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Into the Frozen South

<h2> CHAPTER XIX Asail for Home </h2> These days, I find, occupy little space in my diary. Nothing at all happened out of the recurrent round of work and watches, beyond my suffering from some sort of illness created by a too greedy indulgence in succulent crayfish. We spent some active hours day by day in “treacling up” the ship for the critical eyes of possible visitors; and as the ship was steady and the conditions were good, time passed pleasantly indeed. There was a genuine homeward-bound feeling about everything. We had done most of our work—unexciting and unromantic maybe, but useful from the scientific point of view; we had surveyed certain hardly known lands and seas; and we felt we deserved some few of the ameliorations of an ordinary world. Certain rumoured reefs were supposed to lie in our track, and very assiduously we worked with the sounding machine to verify these potential dangers to shipping; but no evidence was forthcoming. Two thousand fathoms gave us no bottom, and a reef buried deeper than that below the sea’s surface wasn’t likely to do much harm to passing ships. After a delightful period of calms and smooth seas the wind breezed up again, and the Quest, awaking like a startled horse from long sleep, renewed her old-time vigour and enthusiasm. The wind was fairly ahead, and with engines going their hardest we could make but little more than a knot an hour. A dreary passage promised, but after a while the wind freed, and under sail, with engines stopped, we ramped along in 225 heartening style. But on June 9 a real tragedy occurred—Query lost the number of his mess. During the voyage he had got very cunning in the tricks of the ship and had developed excellent sea-legs, so that we never felt very much concern about him even when the Quest was playing her most fantastic tricks. I was assisting Dell to skin and cut up a Tristan da Cunha sheep—a very scraggy brute, with only about enough flesh on its bones to form a decent meal for one healthy Scout. Query, who always followed the work of the ship with sagacious interest, was absorbedly watching our gory toil when the ship gave a sickening lurch, and the poor dog, before he could brace himself into a state of readiness, slipped, clawing and scrabbling, clean over the side. I heard Jimmy crying out, and running to the poop saw Query bravely swimming in our direction; he was fully fifty yards astern. Then, as I looked, my heart aching for him, a big wave hit him and shut him from view. It was impossible to do anything for him. Had he been a man his fate must have been the same, for we were running hard before a gale, and to heave-to might easily have spelt our complete destruction; to lower a boat was impossible. Poor Query! His loss was felt very keenly by every man aboard, for there is something in the atmosphere of a ship that makes a man keen on pets, and Query was a great pet, well loved by all. I have known many dogs, but never one with so lovable a disposition as his. And so of all the medley of animals carried by the ship during her voyage only one solitary cat remained. On June 17 we got into wireless touch with Cape Town—by telephone, so please you—and heard all the news that had happened during our prolonged absence from the busy world that makes the news. It was like coming back into life after a Rip van Winkle existence. We heard of the ascent of Mount Everest, the sinking 226 of the Egypt—the big ship lost, while our puny cockleshell survived more hazardous days than had ever befallen the liner!—and all the sporting news worth while. At noon we faintly discerned flat-topped Table Mountain ahead. The sea was smooth; we were sailing under ideal conditions; a strong elation was ours. We planned our adventures amongst men of our own kind; wondered whether the Cape Town girls were pretty; hoped they’d secure a good grip on our tow-rope and that they’d pull their hardest; and generally indulged in fantastic daydreams, as is the way of sailormen the world over, though steam has done its best to kill romance. We celebrated this day of days by an uproarious concert in the ward-room, and all of us, I think, went rather mad. Going on deck at midnight was a sheer delight; a wonderful sight presented itself. The night was perfect—still, serene; and a big silver moon shining gloriously on the vast expanse of Table Bay vied with the glowing lights in the distance. The ship was just creeping along in order to make her anchorage at daylight. Round our quietly moving bows, in the luminous wake as well, hundreds and hundreds of phosphorescent fish were playing recklessly, shooting like shafts of vivid light through the water, and the soft-sounding “wash-wash” of their breaking surface, a sound which blended so perfectly with the low seething rustle of the broken water of our progress as to seem like fairy music. A great reception awaited us in the morning. Dense crowds packed the quays, and many boatloads of enthusiastic people followed in our wake as we trudged up the harbour. As we steamed to moorings off Robben Island I thought gratefully of the wonderful experience I had had; and although I was very sorry it was almost over, yet within my heart I was glad indeed to be here, for I 227 know of no more splendid emotion than the home-coming after a great adventure. We had tried and we had achieved; but sorrow underlay the joy, too, for this reception was Sir Ernest Shackleton’s triumph, and he was not there to share it. During the following days the people of Cape Town gave us generous greeting and unstinted hospitality. We spent a memorable week-end at Bonnivale, the estate of Mr. Rigg, situated about 200 miles from Cape Town—no distance at all in a country of staggering distances—and had grateful experience of the honest Scottish hospitality of Mrs. A. H. Smithers, of St. James’s, who received us royally at her home, allowing us to come and go precisely as we pleased. Wherever I personally went the Scouts were kindness itself to me, and my great regret was that I had not sufficient time wherein to see as much of them as I could have wished. For I owed my great adventure to the fact that I was a Scout, and gratitude to the organization that gave me my chance must always be uppermost in my heart. It would be utterly impossible for me to write of the many distinguished, generous people we had the honour to meet, of the countless functions we attended or of the impressive, interesting sights we saw. What with lunches, dinners, dances, motor drives and the like, Jack was ashore with a vengeance and thoroughly enjoying himself; whilst, considering the people—thousands of them, literally—whom we had to conduct over the ship, it is a marvel to me how we managed to get a full day into every twenty-four hours. Every day was a red-letter day on its own account; and I must always remember our stay as a truly wonderful month. Toward the close of our stay we moved down to the Naval Dockyard at Simon’s Town to refit; but Commander Wild, prostrated by a severe attack of influenza, was unfortunately unable to accompany us there. 228 Thus, after much delight, we left Table Bay on July 13 very hurriedly, and once more faced the elements. Not very trying on this occasion, however, for the weather was beautifully fine; though, thanks to our high living when ashore, certain of us began to realize that seasickness, a thing forgotten, was still a real affair. Nevertheless, across a sea as smooth as glass we pursued our way, until South Africa dropped below the horizon and our visit was nothing but a golden memory—a memory that set one longing to be possessed of wings, to fly back and continue the prolonged farewell. Once fairly at sea, I learned to my keen regret that we were homeward bound—definitely homeward bound. I say “with regret” advisedly, for I had looked forward joyously to cruising amongst new seas, of seeing great new lands—Australia, New Zealand, and the romantic, colourful islands of the South Pacific. Still a journey of considerable interest was in prospect, and many a day would pass before we loomed in sight of English shores. It was like yachting—yachting de luxe—as we steamed along placid seas, under broiling suns and cloudless skies. Pleasant travelling this, but we of the Quest, hardened to bad weather, occasionally found the lazy times a trifle boring. Not unduly so, mark you. We did not precisely pray for big gales and high seas, for we had had our share, and more than our share, maybe, of such happenings of ocean travel; but even lazy loafing about the decks with a book can grow monotonous, and a gale certainly provides excitement and the element of the unexpected. Without any event of outstanding importance, following a placid round of commonplace duties, living on the fat of the land, since there was now no pronounced need to conserve our stores, cleaning ship diligently, fishing for albatross, taking occasional soundings and dredgings, we reached St. Helena and anchored off 229 Jamestown. It is a pretty little town, which straggles picturesquely for a long way up the bottom of an acute-sided valley. The island itself is a mountainous mass, intersected in every direction by deep valleys, those opening to the sea in our direction being of a very regular V-shape. An exceedingly fertile land, its chief industry is the growing of flax. The natives are black, some being rather less so than others, and white people are few and far between. Mr. Douglas and I rode across the island to inspect some dykes he had heard about, and on the way stopped at Napoleon’s last abiding-place, his lonely home during his tragic banishment. We saw his tomb only from the distance, having no time for a closer inspection. The roads we negotiated were uniformly good, but at a certain point on the far side of the island, in order to reach our destination, we had to alight and lead our sturdy animals down the rough side of an extremely steep hill. At the bottom Mr. Douglas stopped and purchased some exquisitely dainty lace at a native cottage. St. Helena rather specializes in lace of delicate fashioning; its manufacture is an industry of some importance. The dykes were situated beside a ruined Dutch fort which once guarded a small cove, and I wondered what feature of history this stronghold illustrated, but was able to secure no worth-while information on the subject. A few shattered cannon, crumbling to nothingness under the influence of the sea air, still remained—grim relics of a forgotten era in colonization. We stayed in the vicinity for an hour, Mr. Douglas taking many photographs and gathering various geological specimens. The country hereabouts was rocky and barren and not at all inviting. Having satisfied our lust for information so far as possible, we returned; it was already dark when we clattered into Jamestown. After months at sea, and to a man untutored in the art, 230 riding was a painful business at best, and I was so sore by the time we sighted our destination that I could not sit in the saddle, but, jockey-wise, rode in the stirrups alone. Counting everything, I think my performance wasn’t so bad—I only fell off once; but then, as I said, anyone who could exist aboard the Quest when she was up to her tricks could sit anything, even a drunken giraffe. Next day brought its penalty of adventuring: I was so sore that if there had been a mantelpiece aboard the ship I’d have eaten my breakfast from it. Lacking so unusual a table, I suffered in stoic silence, mentally anathematizing all horses; but the smart soon disappeared, helped by activities aboard. The weather at this time was blazing hot, so hot that even to wind up one’s watch was an exertion to be seriously considered for long half-hours at a stretch before completing the operation. Sweat ran from us in rivers, for we were all carrying flesh as a result of lush feeding on the passage from Cape Town. My general impression of St. Helena was that it was a derelict island; its glory had departed. Its name rings down through the aisles of history, and will probably never be forgotten, for here the Corsican Ogre was housed in safety after peace was given to a war-ridden world; but it is its name that matters and not the place itself. However, I was very glad to have seen it, and it was easy to picture the ambitious Man of Destiny eating out his heart in a galling captivity, reflecting on the glories and triumphs that once were his. We departed for Ascension Island the night Mr. Douglas and I returned from our equine gymnastics, and spent a fairly lazy time on the passage, for the heat was against arduous exertion. During these days the dominant feature of the seascape—a placid plain of shining water for the most part—was the enormous swarms of flying-fish that dashed away from the warning 231 of our thrusting bow and scattered wildly in every direction, rising foolishly into the air until their wings dried, then plopping and pattering back into their native element, to become easy prey, one supposes, to the voracious bonitos who are their natural enemies. We found amusement in endeavouring to coax the last lonely albatross that had accompanied us northward to continue its journey; but an uncanny instinct prevented it from venturing. It is said these birds will never under any conditions cross the Line, and this fellow seemed a living proof of the fact. In the afternoon of August 1 we sighted the sharp peak of Ascension Island—where the turtles come from—and after dark we came to anchor a few hundred yards from the naval barracks. I went below into the hold to find some clean clothes, and the Chief, entering the ward-room, fell down through the open hatch. Under normal conditions he would have expressed his feelings with such words as occurred to him at the moment, and I should have wilted under his torrential profanity; but the homeward-bound feeling was evidently strongly within him, for he maintained a silence that was more pregnant than many words. He made a game struggle against his natural feelings and won—all credit to him. During the war there was on Ascension a big wireless station, with a coaling station for our patrolling cruisers also; and the garrison of marines is still maintained, probably in readiness for the next war, or it may be that they have been forgotten. Anyhow, there the garrison still is, and also the Eastern Telegraph Company have a cable station on the island; so no doubt the two groups keep each other company. Ascension lies very near the Equator, and is naturally hot. With the exception of St. Paul’s Rocks it is, I think, the hottest place I have so far struck. It is an amazing contrast to St. Helena; utterly barren of 232 vegetation except, strangely enough, on the very summit of the peak, which is 3,000 feet high or thereabouts, there is a single farm, which supplies the garrison with fresh meat and vegetables. For the rest the island is nothing but a monotonous series of huge red mounds of ashes and piles of clinker, due to the one-time extraordinary volcanic action here. There still remain some two dozen perfectly discernible volcanic craters, any one of which appeared ready to start into immediate eruption. Early on the morning of arrival I accompanied Mr. Douglas ashore, clad weirdly in his garments for the most part, for hard work had taken a bitter toll of mine. We walked for a little while along the road that leads to the farm on the ultimate peak, and then struck off towards a hill known as Dark Slope Crater. The geologist had learned that there was some ejected granite to be found there, and was curious to investigate. Our way led us across many piles of clinker, which emitted a strangely musical tinkle when we set foot on them. It was intensely hot; the scorched cinders struck through our boot soles as if they were merely paper. They say at Aden that there is only a single thickness of brown paper between them and the nether regions; the same remark applies to Ascension. On top of the crater we ate our modest lunch and inspected the crater itself—extinct, though suggestive. At the bottom was a yellow, sun-dried area like the bottom of a pond in a severe drought. Mr. Douglas took samples of this dried mud, thinking it to be fuller’s earth, and no doubt dreamt of uncountable riches; he also got samples of the granite he sought. Having satisfied our hunger for the unusual, we entered Wideawake Valley, called by this unexpected name because it teems with millions of wideawake birds. When I say millions I mean millions; there is no exaggeration. It was nesting time, 233 and the noise as we walked through amongst the sitting mothers was deafening, whilst the air was literally darkened by the wheeling, startled birds, who pecked gallantly at our headgear in the endeavour to beat off our innocent intrusion. Unfortunately they were in the right of it, for so thickly were the nests strewn on the open ground that we trampled eggs and so on into a hideous omelette in our progress, without in the least wishing to do anything of the sort. From this yelling tornado of ornithological resentment we made a detour, the general direction being toward the peak road. Ascending a dried-up creek we came upon a beautiful specimen of a lava flow. The flow was in the act of rounding a bend, and was so good an example that Mr. Douglas took photographs and measurements. Ascension is, indeed, a rare spot for a geologist. Farther on I picked up half a volcanic “bomb,” and a piece which might have been a “teardrop.” Mr. Douglas took samples from many striking dykes, one running for half a mile down the side of a hill. Every foot of the journey brought some new surprise, something of keen interest. A large mass of grey rock—trachyte, I think it is called—was weathered into fantastic shapes. We also found ejected gneiss, and the presence of this, together with the granite, supports the theory that Ascension is connected, under water, with the main African continent. Presently we gained the peak road at “God-be-thanked Well,” a most appropriate name, for I was dying for a drink, as were unquestionably those who originally named the well. A long draught of cool water bred feelings of profound thankfulness in our souls. At length, with what seemed at least a hundredweight each of rock specimens slung on our backs, we arrived at the station, racing the swiftly falling darkness 234 during the last lap of the journey, to discover that a mail-boat was in the harbour. Whilst awaiting the arrival of our boat it was interesting to watch the marines working by the light of acetylene flares; and there was superior joy in realizing our own immediate immunity from labour of this trying sort. Next day, securing shore leave again, I dressed myself appropriately to the consuming heat that threatened, and Mr. Douglas and I pushed off for the land. When aboard ship for a long time even a naked rock promises a relief from cramped surroundings, and we welcomed these shore excursions very cordially. We started at once up the hot, dusty road to the peak, halting three miles inland at God-be-thanked Well for a relished drink and an equally enjoyed smoke. As the gradient began to steepen we encountered sparse vegetation—thin-growing grass and cactus plants, palms and casuarinas—which vegetation culminates in the fertile farmland of the peak. About two and a half miles from the actual summit we left the road and climbed a steep grassy ridge, but frequently crossed the main thoroughfare, which ascended in a series of remarkable bends. Emerging on the road at one of these bends we met a fine old gentleman in khaki shorts, with a horse and a little daughter. He was very tall, with silver-grey hair and a fresh countenance. This was Mr. Cronk, who runs the peak farm. With astonishing generosity he lent me his mare, which promptly bolted up the hill as I set foot in the stirrup, being exceptionally spirited from long confinement in the stable. Nor did she slacken speed, notwithstanding the steepness of the way, until she drew up with a clatter at the stable door. She gave me a hazardous passage, for every time she swung round a bend I was nearly off, retaining my seat only by dint of my sailor’s grip. At the farm we bathed and were entertained most 235 regally, afterwards making our way round the left slope of the mountain, along a path cut with no little skill by Mr. Cronk. On the way Mr. Douglas poked his stick into what seemed very like an ordinary rabbit burrow, and a huge land-crab immediately emerged, ready for battle. He presented a most ferocious front, but decided that the odds against him were too heavy, so promptly retreated. We saw many more of these unsightly, nightmarish brutes. We made a thorough inspection of the country surrounding the peak, saw many strange sights, and returned to the farm, where Mr. Cronk served us with an excellent dinner; and then to bed. How deliciously inviting a landsman’s bed can be! The following morning, in clear sunshine, with a swift, cool breeze to temper the heat, we set forth again. Mr. Douglas promptly occupying himself with photography, secured some amazing views. The vistas were beyond description, and well worth recording permanently. One gazed on a scene which, except for the dirty yellow-white of the scattered patches of withered grass, had but little variation in colour. The dominant features were the bright red of the conical hills and craters and the darker brown of the piles of clinkers; and the impression conveyed was that one stared out over the raw world as it must have been almost immediately after the creation. Growing on the distant lower slopes were palms, casuarinas and green grass, and on the peak itself was an extensive vegetation of conifers, greener grass and bamboos, these last being on the very summit, sheltering a small pool made by Mr. Cronk. After a breakfast to treasure in memory through many years—never were such delicious cold chicken, such sweet eggs, such vegetables and fruit!—we listened to our worthy host’s pleadings that we should inspect a bridge of his own fashioning, and followed him along 236 through tunnels and arches and cuttings, balancing ourselves on precarious ledges with sheer drops on the one side that terminated thousands of feet below, until we reached the bridge, which spanned a small gully and was composed of steel piping, cemented smoothly over and giving the impression that it had existed from time immemorial and would continue to endure for ever—a striking piece of work. Those who gave the place-names to this island were evidently obsessed with a belief that the entire country owed its origin to Plutonic ingenuity. There’s the Devil’s Punch Bowl, there’s the Devil’s Riding School—this latter a peculiar crater, perfectly circular and looking from above precisely like a giant target that has fallen over on its back. There would seem to have been successive volcanic eruptions here, and the resultant deposits are laid out in concentric circles of varying colour, quite conveying the idea of the conventional target. The flaming sun took toll of us during the return journey. My face, back, neck, arms and legs were baked bright scarlet when I boarded the ship at five o’clock, just before she weighed anchor; and in some way I’d picked up a temperature, too, which resulted in my being ordered to my bunk for the night. But the temperature did not long endure; in the morning I wakened quite normal, to find the Quest in open water and practising her rolling evolutions with gusto. Beyond a few blisters and much smarting, my sunburn failed to trouble me. From Ascension we brought the beginnings of a menagerie—sailors must have pets of some sort—and in addition to a monkey and a canary we boasted quite a flock of young turtles, as proof we had visited Turtleopolis. We tended these fellows carefully, changing their water frequently and feeding them regularly on salt pork. This Saturday 237 night, as had been our custom throughout, we drank the old navy toast of “Sweethearts and Wives,” to which the inevitable joker solemnly added, “May they never meet!” an amendment as customary as the toast itself. We then turned on the faithful gramophone, suffering by this time from much hard usage, but still determined to do its best and producing quite decent music. Next day we cleaned ship, and, with the wind dying down into puffs, encountered heavy rain, which gave us all the joy of baths. This being Sunday I took opportunity for a “sailor’s pleasure,” and turned out my bunk, which, from its peculiar situation just below the companion-hatch into the wardroom, seemed to be the harbouring-place of every oddment in the ship. The sum total of these accumulations is interesting. Listen: Sea-water, sea-boots, enamel plates and other eating gear, soup, salt pork and tinned fruit, and a sample of every article of food ever consumed aboard. August 8 we crossed the Line again in blazing heat. During the uneventful days of the passage to St. Vincent we exerted ourselves faithfully in cleaning ship, washing her inside and out, up aloft and down below. She shone like silver as a result of our exertions, but we wondered what would happen to her when the coaling began. Still, aboard ship the hands must be kept employed, otherwise they might grumble and slack and grow discontented. When there’s no other employment for them they clean ship and go on cleaning. Then the coaling crowd come aboard and take a diabolical delight in smothering her with foulness. Still, no bones are broken, so no one is any the worse. The hours spent at the wheel during these fine-weather days were enjoyable in the extreme. With the sun shining across the easily rolling sea in a broad dazzling beam, and a cool north-north-east wind blowing gently six points or so on the starboard bow, the 238 heat of the day is delightfully counteracted and sailing conditions are perfect. During such hours a man is allowed to think—those deep thoughts which cannot be put into so many prosaic words, but which lift the soul gloriously out of itself and teach one the majesty of God. One drifts aimlessly from subject to obscure subject, lost in a hazy dreamland of introspection, until—— “Hallo! What might you be trying to do with her? Write your name with the —— —— ship?” comes from the officer of the watch, and you spring to alertness and stare aghast at the loops and twists of the bubbling wake. In due course we reached St. Vincent, and found it and the adjacent islands in even a sorrier plight than when we visited them on the outward journey, for the drought had spread to the neighbouring islands, and as they supply St. Vincent itself with cereals and vegetables and water, a condition nearly approaching famine existed. Throughout the day of our arrival we were surrounded by bumboats in charge of extremely ragged boatmen, who endeavoured to tempt us into buying their trifling variety of fruits. Certain of these enthusiasts varied their hours by diving for the chunks of coal which fell overboard from our coaling, and they inevitably secured their loot. We coaled ship, smothered ourselves in grime, bathed, and finally left St. Vincent on Sunday, August 20, in a whirl of excitement, firing rockets lavishly, and sent on our way by much cheering from women and children who had massed in a high place to see the last of us. Placid workful conditions continued until, on September 3, we reached San Miguel of the Western Isles and anchored there. A very pretty picture this island presents from the sea, reminding one greatly of our own northern land—green fields, much vegetation, and 239 regular walls. Going ashore here, I enjoyed a Portuguese Sunday—the busiest, most careless day of the week, apparently, for the cafés were all wide open and doing a roaring trade, and the streets were thronged with islanders dressed in their best, determined on enjoyment. A very different scene from Tristan da Cunha, let’s say! I enjoyed this colourful scene immensely, it was such relief from the monotones which had been our experience for so many months. But all things have an end, and on Monday, September 4, we weighed anchor and headed out upon the final lap of the homeward trail. After certain sunny days we ran into screaming hard weather, with a fortunate fair wind that bade the Quest do her best—an order she obeyed, both as to speed and rolling. Her firm intention seemed to be to leave us with poignant memories of her activities in this direction. But we endured, and we blessed her for carrying us so far so worthily; and now that the hazards are past I retain nothing but the tenderest recollections of what we used to call in our wrath “that perishing old wash-tub of a rolling son of a gun.” And so the closing stage of the memorable voyage approached. Long before there was even the remotest hope of our sighting England we commenced our packing, three parts of which had to be promptly unpacked; and then we painted the weird assortment of boxes which contained our accumulated possessions, and hoped they would look a little less disreputable than they actually did. Late on the evening of September 15 we crept into Plymouth Sound and dropped our anchor—an anxious anchor that had repeatedly tried to break loose from its moorings on the homeward trip—in Cawsand Bay. We were home—home from the great adventure! On September 17, the anniversary of the day on which she had left St. Katharine’s Dock a year before, 240 the Quest was finally berthed and our work was done. Here in her resting-place I said farewell to the many staunch friends I had made and to the stout, plucky, wonderful ship that I had grown to look upon as a second home. And now I can hardly believe that it was all true. Yet it was true—gloriously so. I, too, have seen and known and learnt; I, too, have companioned with the great souls who help to make our island history. Sir Ernest Shackleton, Commander Frank Wild and the others, all great of heart and fearless of soul, had been my shipmates and my friends. It was a memorable year indeed, and for all time I know I must carry with me a vision of tumbling waves by day and phosphorescent breakers in the darkness; the grind and bellow of the closing pack, the rush and roar of broken waters at the growlers’ feet; the hushed noises of the seals as they come to the surface in the still water of the pack; and always shall I see in mind’s-eye the glory of the Antarctic night. And most poignant yet inspiring of all my memories there is that of the lonely cross outlined against the whirling drive of the South Georgian sleet, the sign which remains to tell of the great spirit that led us forth into the Frozen South and died, yet lives again, as a magnet to draw the brave away from the sleek comforts of life into that outer world of daring where men may gaze in awe upon the wonders of the Lord. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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