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.