Commander Wild had a vast load of trouble upon his capable shoulders. The most serious, most dangerous part of the voyage was to be faced, and the troubles that had dogged us throughout promised to continue in latitudes where ports of refuge were unknown. However, since the spirit of the genuine adventurer was his, he showed a bold face to the hazards, and we who followed whither he led saw scant outward evidence of his perturbation. All he said was that the trip promised to be a somewhat risky one, but that it was up to us to keep the Boss’s memory green by means of uncomplaining devotion to duty, and a determination to see the matter through. He gave us the opportunity of withdrawing, if we so desired; but never a faint-heart asked for a passage home. It may be that national pride was involved, for it would naturally have meant a great humiliation to betray, before the Norwegian element there in South Georgia, a lack of desire to continue; or it may be, as I prefer to think, that all hands were so imbued with the idea of fulfilling Sir Ernest’s dreams that at any cost they were prepared to continue, whatever the days might bring.

The day of the Boss’s departure ashore was wet and depressing, and on the following day even the Quest appeared to be restless and unsettled, for she dragged her anchors, and it was necessary to work her to a more secure holding-ground. The general run of things down there in South Georgia is for constant heavy squalls to blow fiercely off the land, and to lie there at anchor with any sense of security you must have implicit faith in your ground-tackle and be constantly on the qui vive. The least carelessness is liable to result in your ship being driven ashore and hopelessly lost. We came to safer moorings, and, since our time was short and nothing was to be gained by protracted mourning, we set to work to ready the Quest for the coming hazards. Three Argentine Germans were employed to set up the rigging, overhaul all lanyards and seizings, and, driven assiduously by Jimmy Dell, our boatswain, they made excellent headway. For myself, I endeavoured to forget my natural grief in downright hard work of an unpoetical kind—attending to my below-decks duties for all I was worth. I found the panacea effective enough. But even so one missed the Boss’s quiet words of encouragement and his approval of duty done to his liking; it needed a firm grip on one’s resolution to prevent one from wondering what the ultimate issue of the venture might be.

There followed now a sequence of wet, depressing days—miserable days, quite in harmony with our feelings. Pack ice drifted into the harbour where we lay, and gradually solidified about the ship; the mists drooped heavily over the hills, narrowing our horizons, and throughout this time a thin, infinitely penetrating rain fell, which was not permitted to interfere with our deck duties. My immediate duty was a simple one: the rigging was being thoroughly served, and I passed the spunyarn ball whilst other men, more competent than I, did the actual work. If I thought that I was like the Hibernian who carried bricks up a ladder whilst another man expended himself in tiresome toil, that is my own affair.

High winds accompanied the misty rains, and the surrounding ice lowered the temperature enormously. All hands were busy as could be; such as were not employed on deck found plenty to do down below. The boiler was due for its periodical scaling, the encrustations formed inside the plates by reason of the corroding salts in the water had to be removed, as their presence lessened our steaming powers. On one of these indeterminate days, as I think I might call them, Mr. Wilkins returned in a whaler after three weeks’ scientific work on the island; and on the day following his return to the Quest I was up at an early hour to accompany him in the small whaler Carl to bring back Mr. Douglas, who had established a research camp on the shore of a tiny bay some two hours’ journey away. It was necessary for Wilkins and myself to serve as crew aboard the Carl, since the only other people aboard were the skipper and a man who called himself the engineer. Fortified by strong coffee and noble sandwiches, we set off in good spirits, despite the considerable breeze that was blowing. Although the wind blew a whole gale, the sea, thanks to the shelter of the many islets and the greater shelter of the towering hills, was smooth enough to rejoice the heart of even the most timorous tripper. My experience as helmsman of the Quest naturally fitted me—in my own estimation—as qualified quartermaster for any ship afloat; so I took the whaler’s wheel without the smallest trepidation. Ships differ, however; they say they are like women in this respect. I wasn’t used to a craft that literally leaped to answer the slightest touch on the helm, and as a result I very nearly ran the Carl ashore on the rocks; but our miss was as good as a mile, and once I’d got the hang of things I managed better.

Without further mishap we reached Douglas’s little cove and dropped anchor there. Not without difficulty, since a sea of kelp lay between us and the shore. Wilkins and myself lowered the whaler’s boat and pulled ashore, where Douglas came out to lend us a hand in beaching the boat. Having collected him and his much gear, we transhipped the lot to the Carl, and, lifting anchor, headed back for Gritviken, which we reached without startling adventure by early afternoon. In our absence the boiler had been scaled, refilled with fresh water, and our small dynamo had also been repaired.

Next day we made an early start by heaving up anchor at 6 a.m. in order to go alongside to secure an adequate supply of fresh water. By contrast with previous days this January morning was bright, mild and sunny. I came to the conclusion that the South Georgian climate had taken our own unmistakable British climate as a model. It gave us a thoroughly good imitation of an English June, I must say—frostbite one day, sunstroke the next, with a sort of olla podrida of all sorts of changes, from crisp frost to sultry heat, in between. Mr. Wilkins and Major Carr vanished on another mysterious expedition in the Carl, and as at three o’clock our fresh-water tanks were filled, we shifted ship to the opposite side of the bay, and an adventurous party promptly proceeded ashore in search of deer. Commander Wild succeeded in bringing one down at long range; but—alas for our hopes of fresh venison!—an impassable river intervened between killer and killed, and, as time did not permit the lengthy detour necessary, the hunters returned more or less empty-handed, for sea-birds and seals hardly count.

Commander Wild’s intention was to enter the Antarctic ice without any delay, by reason of the lateness of the season. Pushing to the eastward, and then striking south through the pack ice, he wished to reach the Great Ice Barrier, and, having reached it, to turn westward and comprehensively map out the whole coastline in the direction of Coats Land, so long as the ice remained loose enough to permit of an escape before the winter frosts solidified the whole mass. But as the Quest’s engine power and general structure made her ability to deal with the ice something of a matter for conjecture, the plan was subject to modifications. There was to be no sensational dash to the South Pole; no attempt to outrival previous explorers’ daring; the main idea of the expedition was purely scientific, with an underrunning desire to verify certain theories of the past that had never been definitely proved.

As the season was fast advancing, Commander Wild was most anxious, consequent on our annoying delays, to get clear of South Georgia and away southwards; and his haste was understandable when, the day after watering the ship and moving into Leith Harbour, we wakened to discover the surface of the bay covered with pancake ice. It is called by this name because, instead of being one broad, continuous sheet, it appears in a great number of large round pieces, ridiculously like pancakes, which, as the temperature falls, freeze solidly together to form a single sheet of what is known by Arctic and Antarctic experts as “young ice.”

There was still much to be done: fresh clothing to be secured, fresh stores and coal to be embarked. We of the crew were all fitted out snugly with fur-lined leather caps, like those worn by flying men, socks and mitts beyond the counting, stout ankle boots, much warm underclothing, pea-jackets of weather-resisting quality, wind-proof jackets—very necessary, these, considering what awaited us—stout pants, blankets and warm coverlets. Every man’s wants were supplied through the generous kindness of Mr. Hansen, the manager of the whaling station at Leith; no trouble seemed too great so far as he was concerned. The old-timers said that this outfit, which seemed amazing to me, was nothing to the genuine Antarctic equipment which was waiting for us at Cape Town, having been sent there by Sir Ernest Shackleton before the expedition started; but it promised to suffice us for one season, at all events. Mr. Hansen also fashioned for us in his workshops ice anchors, hand harpoons, ice picks and ice axes; and I must give the Norwegian population of South Georgia full marks for the unvarying interest they showed in our preparations and the ready help they gave under all circumstances.

After a morning’s “Peggying,” i.e. performing the general charwoman’s duties of the ship, I went ashore with the cook in the surf-boat for a load of fish and bread, and when we started off found some difficulty in making headway. Our combined knowledge of handling small boats was remarkable for its minuteness; the surf-boat spun about in giddy circles, but the little cherub sitting up aloft had an eye open, and we reached the Quest in a manner that would have resulted in our scalps being served up on the wardroom table had we been pukka man-o’-warsmen, where style counts as well as results.

But even so, breathless as this adventure was, it was better than “Peggying”! Some day I shall write a whole book about the Peggying art; but space forbids a lengthy diatribe here.

After dinner that night we had guests aboard, a small party of Shetlanders favouring us with a visit. We entertained them to the best of our ability: music on the gramophone, mandolin, mouth-organ and violin; for the Quest was a musical ship in intention, whatever the result might be in performance.

Gradually now we became equipped for our venture. The ship was coaled, supplied with oil, her store-lockers were packed to bursting; the friendly Shetlanders cut our hair! But, prior to setting forth, one day was devoted to a shore excursion. Such as wished to study the whole art of whale-flensing were at liberty so to do, for a ninety-foot whale was being cut up on the slips; such as preferred to practise gymnastics had their opportunity, too, for a blown-up whale was tethered to our mooring-buoy, and a lot of fine, confused exercise was obtainable by jumping off our rails on to the distended carcass, which had the resilient qualities of india-rubber, and coming back aboard by means of the rebound. For myself I accompanied the hunting party in the capacity of assistant to Mr. Wilkins, who was determined to secure a photographic record of the activities.

It was an interesting day for me. The first noteworthy thing that greeted us was a regular school of young sea-elephants: square-faced brutes with bulging nostrils and expressions that seemed to suggest that each one was fitted with a very pungent mustard plaster on his chest. They were lying half hidden amongst the tussock grass, through which their sleek grey bodies were not easily distinguishable. Very ferocious and awe-inspiring they showed; their grunts on our approach might merely have been grunts of inquiry, but they sounded extremely like grunts of rage. Halting, we threw small stones at them, after the fashion of inquiring humanity, which caused them to rear angrily upright on their hinder parts, snarl with wide-open mouths at us, then, curving their backs in high disdain, they moved off towards the water, their heads over their sleek shoulders, grunting—always grunting. Sea-elephants really are one of the many tribes of seals, and they get their particular name from the fact that the young bulls are equipped with short trunks which give them a most ludicrous appearance. They are the largest of all the seals, and some of them weigh up to four or five tons apiece. Relying on the gallantry of the bulls, the cow seals cluster together in “harems,” so-called, of perhaps fifty strong; but their faith in their male protectors seems doomed to disappointment, judging by the behaviour of the young bull seals we disturbed.

The shooting-party went on their way, and I followed up the hill in company with Wilkins, who was constantly securing some fresh snap of interest. We stumbled across a great number of giant petrels, sitting complacently with their young. So intent were they on their nursery duties—it must either have been that or else an utter absence of fear of man—that they refused to move an inch as we neared them, contenting themselves with ear-piercing squawks and snappings of their long bills. Wilkins in his turn did some snapping, too, securing very excellent pictures of these interesting birds at close range. The daring hunters meanwhile trudged after problematical deer, and found none alive, but discovered the carcass of the one previously shot; and for obvious reasons decided to leave it where it was.

Thoroughly fatigued by the unaccustomed exercise we returned to the ship, and took her across the bay to Gritviken, where anchor was dropped for the night. A short night enough it proved, for at 4 a.m. all hands were called, to hoist and stow the surf-boat and get the Quest under way. Having got our anchors the engines were started, and away we went, coasting along the forbidding shore, with the Kelvin sounder going briskly, in order that existing charts might be verified or corrected as to the varying depths of the water. It is a great invention, this Kelvin sounder, and perfectly accurate soundings can be taken to a depth of 300 fathoms or more whilst the ship is going ahead at full speed. The Kelvin is a very great improvement on the old sounding methods, when it was necessary to heave the ship to, carry the lead forward, drop it, wait until the leadline paid out, and then haul it in astern by hand; even then not knowing whether your measurements were accurate to a fathom or two either way.

The Kelvin sounder, which owes its genesis to Lord Kelvin, is in reality a simple affair; it depends for its accuracy on atmospheric pressure. It consists of a sinker—merely a weighty chunk of shaped lead—and a tube in which is slid a narrow glass tube coated internally with a chemical substance, which the pressure alters in colouring. The sinker is attached to tough wire capable of standing a terrific strain, and this wire is wound about a drum worked by friction clutches and friction brakes. When the sinker reaches bottom a slight pressure on the winding handle checks the run of the wire, a little added pressure puts the handles in action, and two men can comfortably wind up the lead from the greatest depth. Once the sounding-tube is brought aboard the glass tube is applied to a graduated gauge, and the limit of the changed colouring of the contained pigment marks the actual depth of water. The bottom of the sinker is hollowed slightly and “armed” with tallow, which, impinging on the bottom, either brings up a sample of sand, gravel or shell, or, if hard rock alone is below, brings up an imprint which sufficiently shows the nature of the bottom. The depth-reading, being measured purely by vertical atmospheric pressure, is necessarily accurate, no matter how fast the ship is going or how much wire has run out.

Presently we stopped, lowered the surf-boat and dispatched a crew ashore to bring off Douglas and Carr, and, if possible, secure some penguins for food, as our preserved stores required the most careful shepherding, by reason of the lengthy cruise ahead of us. The doctor and I, on landing, took sticks and proceeded up the hill as if for a wager. The penguin can waddle along at a considerable pace on level ground; but up a gradient he is clumsy and handicapped, and a man can beat him easily. We were out for food, not sport, so we didn’t believe in giving Master Penguin too many chances. In a very little while we killed as many as were necessary for the larder, and this without undue exertion, for the quaint fellows literally swarmed. We collected our bag and retraced our steps, and found that Wilkins had killed two Rock Hopper penguins, these for specimens, while for the cook’s benefit he had shot several Skua gulls, which make really excellent eating, being less fishy and oily than penguins and the like. Returning aboard I skinned and cleaned the birds for Green, and by the time the last stripped corpse was ready we were dropping anchor in Larsen Harbour. This is a snug little bay—very suggestive of some of the Norwegian fjords, I believe, having an extremely narrow entrance, and the land all round and about rising in precipitous crags from the placid water—sheer rock walls varying from a thousand to fifteen hundred feet in height, in general effect somewhat overwhelming. It makes an average-sized man feel more than insignificant to be brooded over by these towering walls.

Just as we anchored, a wire was discovered fouling the propeller; but the trouble was not serious, and “Old Mac” managed to set matters to rights without any great difficulty.

Because of the indifferent holding for our anchors, it was necessary for the anchor-watch to maintain a regular system of soundings, as the danger of dragging ashore was not inconsiderable.

At 5 a.m. on Wednesday, January 18th, we got our ground-tackle and steamed out between the frowning cliffs that guard the right little tight little Larsen Harbour; and I, coming on deck just before breakfast, was amazed and fascinated by the glorious beauty of the innumerable tabular icebergs in our vicinity. They shone pure white and dazzling in the glory of the sunlight, a truly wonderful spectacle, and quite enough to give one a working impression of what the Antarctic wastes really were. Furthermore, even at this early date I was able to understand what is meant by the ice-lure—the queer fascination which draws men from all the corners of the globe; which makes them leave home, comfort and peace for the sheer sake of waging war with the frozen wilderness.

As the skipper was anxious to secure absolutely correct bearings of Clerk Rocks, whose charted position was somewhat open to doubt, we headed that way; but the sunny conditions quickly gave way to thick mist, and so we missed the rocks completely, which was a pity, as it had been reported that recent volcanic eruptions had taken place there, and the sight of an active volcano amongst drifting ice would have been something worth seeing. Still, there was no time to waste in hunting the rocks, for we were now embarked on the really difficult part of our enterprise—the beating of the icy fastnesses of the South. Every day, almost every hour, indeed, was of supreme value.