAPTER VII
Christmas in Southern Seas

The Quest was subjected to a very thorough overhaul during her stay in Rio. Judging by the opinions of the experts Sir Ernest called into consultation, she needed it—she seemed to be wrong everywhere; and to venture down into the icebound South with her in her then condition was practically suicide.

First of all, her engines were surveyed, and the crank-shaft, which was the cause of most of our troubles, was properly aligned. The marvel seemed to be that we’d managed to come as far as we had done without meeting disaster. We’d met with a certain amount of it, anyhow—and we’d treated that impostor, as Kipling calls it, contemptuously. How we should treat triumph when that appeared we hardly knew. Did I mention that what are, in my opinion, the most stirring lines in English poetry, Kipling’s “If,” were posted up aboard us conspicuously as a sort of chart by which to steer our daily course?

Then, too, it was discovered that the propeller, which had churned astern so uncertainly, was far too heavy for the ship and her shaft; she was being racked to pieces by the violent vibration; and so a smaller, more complaisant propeller was shipped in place of our old friendly enemy. The scarfed topmast, that had caused more bad language than I like to remember, was condemned, and a new one furnished by the Brazilian Admiralty, who offered us every courtesy throughout, was shipped in its place. I should like to give a detailed description of these operations, but must leave the task to one better equipped with nautical knowledge than myself. But, as well as repairs, we recaulked and tarred the hull, which, like all wooden hulls, was disposed to leak consumedly. When a wooden ship is sailing on a wind, her weather side heaves out of the water a good deal, and, in tropical seas, the sun scorches down on the exposed timber with such merciless effect that, as soon as the vessel is put about and the once-high side is below the water-line, her open seams permit the water literally to pour in, and this keeps all hands busy at the pumps. Moreover, it makes the bilges extraordinarily unpleasant, for the stench of putrefying sea water is about the most stomach-turning odour I know.

We also enlarged our existing accommodation to the extent of erecting a new deck-house forrard of the old one, to serve as a dining-room, as the after mess-room was far too small to accommodate all hands. Since the Quest was to be our home for an indefinite period, we thought we deserved room in which to stretch ourselves.

Naturally enough, whilst these alterations were in progress, the ship became too small by far for us to live aboard; too, she was so uncomfortable when careened for caulking that we thought it no shame to live ashore, and accepted the ready hospitality that was offered to us on every hand. Slight changes were made, too, in our personnel; Mr. Eriksen returned home, and three new hands were shipped, one of them to carry on my old job of cook’s mate.

We explored Rio pretty thoroughly during the month we were there. For it demanded a whole month to effect sufficient repairs to make us weatherly, in spite of the Boss’s growing impatience. No wonder he was impatient: the odds had been against us from the beginning. Here, and simply on account of defects, we were fully six weeks behind our programme, and that programme promised to need considerable amendment. We marvelled at the beauty of Rio itself: a city of really stately buildings, broad boulevards, and thoroughly up-to-date improvements. We admired the very wonderful mosaic pavements, which are everywhere, a tribute to the patience of those who had laid them in this age when beauty has so constantly to give place to utility, and the labour of love seems to be becoming a thing of the past.

Furthermore, we climbed the famous Sugar Loaf, Vao d’Assucar being its Brazilian title. As I mentioned, this curious peak, ridiculously like one of the old sugar loaves that I understand used to decorate grocers’ windows, dominates the entrance to Rio Harbour on the southern side, and towers vertically out of a placid sea a sheer two thousand feet into a cloudless sky. At one time its ascent was considered a feat second only to the conquest of the Matterhorn; and I remember reading a breathless story dealing with a young midshipman’s conquest of the problem; but now modern ingenuity has effected a solution, and we modern adventurers ascended by means of a cable-car running to the summit. I suppose that if Julius Cæsar suddenly came back to life and decided to invade Britain again he would do it by aeroplane!

Even if we had been required to make the ascent in the primitive manner, our trouble would have been well rewarded, for, at night, staring out towards the city from the ultimate summit, seeing the countless lights reflected gloriously on the bay, I viewed what I consider to be the most enchanting scene I have ever clapped eyes on: a very City Beautiful, unreal and mystical, as it were a vision of Fairyland itself.

Rio heat can be very trying; but Nature has provided a remedy. Punctually at four o’clock in the afternoon, just when the soggy heat is becoming absolutely unbearable, when even to think requires impossible exertion, and to stir one’s littlest finger calls for lengthy meditation and preparation, there suddenly comes a refreshing coolness in the air, pleasant wind-currents stir, the oppression lifts as if by magic and a tingling suggestion of well-being fills the veins. This wind is known as the “Rio Doctor,” and its qualities are undoubtedly medicinal. But for that “Doctor,” I fancy prolonged existence there for a white man would be unbearable.

Amongst other diversions, I visited a small troop of British and American Scouts, and amongst them spent a memorable evening. It is very gratifying to an enthusiastic Scout to see with his own eyes how far-flung is our movement, and what benefits it confers on those who are in it. Apart from the white Scouts there are many troops amongst the Brazilians; but, unfortunately, the movement amongst them, as in Germany, is, to my way of thinking, too much imbued with the military spirit, which in these days is being revealed as a worthless anachronism.

Owing to our long delay it was not until December 17 that we left Wilson’s Island, where we had lain throughout the period of our overhaul, and dropped anchor again on the city side of the harbour in order to take aboard stores, water, and the other necessary impedimenta. Not that our alterations were by any means complete; but the Boss’s impatience was growing to such an extent that he was firmly resolved to make shift with what was already done and chance his luck. Once the stores were aboard, we moved off again and dropped anchor in a lovely little bay on the Nictheroy side, not far from the harbour entrance; and here we found ourselves with as much work to tackle as was convenient. During refit all our past careful stowage had been necessarily disturbed, and as we had to prepare ourselves to face any kind of weather that might come along, we were as busy as bees, lashing, stowing, jamming, wedging, contriving innumerable ingenuities, and trimming the ship into a weatherly condition. A bathe was very welcome when daylight died.

Next morning work continued. We got something of a scare when an urgent message was received aboard, requiring Dr. Macklin to go ashore at once to see Sir Ernest, who had been taken suddenly ill. Off went the doctor, post-haste, but on arriving at the house where the Boss was staying as the guest of hospitable friends, he found him completely recovered and apt to make light of his temporary affliction. Sir Ernest was always the sort of man who made light of trouble: he merely stated that he had been troubled by a slight faintness and that he had actually sent for the doctor to make inquiry about stores; but afterwards we knew that this attack was an advance messenger to our gallant leader, warning him that the sands were running low in the glass of his life.

The shipping of a new cook’s mate left me free for deck duties, and I saw an excellent chance of qualifying myself as a seaman. I started this Sunday morning by keeping an hour’s anchor-watch: 2-3 a.m. Very quiet and wonderful the ship was during that hour of darkness, with those unforgettable stars blazing nobly in a sky that was for all the world like velvet. Then, during the forenoon, I helped Mr. Dell to set up a stay and rig halliards for the jib; proper sailorizing work this, and enjoyable. For, however enthusiastic a man may be, peeling potatoes can lose its interest and fail to convince the peeler that his labour is an essential aid to Polar exploration work! Whereas, when you’re working with the gear that actually means the ship’s safety and progress, you feel you’re something that definitely counts in the scheme of things, and your pride swells enormously.

What with stowing and restowing, trimming and retrimming, it was four in the afternoon before we finally got under way and, under easy steam, proceeded towards the entrance. A most invigorating “send-off” was ours as we departed; our Brazilian friends seemed determined to “do us proud”; they accompanied us in boats for a considerable distance, cheering themselves hoarse, firing salutes from guns they had thoughtfully brought with them. We answered with high-soaring rockets and our famous “Tally ho!” war-cry, and the scene was a very pandemonium of enthusiasm, invigorating to a degree. But we left the clamour behind, and, quickening speed, steamed out past the Sugar Loaf and the forts, down through the chain of islands, and so to open sea once more; and glad enough we were to feel the swing and lift of the gliding keel beneath us; for though our stay in Rio had been memorable, chockful of pleasure, and revealing the jovial thoroughness of Under the Line hospitality and encouragement, when you’re embarked on a definite quest you want to get on with the business in hand, and lying tugging at your anchors won’t help you to overcome the troubles of open sea.

I had the wheel during the second dog-watch, and the Boss was on the bridge. Knowing how terribly he had worried throughout our stay in the Brazilian port, it was invigorating to discover him so cheerful and enthusiastic; he had shed the burden of his woe, and talked to Wild and Worsley very animatedly about his experiences ashore. An accident to Jeffrey—his leg was injured—promised to keep him more or less hors-de-combat for a considerable time; Macklin said three weeks in bed was absolutely necessary. Jeffrey, a man of action and the exact opposite of a shirker, grumbled ferociously at this sentence; but the doctor knew best, and instead of three weeks it was six before he was fit for the fighting line again. Sir Ernest volunteered to stand his watch for him. Here, again, he gave evidence of his thought for others and his unwillingness to add to their burdens, no matter how weighty those he took upon his own shoulders might be. Had he done as some men would have done, and required his officers to share sick Jeffrey’s work between them, he could have given himself greater easement; maybe averted the tragedy that was already touching him with the shadow of its wings; but no, he acted up to his motto throughout and played the man to the very end.

During the night the sea began to get up more than a bit, and tested our recent stowage work to the full. The decks became almost impassable by reason of the confusion. Drums of oil, crates of fruit, heavy packing-cases, everything that was not actually bolted to the ship’s framework seemed on the run. It was like chasing excited pigs to secure many of the loose articles, for the oil splashed about in earnest fashion, and even when you got a grip on a wallowing cask your fingers would slide off its chines, and away would go the cask, as the ship saucily hove herself up on end, for all the world like that runaway gun in Victor Hugo’s book. So that, what with one thing and another, it took us all day to get things set to rights and the decks squared up.

One part of my work consisted in clearing the chart-room for action. The Boss summoned me at 7 a.m. to do this, and seemed peeved about the prevalent disorder. No wonder; his orderly soul must have been in utter revolt against the chaos that reigned. Everything that had been overlooked, everything that had come aboard at the last minute seemed to have been heaved into the chart-room. There were bundles of clean washing on top of the chronometer lockers, oddments of all kinds littered the place. Most of these belonged to Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Douglas, who had started off three weeks before for South Georgia to make scientific observations. Owing to our long delay in Rio our meditated call at Cape Town was ruled out, and it was necessary to alter the original plan of campaign. It should be remembered that much of our gear had been sent on in advance to Cape Town, which was to be our base. Shackleton, accordingly, made up his mind to wash out Cape Town, and avail himself of the resources of South Georgia, where dogs and impedimenta might be obtained, thanks to an ill-fated German expedition that had left much of its equipment there in pre-war days.

“Carry that gear down below into the fo’c’sle, and treat it kindly,” said the Boss. “Always remember that you think twice for an absent shipmate where you’d think once for yourself.” So I gradually brought order out of chaos, thereby easing Shackleton’s not unnatural peevishness, and then got out on deck to make myself generally useful.

We were carrying a full press of canvas, but as the wind was falling light, notwithstanding the boisterousness of the sea, it was decided to shorten sail, and the topsail was accordingly clewed up. Dr. Macklin and myself went up aloft to make it fast; and this was my first experience on a topsail yard. It was rather like being tied to the end of a piece of elastic. You’d never think one small ship could be so vigorous in her motions as was the Quest. One minute I was sliding down an apparently unfathomable chasm, the next I was perched high aloft, staring down with mingled scorn and apprehension on my opposite number who was busily engaged in furling the other side of the sail. “One hand for yourself and one for the expedition,” was the maxim that had long ago been instilled into me, so you may believe me when I say that the hand for myself was busily employed! It was a nightmarish experience, but the topsail was ultimately made fast, and the ship’s liveliness seemed to diminish as a result.

It was a relief to turn in after all these adventures and win some sleep; but at midnight I was out again, to find the engines stopped and the ship rolling as if she intended to have the masts out of herself, for her headway was stopped and she had fallen off into the trough of the sea. Once again our engines were causing trouble: the circulating pump had gone “phutt,” and it was necessary for all hands to turn out and pump the bilges clear. A lovely job, there in the darkness, with the ship trying to tie knots in herself! And bilge water is so pleasant! Pumping is a back-aching job at best, but when you’re performing nautical gymnastics throughout your spell it exercises every muscle in your body, and you marvel at the number of muscles you possess, when they’re all aching at once! Still, the engine-room staff quitted themselves like men, repaired the damage, and got us under way once more; and the day broke fine with a calming sea and enough of a breeze to warrant the setting of all plain sail. This eased matters considerably, the erratic motion subsided, and all was well. In the afternoon, by way of variety, I was instructed to trim coal for the stokehold. Rio was hot; we are led to believe that there is even a hotter place, but if it is no worse than in the Quest’s bunkers down here in the tropics, I have no fear of the future. The particular bunker selected for my attention was situated quite close to the boiler. It left a baker’s oven ridiculously behind, so far as heat was concerned, and the coal-dust—phew! Not that I’m grumbling, mark you, the job had to be done, and there was no reason why I should have been excused; but it is my way to relate impressions.

I found out a way to make even this existence tolerable—man, especially a Scout man, being an adaptable animal. I threw down exactly sixty shovelfuls of coal, that being my extreme limit; then I dived for the stokehold, with the enthusiastic eagerness of a Bromley-kite after a dead Malay, and emerged into that comparative ice-chest in an avalanche of dust, small coal, and bigger lumps, with the shovel clattering triumphantly between my legs. In the stokehold I got a breath of air that was not entirely solid, remembered that mine it was to do or die, and got back to the bunker just in time to satisfy the demands of the stoker on duty. A great game!

Evidently my success at this ploy was so conspicuous that I was employed throughout the following day in the bunkers as a reward of zeal. But the weather was cooling somewhat now, and the conditions were not so irksome; yet sleeping on deck was becoming more of a pain than a pleasure, and I found my bunk in the wardroom quite inviting.

Then, on the next day, I completed my bunker work, to my great satisfaction, and resumed duty on deck. The weather overhead was fine, the sea was growingly vigorous. On this day I saw my first albatross. It was sitting on the water, and at first sight looked to be nothing more important than a large gull; but when it took wing and skimmed away, I got an impression of perfect and amazing flight. It took things in most leisurely fashion, obtaining the greatest amount of result with the least expenditure of energy—circling our mastheads with supreme insolence, without so much as the quiver of a wing. It was one of the Wanderer class, I was told; but its wanderings ceased when it came upon us, for it accompanied us south with the greatest pertinacity, living on the scraps thrown overboard from the cook’s galley.

Also, we saw a “Portuguese man-o’-war”—a nautilus; a flimsy, bewildering, beautiful sea-curiosity, with its sails that looked like mother-o’-pearl all fairly set to the breeze. Albatrosses and nautiluses are seldom seen in company—but we were favoured by witnessing this remarkable combination.

It was amusing to watch the envy and admiration with which our two flying men—Carr and Wilkins—studied the manœuvres of the albatross. Both of them, apparently, thought that if they possessed ingenuity sufficient to enable them to construct a heavier-than-air machine that would duplicate that effortless motion, their fortunes would be made and their undying fame assured. They talked throughout the day in a jargon that was entirely unintelligible to me about vol-planing, and stalling, and banking, and at the end resolved that Nature was a greater inventor than mere man.

Just about now, too, there was a certain amount of merriment in the ship owing to Carr being required to improve the accommodation below. It takes very little to arouse a laugh on shipboard, where stern hard work is the prevailing note; and we were grateful to our amateur carpenter for permitting us to laugh at his well-meant efforts, which, though rough and crude, suited the conditions. Despite the alterations that had been made at Rio, the down-below accommodation was still limited, and every man had to stow himself away in as small a space as was compatible with continued existence. If in a future state I am ever destined to become a sardine, I shall know that I’ve had good training in the art of close stowage!

As the wind was coming away fair and with a force that promised added speed, the foresail and staysail were taken in and the square-sail set. The promise was fulfilled, and now we romped along in an inspiring manner through a quickening sea that slapped happy little wavelets against our quarter and threw occasional wisps of spindrift aboard. In the main the day was somewhat misty, and there was a heavy swell running as though promising an increase of the wind—what Kipling calls “The high-running swell before storm, grey, formless, enormous, and growing.” It’s astonishing to me how Kipling, himself no sailor, understands the sea so well! He seems to have got right down to the very inwardness of open water, and if he’d been a trained sailor he couldn’t understand the sea’s mysteries and wonderments better than he does.

The day of Christmas Eve broke to show us a moderate sea and a refreshing west-south-west wind. During the entire day this breeze increased, with frequent squalls and a gloomy, lowering sky, and the wiseacres amongst us prognosticated bad weather. Of course it is always safest to prophesy bad weather at sea, because you naturally make up your mind that it is coming and prepare yourself for any emergency; and then, if it doesn’t eventuate, you thank your lucky stars for continued good times. But on this occasion the portents proved correct: before night a big sea was running, and the wind, from menacing whistle, increased to that deep thunderous note of striving which indicates the nearness of a pukka storm. We began to ship water—nothing to worry about, but still enough to drown out the dynamo, as a result of which catastrophe our lights were extinguished and we were compelled to resort to the oil-lamps by way of illumination.

While shortening sail one of the clews of the squaresail, carrying heavy block and shackle, whipped sharply across the deck and caught Carr a sickening blow in the face. He was literally clean knocked out, but contrived to come back to time, and with his hands to his face, and the blood flowing all too freely through his fingers, tried to carry on. But this wasn’t to be permitted; he was sent below for the attentions of the doctor, who diagnosed a broken nose. The doctor and his assistant worked assiduously to restore the unfortunate’s nasal organ to its pristine beauty, but though they satisfied themselves they failed to satisfy the sufferer, who did his best, in front of a mirror, to flatter his own mild vanity. He made such a poor attempt that the work had all to be done over again, and during the operation Hussey consoled him with impertinent remarks concerning the effect his face would have upon the women of England if he tampered with it any further.

This was a funny Christmas Eve, however, far different from those of the past. To palliate our present uncomfortable conditions, we endeavoured to create a vicarious atmosphere by remembering previous Christmases. Here were we, a congregation of desperate adventurers, collected from all the corners of the world, isolated for our sins in a little, tossing ship that seemed pitifully small to engage with the massed forces of the southern seas; all of us separate entities, dependent upon our imaginations for recreation. We talked about Christmases past, and groaned in spirit when we reflected upon their glories; and then, as nothing was to be gained thereby, we went on to picture the ideal Christmas we would wish to spend. Opinions varied very considerably. Sentimentally, we mostly drew passionate sketches of snow-covered fields and church spires pointing upwards, and waits and skating and honest Christmas fare, carefully omitting, needless to say, the consequent, inevitable indigestion! It is rather queer how the exile invariably pictures Christmas as a snow-smothered festival, whereas the average Christmas, according to my experience, is chiefly remarkable for its entire lack of snow!

Anyhow, we all decided unanimously that the Christmas dinners of the past were to be mere shadows as compared with the Christmas dinners of to-morrow; for Mr. Rowett and his considerate wife had made their arrangements well in advance, and the ship was excellently well supplied with rich and luscious fare. Certain cases, carefully stowed and treated with exaggerated respect, were rumoured to contain turkeys, hams, puddings, and all those ameliorations which go to make Christmas what it is; and on this note of gastronomical anticipation we welcomed the Day.

Alas! alas! we builded our hopes on foundations of shifting sand!

Christmas Day, down there in southern latitudes—where it was officially midsummer—dawned bleak and grey and threatening. The wind during the night had increased to a very good imitation of a real gale, and the ship was showing precisely what she could do in the way of uneasy motion. A cork could not have been more lively in the sea that was kicked up by the droning velocity of the unleashed winds. So far as I myself was concerned, a happening occurred that threatened to make me entirely indifferent to this Christmas Day, or indeed any others that might gladden the world. My job was to maintain a look-out on the bridge—the forecastle by this time being so constantly washed by whole water that the normal look-out position had become untenable. The officer of the watch sent me below for a tin of milk wherewith to make more palatable his morning coffee, and off I started, full of zeal. Crossing the poop I felt the Quest poise and quiver preparatory to taking one of her solar-plexus-disturbing pitches. A big, formidable grey-bearded comber swung up out of the obscurity, gathering weight as it came; it towered high, growing—always growing. Then it fell, right atop of me, washed me clean off my feet and promised to wash me overboard; but with a natural desire for a long life as well as a merry one, I clung to what came handiest, a bit of the covering-board, and held on. Noisy water covered me, I felt myself drowning; but the ship kicked up her stern with a saucy irresponsibility, the water receded, to the accompaniment of thunderous growls, and I continued to exist. But I was as nearly overboard as a toucher; and considering the sea that was running it is doubtful if a boat could have been launched to the rescue. However, all’s well that ends well, and the watch-officer got his tin of milk in the long run.

Let it be recorded here and now, how wonderful a sea-boat the Quest is. I have probably mentioned the fact before, but it cannot be too strongly emphasized. She seems designed to stand weather that would make the biggest Atlantic liner quail. Small and light, she rises triumphantly to the noisy crest of the biggest waves, and stares down in supreme scorn at the welter of disturbed water beneath her. Always she seems to be laughing in her sleeve at the clamorous immensity of the combers, as though deriding their efforts to overwhelm her. She is wonderful, a ship to be proud of, a ship to trust! She seems to look on the whole business as something of a game; and, instead of shipping vast masses of destructive water as a bigger vessel would, dodges the big fellows, kicks them under her keel, and roars up splendidly to the foamy summits to twiddle her fingers at the Atlantic’s worst. Of course, even the Quest shipped water, but not in sufficient quantities to tear away her bulwarks, stave in her hatches, and generally tear her timbers apart, as might well have happened in the case of a bigger ship.

But what she gained in seaworthiness she atoned for in her liveliness. By breakfast-time she was heaving herself about in an unimaginable fashion, so much so that it was impossible to keep anything on the table. Everything was thrown about, and the fiddles proved worthless as a safeguard; and, for this reason, the actual ceremonial of Christmas was wisely postponed. To cook a satisfactory meal was a problem beyond even the cook’s skill and resourcefulness, though there is no doubt that Green was the hero of the day. He did his best; but when the kettle hits a man in the eye, and the soup-pot empties itself into his waistcoat, and the stove thoughtfully discharges its hissing embers on his feet, and every now and then a wave slaps in and extinguishes the newly-kindled fire, and the floor is swimming knee-deep in greasy brine, what can a man do that would not cause derision in the mind of a Parisian chef? The Boss gave orders that the impossible was not to be attempted, and lacking turkeys and the kindred delights of Christmas, we satisfied ourselves with heroic sandwiches of bully beef and bread, eating them as best we could manage, stowed away in the alleyways for the most part, with our feet and bodies well braced for steadiness against the soul-stirring rolls of the ship to which we had entrusted our fortunes. Green, like the hero he was, unexpectedly provided us with piping hot cocoa, and considering how thoroughly drenched and chilled we were—for there was no shelter worth the name to be found—the steaming beverage was better to be desired than nectar and ambrosia and all the fabulous delights of the gods. What though its flavour was reminiscent of the bilges! It heartened us and stimulated us to a nicety, and we asked for nothing better—at least, we might have asked, but with scant prospect of receiving.

Notwithstanding all seafaring difficulties, Green, determined that we should have some sort of a hot meal for dinner. A thick stew resulted, which we did not attempt to analyse too closely, but ate and were thankful for. Such as wished it were also served with a tot of grog, wherewith to drink the healths of the promoter of the expedition and his wife; and then we compared notes of Christmases past again, and discovered what a queerly assorted company we were. From Central Africa, Iceland and Singapore, from New York, [Harburg] and Lithuania, from Mauritius, Rio and Cape Town, from London and Aberdeen, and, seemingly, all the cities of the world, we’d drifted towards this restless speck now wallowing in the run of a South Atlantic sea, as a witness that the call of adventure can never overpass the widest limits of the world.

And that all things might be finished in real slapdash style, a big sea lolloped aboard, insinuated itself down the after-companion and saturated my bunk. Truly a merry, merry Christmas; but what of it!

And this Christmas Day brought us many greetings, if not from absent friends, at least from the birds of the air, which were about us in great numbers: albatross, mollymauks, whale-birds, Cape pigeons—their name was legion.

Boxing Day brought an improvement in our conditions; the wind was lessening, although the sea still ran high, and with only our fore-and-afters set, we logged an even six knots, which was to us almost a racing pace. As an offset to improved circumstances outboard we developed inboard defects again—and the chief of these promised to be really serious, for our main fresh-water tank sprang a leak, and before it was discovered the tank was dry and our precious store of drinking water was washing nastily about the odoriferous bilges. The Boss took this accident very much to heart; it seemed as though ill-fortune had dogged him throughout the voyage; but all the worrying in the world could not mend matters, and the only thing to do was to practise the most rigid economy in using what little fresh water still remained, reserving it for drinking and cooking only, endeavouring to satisfy all our other needs with sea-water pure and simple, though a little oily water was being distilled from the engine-room exhaust tank. Fortunately the weather was growing considerably cooler, and our thirsts were slaked automatically.

Next day, though the wind was still blowing fairly hard, it was fair, and we set the squaresail to take full advantage of it. No luck! Hardly was it set than the out-haul carried away, and down came the canvas for repair, which was effected with commendable swiftness, so that by breakfast-time the sail was again set, and in obedience to the weight of wind in it the Quest began to romp along like a cup winner. The number of albatrosses accompanying us now was growing; they are wonderful birds, and well worth watching. Gigantic, too, some of them are, with a stretch of wing somewhere about fourteen feet, and an ability to fly untiringly without any perceptible exertion. As the day progressed the wind freshened, and by four bells in the middle watch a full gale from the W.N.W. was rioting about us. Coming on deck at this time I was greeted with the awe-inspiring sight of a favouring gale, with big seas galloping in our wake like hungry monsters eager to overtake and devour us. Dark though the night was, the phosphorescent gleam of the foam was so vivid as to give one a fine impression of the elemental tumult that raged outboard. The seas were being kicked up with truly astonishing velocity, and the hissing rumble of them as they piled along our rails was a sound to remember for many a long day.

As the wind was well away on the quarter the engines were unnecessary, so under squaresail and topsail alone the Quest flashed merrily southward. We were logging a steady nine knots by this time—better than we’d ever done before, even with engines working and all sail set; a mightily invigorating sensation it was, I must admit.

At four o’clock I went to the wheel, not without a certain amount of trepidation, for the ship appeared a lively problem to tackle, rioting about as she was. This was by far the most strenuous trick I’d experienced, for the following sea played the mischief with her stern and threw it so recklessly about that only by dint of constant twirling of the spokes was it possible to steer even an approximate course. The helm was hard a-port or hard a-starboard all the trick—there was none of that old easeful turning of a spoke either way. The ship seemed to go mad; she took the bit in her teeth, and fretting at the control, simply reared, and capered, and plunged, and bucketed until you’d think she was incapable of further exertion; but just as you satisfied yourself that she was quietening down, away she went again, taking the whole circle of the compass to play with, so that my heart was in my mouth most of the time for fear she might broach to and, coming broadside on to the threshing combers, capsize and finish the matter once and for all.

Yet it was thrilling, magnificently so, to realize that I’d got this boisterous vessel between my hands and was master of her destinies. The clamour of the gale was nothing, the level drive of spindrift as the roaring wind clipped off the wave-crests and hurled them aboard was but a challenge to war. Mr. Wild, who had the watch, was not at all anxious to rid us of the benefit of this good fair wind; and he cracked on for all he was worth, in regular, old-fashioned clipper style, and imagined he was back in his younger days when steam seemed a poor servant and spray-washed canvas the one great thing that counted, and when he was relieved at four o’clock he passed the word to keep on carrying on. This we did until six, when the Boss decided that we’d run quite far enough, and that now was the time to heave-to, since a ship making no headway at all is better than a ship plunging to the bottom of the sea. I, being off duty, had just turned in and was dropping off into that sleep which comes as a reward for much honest toil, when I was rudely awakened by a sanakatowzer of a sea that, obeying a purposeful weather-roll of the ship, had boarded us and was flooding down the companionway towards my berth, which, unfortunately for me, lay right in its track. I got out on deck as nimbly as I’ve ever done it, and there was compelled to sheer awe by the affrighting majesty of the waves, which were towering now to our very trucks, so far as my impression went, though I’m told the biggest was not more than forty feet in height from trough to crest.

I wish I had the pen of a writer to do justice to the majesty of the gale as it now was. The wind had increased to hurricane force; and the purposeful intent of the white-bearded combers as they piled and grew and added others and yet others to themselves and then bore down upon us, must have been seen to be understood. All hands were summoned to shorten sail and get the ship ready for heaving-to, and with the utmost difficulty the big squaresail was mastered, by the process of running the Quest directly away before the gale, and letting the big canvas down by the run, with all hands leaping like furies to throw themselves upon its slatting, cracking, thunderous mass, to quieten it on the foredeck. Dell injured himself pretty severely in this operation; he paid the price of his own activity, for he fouled his foot in a rope when jumping to help another man who’d got too much to tackle single-handed, and came such a smasher to the deck that it was many a month before he was himself again.

Once the squaresail was mastered the topsail was clewed up, and Worsley and Macklin went aloft to stow it, which they did in seamanlike fashion, despite the trying conditions under which they laboured. Then, under a reefed staysail, we hove-to, to wait for better times.

Heaving-to was a ticklish task, but thanks to the prime seamanship of our officers it was effected without disaster, and although all hands were ordered into the rigging when the Quest was eased up to the wind, in case big water should drench her; and although whole seas had thundered over our bows whilst running, never a drop of water worth the mentioning was shipped as the helm was put down and the bow came gentle creeping up towards the run of the seas. In order to give us greater easement the wheel was lashed down and oil-bags were put over the bows, where they trailed ahead, and, leaking oil steadily, created an almost miraculous effect on the turbulent seas. It was most curious to watch a towering, foamy crest come hurtling towards us, growing as it came, as though intent on our instant overwhelming; but when within about fifteen yards of the bow it would suddenly loose its viciousness, flatten out, and slink as though ashamed of its previous bullying uproar, smoothly under our bows. It took in all some sixty gallons of oil to master that broken water, but it was worth it! Not that the ship’s motion was eased much thereby, she still rolled and pitched consumedly, but the savage assault of the greybeards was lessened, and, although uncomfortable, we realized that we were no longer in actual danger.

A little water certainly lopped on board, quite enough to fill the waist and wash out the galley fire; but when our delayed breakfast-time came round Green, whom nothing could daunt on shipboard, served out substantial sandwiches to the satisfaction of all hands, and these we ate whilst collected round the lee door of the galley, washing them down with some hot decoction of mingled flavours which our cook had apparently managed to create out of nothing.

By three o’clock in the afternoon the back of the gale was broken, and by seven it was deemed safe to get under way again, with the engines moving easily.

It was necessary to pump continuously now, however, because the ship was taking a good deal of water, but gradually, through the hours of night, wind and sea abated. After breakfast we took in our storm staysail and set the jib, topsail and squaresail, and proceeded upon our lawful occasions. There was no little stowing and securing to be done, as was only natural; for such a blowing as we had passed through was enough to test the stoutest lashings; particularly was the surf boat in danger; but all was made Bristol fashion again, and as the sprays were no longer breaking inboard I took advantage of the betterment to dry my blankets and clothes, which sorely needed it.

And now, once more, our ill-luck waited on us; again it was the engine-room. The engineer had discovered a serious leak into the furnaces from the boiler, and it was a leak that could not be repaired at sea. The Boss had serious thoughts that it might mean the total relinquishment of the adventure, and this worried him enormously. All through, from the very commencement—long before the Quest left London indeed—worry had piled on worry, and Sir Ernest had overcome difficulties that must certainly have daunted a man of much less stout fibre than his. But he gave instructions that if the leak developed steam pressure must be reduced, and so we carried limpingly along, making the best of it, since this wasn’t precisely the yachting trip it had appeared to be in more genial waters.

CHAPTER VIII
We Run into Ice

On the night following the easing up of the storm I got a fine sleep, and all the troubles we’d experienced seemed to fade into insignificance. Sleep is a great healer of wounds and it soothes many a problem. But in the morning there was a pretty big sea running and the wind was high, whilst, as the feverish pitching of the hull caused the propeller to race so disconcertingly that it appeared determined to twist itself off and sink down to rest on the ocean floor, the engines were stopped and the ship proceeded under sail alone. I had the wheel on this morning; but I’d got the knack of handling her by now, and found it none so irksome. The wind kept on freshening all the time—not to the same proportions as those of our recent blow, but some of the black squalls were heavy enough to set the rigging harping with the real storm-note, which is an inspiring sound—and we shipped quite a lot of water over the bows. So, as the conditions seemed to be worsening rather than improving, we hove-to again after lunch, with the mizen and staysail set; and the clank of the pumps recommenced.

Down below everything was soaked, even Sir Ernest’s cabin and Mr. Wild’s had suffered with the rest. The Boss’s bunk was so completely saturated that he had a bed made up on the wardroom settee; though he used this makeshift berth only a little, for during the bad weather he was almost constantly on the bridge, though his officers, sensing that all was not well with him, repeatedly urged him to go below and rest. But instead of resting he actually stood another officer’s watch in addition to his own in order that his subordinate might secure what he considered to be much-needed rest. That, of course, was Shackleton all over, one of the qualities that made him a leader.

But certain of the officers were growing uneasy; they thought the Boss was doing far too much, taking more out of himself than he should have done; and yet, despite their protests, Sir Ernest said: “You fellows are tired and must get rest; leave the ship to me.” And from that he would not be shifted, although he must have known in his own heart that the strain was telling more unbearably every day.

Throughout the day the wild conditions continued; but, abating somewhat towards three in the morning, way was once more got on the ship and the voyage proceeded. Some idea of the havoc wrought by the pouring seas was conveyed to my mind when I baled out Sir Ernest’s cabin, which was literally awash with dirty water, everything floating about at hazard, the whole presenting anything but an inviting spectacle. But a bit of conscientious swabbing restored things, and in a while, with a light breeze and a calming sea, it was almost impossible to believe that we had weathered such a snorter as had befallen us.

1. South Georgian Whaling Station: At Work on Blue Whales.
2. Some Finny Spoil from St. Paul’s Rocks.
3. Launching the Kite for Aerial Observation.
4. Sir Ernest’s Cabin on the Quest.
5. Penguins at Home.
6. Dead Whales in Prince Olaf Harbour.
7. View from above a South Georgia Glacier.

Cape Pigeons at South Georgia.

Gentoo Penguins. (Note the Baby Penguin in Centre.)

So the Old Year came to an end; its departure signalled by a double ringing of the ship’s bell; and we looked forward with better heart to 1922. I had the first wheel of the New Year—from midnight to 2 p.m.; the sea was smooth and the wind just sufficient to be comfortable, so that we ran along easily under fore and aft canvas alone. After breakfast I came in for a bit of amateur engineering, being detailed to assist the second engineer to repair the deck-winch—an interesting if somewhat greasy task. The wind was dropping; in place of the turbulent waters which had thrashed us so unkindly, a long, oily swell ran across to the narrowed horizon, and a wet mist drooped over all, a mist that later turned to heavy rain, persistent rain, which was by way of being a blessing to people limited in their fresh water supply. To-day I sighted my first penguin; it was swimming some distance away from the ship, and, as an inhabitant of the waste world of the South, was an object of considerable interest.

The weather was becoming increasingly cold; and already many of the members of the crew had donned clothing that gave them the look of Antarctic explorers; most of them, also, were growing beards, which gave them the aspect of pirates who had lost all self-respect. Early on the morning of the 2nd of January we passed quite close to a large school of whales, and later on vast numbers of penguins and other Antarctic birds. The temperature having dropped to 38, a close look-out was kept for the ice this temperature indicated, and at 10 a.m. our first iceberg was plainly in sight, though but a mere speck on the horizon. I don’t know what the others felt; I know I was decidedly thrilled, for this was the far-flung sentinel of those vast defences that it was our aim to penetrate. It was like seeing an enemy’s picket and knowing that away behind him were massed formidable odds against which, indomitably, we must pit our strength and courage.

Course was altered, and by one o’clock we were abreast the berg; no monster, but all the same, quite big enough to be impressive. It was a hundred feet high—which means seven hundred feet were submerged, as icebergs only show one-eighth their bulk above the surface; and, judging by the gaping fissures in its sides, it was an old-stager, rapidly tiring of life and returning to its native element as quickly as it could. It looked very austere, very cold, though undeniably beautiful, with the blue cavern boring into its massiveness. The sea about was strewn with smaller pieces of ice which had broken away and not yet melted; these formed what I was told is called the tail of the berg. By the time we had passed it fairly the sun was dropping down the western sky in a blaze of scarlet and saffron and gold; an inspiring sight that reminded me of that picture of Turner’s, “The Fighting Téméraire.”

During the middle watch two more bergs were seen, without difficulty, for they show up whitely, and seem to give off a curious illumination, called “ice-blink” by old-timers; so there is slight difficulty in avoiding them. The blacker the night is the more perceptible the ice-blink; it is chiefly between lights that the sharpest look-out must be kept. Nevertheless, whenever in the neighbourhood of ice a very careful watch must be maintained, for in addition to the lofty bergs there are also “growlers,” washed masses of ice that lie low in the water, lurking evilly as though anxious only to tear the bottom out of a ship and fling her helpless to the seafloor below. But even with growlers the seas that race over them and cause the growling note, from which they take their name, create sufficient noise to give a timely warning; and sharp eyes can detect the thin, white line of the water breaking upon them.

Bergs come from two sources. Either they may be large pieces broken away from the Great Ice Barrier which hems in the Southern Continent, or they may have detached themselves from some great glaciers, which glaciers “calve” periodically, on account of their resistless forward movement down the ravines they create towards the sea. Most Antarctic bergs are flat-topped, lacking those fantastic pinnacles that are usually associated with bergs; but many of them are enormous masses, several square miles in extent and weighing millions of tons. Not that the bigger fellows are the more picturesque, they are only awe-inspiring. Gradually, acted on by rain above and warm currents of the sea below, the berg wears away, whole acres are detached, and in the course of time the vast concern capsizes; and it is a capsized berg that is the most beautiful, for its outlines—worn by the action of the currents—are indeed picturesque.

Fine weather continuing, it was possible to settle down again to an orderly routine, and Jimmy Dell found me sufficient work to keep me from fretting. I learnt the art of splicing—working on the topsail sheet; and as lamp-trimmer, too, I was occupied in getting the steaming lights into shape. Maybe it was the strenuous nature of this work that caused me to commit the unmentionable sea-crime of giving a late relief next morning. I was aroused by the skipper yelling down the hatch that eight bells had gone, and I made a record turn-out, being on the bridge within one minute of the alarm. As a rule, I sleep very lightly; but this morning I erred, failed to respond to the usual call at one bell, and so slept on. But I think that quick turn-out made amends!

It was the Boss’s watch on deck, and during my trick at the wheel he talked to me with the utmost freedom and enthusiasm of his last memorable expedition, and pointed out the route by which he had crossed South Georgia, the land that was now in view ahead and towards which we were making for refit and overhaul. He called it “a land of storm”; and the term fits it well. It is a little, lonely island situated in the very south of the South Atlantic Ocean, amongst the stormiest seas of all the world. It is over a thousand miles from Cape Horn—the sailors’ graveyard—and nearly three thousand from the Cape of Good Hope. Captain Cook discovered it in 1775, and no doubt was sorry such a dreary wilderness existed. For a long time it was the happy hunting-ground of American sealers, who played such havoc with the valuable fur-seal with which the island then abounded that these animals are now practically extinct. To-day this far-flung outpost of the British Empire—for South Georgia is a British possession, and surely one of its most dismal—is the headquarters of five permanent whaling stations, one of them British, one Argentine, and the rest Norwegian.

At this time of year—official summer—the snow was present on the mountains in patches, but the valleys which open very invitingly to the sea were all white. In each valley was a glacier which ended abruptly at the water’s edge in a high, pale blue wall. But the whole aspect of the island was grim and forbidding: a wilderness of rock and ice.

Preparations were put in hand for entering harbour; the doctor, with me helping, put a genuine harbour-stow on the sails, and squared up all ropes and gear forward into an orderliness that would not have disgraced a man-of-war. As we plodded on towards our destination large numbers of penguins insisted on popping up unexpectedly out of the still water alongside, and Cape pigeons were numerous. Shortly after 3 p.m. we dropped anchor in the safe and sheltered harbour of Gritviken, near to the whaling station.

The old-timers amongst the crew were in their element now; you’d have thought they had suddenly come in sight of home. Particularly was the Boss exultant; he kept on pointing out familiar sights, and the weight of depression that had recently troubled him was quite shaken off. He was brimming over with vigour and energy, as happy as a sand-boy, and sniffed the air like a war-horse scenting a far-off battle. Sight of past victories must have quickened the fighting blood in his veins, and he could hardly restrain himself from rushing ashore at once. There was so much to do and so little time to do it in, that he felt as though every second were precious.

The water of the harbour was red with blood, and everywhere was the awful, nauseous stench of rotten whale carcasses. Whale oil may be a very necessary thing, but it is beastly in its securing! Several whalers were anchored near where we lay, and alongside the rough wooden quay lay an Argentine barque and a Norwegian cargo steamer.

We were promptly visited by the manager of the whaling station, who went ashore with the Boss, who was bursting with lively zeal; and as soon as possible such of us as were to be spared, pulled ashore in the surf boat, to watch the process of flensing a whale on the slip. For whalers nowadays do not cut-in and try-out their blubber in open water—they tow their catches into harbour where machinery exists for the purpose. The Norwegians who worked at the flensing struck me as being mighty heavy and ponderous, and distinctly bovine of feature.

The whole system of whaling is, of course, very interesting, even though unpleasant to those not accustomed to it; but it differs entirely from the methods in the old days of the Dundee whalers. It was then counted an exciting, dangerous calling, and to hunt a whale, harpoon it and bring the fish alongside was about the most thrilling sport in the world. The odds seemed to be somewhat in favour of the whale, and the risks the whalemen ran were unquestionably great. Nowadays there is so little danger as to be negligible, for instead of going out for months and years in lumbering barques, hunting the cetaceans in small whale-boats, and securing them by means of hand-harpoons, untiring persistence and cold pluck, tediously flensing them in the ship’s tackles and rendering down the blubber in the try-works established on the deck, fast steamers set forth in quest of the mighty game, and these steamers are armed with powerful little guns which project a heavy and deadly harpoon, which, fitted with a bomb that bursts when the weapon has penetrated into the whale’s interior, invariably inflicts a fatal wound. No doubt this is a more merciful way of dispatching the monsters; but it savours of cold-blooded slaughter. The whale stands no chance, the whalers run no risk; whaling to-day is merely systematized butchery. And to me, steeped in the old whaling traditions, primed with the picturesque accounts of real whaling, it was subject for sadness to think of these huge and nowadays helpless creatures being preyed upon so mercilessly. Once the whale-ship has secured as many whales as can conveniently be towed—each dead whale being buoyed and marked until the tale is complete—full steam is made for port, and the catch is hauled ashore on to a sloping plane, where the blubber is rapidly and scientifically stripped from the unwieldy corpse and conveyed to the try-pots to be converted into the oil of commerce.

We spectators found it treacherous work walking on the slip, which was several inches deep in a slimy horror of blood and blubber. For a considerable distance on each side of the whaling station there is a white fringe of bleached bones washed up by the tide, sole relics of what were once huge fish; but when man, and the sharks, and the birds had all taken toll, these poor remains were all that showed the magnitude of the sea’s finny spoil.

Having completed the round of the works, having breathed the oily atmosphere to our complete satisfaction, having seen the entire process of creating oil out of dead whale, we went for a short walk inland, up a slope to a small lake, turning to the left along a route where wet moss and sparse grass grew, returning by way of the shore, where the going was difficult on account of the dry bones littered there. So far as I could see, the land is mainly barren. This wet moss and short tussocky grass flourish to a height of about three hundred feet above sea level, but elsewhere I saw nothing but bare scree slopes, glacier-polished rocks and snow-covered shoulders, topped by the high-soaring, white-clad peaks that never alter though centuries come and go.