Chapter II: Ship Life in Calm and Storm

The few days between our return from the New Zealand Alps and the sailing of the _Terra Nova_ were occupied by multifarious duties. The ship had been dry-docked at Lyttelton, and a bulkhead built across the fore hold. This space was filled with water, and the leaks detected where the water spouted out. At the same time the lock nuts on the four-bladed propeller were inspected by chipping off the casing of concrete in which they were embedded. A cross section amidships was almost rectangular. I was surprised at the enormous lateral bulges which almost made the boat flat-bottomed hereabouts, though she narrowed to a sharp overhanging bow heavily plated with iron. To a landsman the rudder appeared strangely long and narrow, almost like a simple vertical beam. But a broad rudder would project dangerously in floe work.

After caulking, the ship was brought back to shed No. 5, and the loading of the stores proceeded rapidly. On Friday (25th October) the dogs and ponies were brought across from Quail Island, some five miles higher up the harbour. Neither gave much trouble, and I was struck with the calm way the dogs endured the pulling and ignominious lifting by neck, back, or legs without retaliating. Probably our dogs are more gentlemanly than those of former expeditions.

The ponies are placed in stalls in the fore part of the ship. Four are just abaft the cook’s galley in a strong shed, boarded up for four feet, but otherwise open in front. The mess deck—which may be described as the ground floor of the fore part of the ship—has been given up to the remaining dozen in similar stalls, six along each side. The seamen whose quarters have thus been annexed have gone one storey lower. The dogs were at first chained up everywhere—over the hatches, on the deck-house, in the waist, everywhere except the poop. The two Peary dogs—somewhat larger but not so sturdy as the Siberians—are marooned in the alley between the laboratories and the deck-house, where they are tripped over every few minutes by some hurrying scientist. They are both black and indistinguishable to me, but are known—by a somewhat invidious juxtaposition of ideas—as Peary and Cook.

On Saturday, the 26th, a farewell address was given by the Bishop of Christchurch. It took place at noon on the poop, and was attended by all the members of the expedition and some half-dozen visitors. The time of departure had been fixed for three o’clock many days previously, so that every one was ready and there was no delay. We were accompanied to the Heads by half a dozen excursion steamers and tugs, and by numerous small launches. Guns were fired from the battery and from the warships at anchor in the port. A New Zealand flag floated on our mizen mast—presented by a local school. Many of the launches had kindly messages displayed. One particular large banner in the distance excited our curiosity. With the glasses we made out, “Excursion to the Heads, one shilling.” What a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous!

At the Heads Captain Scott left us to join at Dunedin, but our most popular manager, Mr. Wyatt, accompanied us in his cabin. In anticipation of bad weather—which happily spared us—the newly joined members of the expedition devoted their attention to stowing their personal baggage. I must confess I felt this a hopeless task.

Our cabin measures six by eight feet. On the roof beam is cut, “Certified to accommodate two seamen,” but four scientists and their belongings have spent a large portion of a month therein, and ultimately with little discomfort. But four wooden bunks and a wash-basin take up a large portion of six by eight feet. Our Antarctic clothing had been issued the day before we sailed—a solid block of woollen goods, with a canvas “sausage” four feet long which they filled completely. Four of these formed the _pièce de résistance_ of our baggage. But each of us had another similar bag of ordinary clothing, and a box for books, etc. On top of this pile reposed a layer of sea-boots of enormous length and weight, but during bad weather beyond price. Cameras and other delicate trifles were shoved in through the door, when one had managed to open it sufficiently.

I had no idea where we were going to bestow ourselves, but an old voyager explained to me how it was to be done. Obviously there was no floor space, no room for shelves, no cupboards; but the bunks (one above the other) are big solid wooden structures provided with four blankets and a thick mattress. A man does not need much more space than a coffin to sleep in, and these bunks were nearly three feet apart. It was almost impossible to fill that wonderful space beneath the mattress! I emptied into it two rucksacks of books, etc., one of the aforementioned “sausages,” a drawing board, all sorts of tools, diaries, hammers, bottles of ink, hunting knives. When this was safely under the mattress my sleep was not troubled by these crumpled rose-leaves.

The three new-comers were all geologists, and as such needed no laboratory on the ship, but the other scientists were able to stow away many articles in the physical, chemical, and biological laboratories. These palatial quarters will be described later, when it will be understood that this does not imply that _their_ mattresses were free from protuberances. Wires festoon some of the bunks to eke out the accommodation. The space over one’s feet is not wasted, for small wooden boxes are nailed thereon—or maybe a small bookcase. I thought that two of the shoulder-bags used in the Alps (known as rucksacks) would be most useful if hung alongside my bunk. This ingenious idea failed dismally, as will appear later. No one in our cabin has succeeded in controlling the vagaries of our ubiquitous water-can. It would appear to be an ordinary utensil of a brown-yellow colour, with a spout. But somewhere or other it has a pair of legs and a mischievous brain contained within it. And usually it is drunk with its powers for mischief, and is discovered on its side spilling water on our socks and shoes, or inebriate in another corner destroying all satisfaction in one’s last dry change. It is only of late that we have had peace, for now only half a cup of water per day is allowed, and the bucket over the bulwarks serves all other purposes.

Let us pay a call next door—further for’ard, but still on the port side of the wardroom. This apartment is known as the “nursery.” It is bigger than our dwelling, but needs to be, for six stalwart explorers have their quarters there. Black envy at times embitters the friendly feelings between the neighbours, for has not the nursery a cupboard with a whole drawer (two inches high) to each inmate! A somewhat doubtful joy is theirs, however, for by far the most prominent piece of furniture therein—and, indeed, there are only two besides the cupboard—is a Broadwood pianola! One of the first I ever saw was in Samoa, twenty miles from a town, and owned by a native gentleman. In that case it was a separate attachment, and as his piano had lost many of the strings, little good resulted from the combination. But our pianola is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. The new-comer notices a bulge in the ceiling—apparently of rubber—with a hose pipe attached thereto. This is a primitive but necessary adjunct to our pianola, and is, in fact, its little umbrella, which keeps it dry when the stormy winds do blow and poop-decks leak. The other piece of furniture, mentioned above, is a tall wooden cabinet, containing 250 rolls for the pianola. Although probably every member of the expedition has barked his shins thereon, yet all is forgiven when Wagner, Gilbert and Sullivan, Strauss, the Washington Post, or Ragtime tunes (not being a musician, I do not know the names of 245 of them) are echoing through the wardroom. Another trial to the men of the nursery is that their apartments form a short cut to the engine-room. It is only since we reached the pack that a constant procession of intruders, bearing unpleasing footgear and damp clothing (to spread on the cylinder head), has ceased to trespass.

Across the for’ard end of the wardroom is an important room dedicated to the culinary arts. Here the two stewards cut up succulent joints, and during a gale a merry jostling and jangling of countless plates and pannikins rival the notes of the pianola. The entrance to the wardroom is on the starboard side. It is beset with angles and pitfalls. When a visitor has safely negotiated the steep steps leading from the poop-deck, and turned sharply round to enter the wardroom, he is in grave danger of falling down a hatch to the lazaret and chronometer-room. Theoretically, when the hatch is open (about six hours a day) an iron bar is placed across the passage. Practically the natives feel with an exploratory toe in the dark entrance, and press on boldly if the hatch is down. Opening on to these somewhat dismal surroundings is the cabin of Meares—the man of dogs and wild adventures in the Far East.

A large portion of the starboard side of the wardroom is occupied by the “owner’s” cabin. Here are Captain Scott and Lieutenant Evans, the latter taking charge of the ship on its voyage south. The four after cabins (two on each side) are not quite so circumscribed as those of the scientists, but they are the permanent quarters of the navigators, while _nous autres_ are mere birds of passage, and will soon be scattered over the face of Victoria Land.

The ship was hove-to just outside Lyttelton Harbour, and one had leisure to admire the wonderful coast-line of Banks Peninsula. Everything indicates a late submergence of this part of New Zealand. Inland valleys sloping _away_ from the coast—relics of a former topography—are laid bare and chopped in half by the erosion of the waves. I strolled over to the top of the ice-house, where one of the junior scientists was sitting stoically among the dogs, and Lieutenant Pennell was bending over the large standard compass which ornaments the ice-house roof. He said, “You haven’t a knife on you, have you?” I proudly pulled out the bowie I’d just bought with evil designs on Antarctic seals. He remarked, “You’ll have to take that off. I’m swinging ship.”

This consisted in rotating the ship as rapidly as feasible, meanwhile taking timed observations on the sun to obtain true bearings. By this means the total effect of the iron in the ship and stores on the magnet of the compass was ascertained. On leaving Antarctica next year this operation must be repeated. The aforesaid assistant was noting times when the observer called out “Top!” The actual swinging occupied about an hour, during which one could trace the devious track of the ship by the circular wake over her stern.

The Clerk of the Weather was kind to us, and our journey of thirty hours from Lyttelton to Port Chalmers was peaceful and uneventful. The farewell evolutions of Lieutenant Rennick on the poop-deck, whereby he sent and received messages which apparently afforded him considerable amusement, directed attention to the value of semaphore signalling in the frozen south. Next day might be seen eminent scientists wildly waving their arms according to the accepted code of the Boy Scouts. Personally I prefer the Morse code, for it can be learned in ten minutes by a dodge which may interest my readers as it did the Antarctic party. Each sign is represented by a word or combination, which can readily be associated with the letter required. In these key-words _dots_ are represented by vowels and the isolated letters _s_, _z_, and _h_; _dashes_ by the consonants (including _w_ and _y_). Thus A (dot, dash) is _an_; B (dash, dot, dot, dot) is _base_; C is _cāve_; _die_, _e_, _safe_, _gnu_, _hu̇sh_, _is_, _kit_, _aloe_, _Mr._, _no_, _PQR_, _Epps_, _QRST_, _are_, _sss_, _t_, _usk_, _azov_, _awl_, _yell_, _bruz_. Of the remaining letters J is the exact opposite of B and X of P. It was rather a curious coincidence that both Dr. Simpson and myself became interested in these codes through reading a tale, “Raymond Frezols,” years ago in the good old _B.O.P._

At dusk on Sunday the 27th we entered the heads of Port Chalmers. This is another drowned upland valley of a similar nature to Lyttelton Harbour. The novices in the afterguard chose this opportunity to essay the rigging. The scientists who had made the voyage from England lay out along the yard in fine style, in a manner which seemed distinctly precarious. Standing on a jumping “foot-rope,” and leaning over the broad wooden surface of the yard, both hands can be used for furling the sails. When the next sailor gets off the foot-rope the latter jerks up a foot or more, so that this position one hundred feet above the water is not one likely to attract a nervous person. On this particular occasion it was too much for the hardy sailor man. The wind was dead astern, and we were burning Westport coal—which is a tremendous soot-producer, whatever its steam qualities are. As a result, a dense mephitic fog enveloped every one, full of sulphurous fumes, with clinging clots of soot. It was a weird spectacle to see the men working in what one might call a “Hades in the Heavens”—while elsewhere the whole atmosphere was calm and clear. Our photographer rushed out to try and get the effect, but the wind shifted slightly, and the men had come down for a breather. Soon they returned and made a “harbour stow” for the credit of the ship and the gratification of the good folks of Dunedin.

The most striking object in a polar exploring ship is undoubtedly the crow’s nest. This is a large barrel, about four feet high, with a rudimentary seat therein, and a floor which chiefly consists of a trap-door. After a good dinner on Sunday evening—which I note consisted of tinned bloater, sheep’s tongue, rhubarb, and blancmange, with jam and potted meat (if the former edibles did not suffice)—I climbed up 150 feet or so of ratlines and reached the crow’s nest. There are two stories or landing-stages on the way, the “maintop,” about 60 feet up, which is quite a large platform, immediately under the main yard. There are two ways of reaching this—firstly, up the main ratlines, which bring you right under the maintop, when it is necessary to claw out by a small ladder—overhanging very unpleasantly at first—called the “futtocks.” The other, simpler route—scorned by every true sailor, but very acceptable at first—is an accessory lateral ladder, which gets there just the same. Another pair of ratlines—the higher set a little to one side, as before—lead to the next stage—the “crosstrees.” This is not a platform, but a mere brace of horizontal beams. Another 30 feet and the crow’s nest is reached. It is a scramble at first to get in. The trap-door is lifted by one’s head, and then the difficulty I experienced was to get my knees through, for the interior of an empty barrel does not afford much of a grip. It is not used until the pack is reached, but is then invaluable in tracing out the leads or lanes of open water, though, at that height, it is almost impossible to tell whether a floe is one foot or 20 feet thick.

Wednesday (30th November) was our first day out of sight of land. Shore-going suits were either sent back to Lyttelton from Port Chalmers or stored away in tin trunks on board. Little will they be needed for eighteen months or more. Fearful and wonderful were the rigs that appeared. Caps were of all shapes and sizes, from a Stetson with a back-strap to a red piratical nightcap. One member turned out in a salmon-coloured knitted confection, which by various foldings could be used as a cap, a cravat, or a purse (of the oldfashioned sausage shape). Coats of all kinds clothed us. A black leather jacket with the fur inside is much admired. This is worn by our Siberian traveller (Meares), and is suitably accompanied by a sort of fur busby of fox-paw fur. Norfolk shooting-coats are popular; one man braved the cold in a light-textured serge suit, such as clerks wear by the thousand. But a most welcome gift at the last moment of a hundred grey jerseys furnished every man with a pair of beautifully warm garments that have in every sense driven all else under cover. They are rather large, so that when increasing cold necessitates more clothing this goes on under the grey jersey. Nether garments soon became fairly uniform also. The special Antarctic clothing is being kept till we land, but by most of us nothing but the heavy corduroy trousers have been found thick enough to withstand the cold since we crossed the Antarctic circle. These trousers are extremely broad in the beam, rivalling a Dutchman’s. But at the ankle they fit tightly when buttoned up, so that they resemble a giant’s riding breeches worn by a dwarf!

Map of Antarctica showing localities of recent expeditions. (1)
Campbell, 1911; (2) Campbell, 1912; (3) Taylor, 1902; (4) Taylor,
1911; (5) Scott, January 18, 1912. Based on map from _Royal
Geographical Journal_, July, 1913.
]

When Nelson ran short of thick breeches he made some by the simple process of cutting out a kilt of dreadnought blanket, putting in two brass eyelets and lashing it with string. As he had a red mob-cap, a sweater, and long sea-boots, he stalked about for days a living representation of Captain Kidd.

The official breeches are adorned with bone soup-plate buttons which displease some of the wearers, so that the bowie knives have come into play and cut them off. Tastes vary with regard to knives. Experienced men seem to prefer a shilling butcher’s knife with a rough wooden handle; but the budding sailorman, if he has any money, cannot resist the ornamental daggers, ranging to two feet in length, with highly ornamental handles, cross-guards, and sheaths. For seal-killing these are practically useless, for the cross-guard prevents a deep stab, which is the speediest method of despatching the animal.

There is much variation in footgear. Our Canadian wears “shoe-packs” or soft-soled boots, with some resemblance to a polony in shape. During the earlier part of our voyage in the “furious fifties,” every one used sea-boots of leather, rubber, or leather and canvas. A local New Zealand brand were very comfortable, though heavy, and so long that, as an envious officer remarked, “they only needed braces to turn them into trousers.” It seemed almost impossible to get wet in them, but in the gales we discovered they were waterproof from the quantities of water we poured out on changing them. This had all swept in from above, but was just as wet as if it had soaked through in the normal manner!

Every week increasing cold has led to a greater bulk of underclothing, but little change is apparent in the outer man. With plenty of food, plenty of blankets, and plenty of rope-hauling, the cold is hardly noticed so far.

The poop-deck was converted into a barber’s shop the first day outward bound. Scissors were despised by the operators, who preferred horse-clippers, with which they simply and thoroughly removed every possible hair. Ponting (the photographer) has a specially close-cutting pair of clippers, designed to trim off frosty beards on sledging trips, and one officer was so pleased with the first cut that he was retrimmed with the latter weapon. The result was very comic, and called forth enquiries from ribald youths as to when he was likely to hatch out!

We began the month of December with a spanking breeze in the most favourable quarter. The fore and main masts were clothed in sails. There is a huge boom on the mizen mast which swings over the poop-deck (as in a yacht) when in use, and carries a spanker, but the alterations to the poop and the presence of the funnel of the auxiliary engine so block the sails, and indeed to some extent offer the same obstruction to the wind, that our ship is to all intents and purposes a two-master. Howbeit, we bowled to southward at a rate of nine knots. The average speed of the engine is five or six knots, so that the sails were of great assistance. Indeed, when little cargo is in the hold she has reached the respectable speed or ten and a half miles per hour.

How space was utilized on the steamer.
]

Let us take a walk around the decks in their present crowded condition. The last day of loading the supercargo announced that the engineer could have “two inches of coal.”

This amount is not quite so small as it might seem. It was found that the ship was still two inches off her Plimsollmark (though one of the advantages of being a Royal yacht, I believe, is that she is, to a certain extent, freed from ordinary loading regulations), and as each inch of loading represented nine tons, this meant an addition of eighteen tons to our precious fuel. The most prominent cargo was, therefore, this coal, in bags, which were laid wherever there was any crevice to spare. The “waist”—as the deck between the elevated poop and foc’sle is termed—was several bags deep where it was not occupied by the huge motor sledges and cases and cases of petrol. Many bags were deposited on the for’ard portion of the poop-deck. And over all sprawled the dogs. Much of this deck cargo—including all the coal—would be restowed later, the latter in the ship’s furnaces during the first week. But “much water went over the bulwarks” (to misquote a proverb) before we reached clear decks.

Under the rising wind on the evening of the first, the water repeatedly came in board, and the “afterguard,” comprising the non-nautical officers, were set to the task for which their knowledge was adequate, that of heaving coal sacks to the bunker manholes below the bridge. Slippery decks, soaking sacks, and swamping seas—for the wind continued to increase—made this by no means a pleasant task. It was often necessary to haul the sacks right over the engine-room from one side to the other of the ship. A sudden lurch and down would slip a leg between two cases of petrol while the sack fell on one’s person, and “Peary” (or “Cook”) assisted in the mêlée. One special mantrap consisted in the stiffening beams connecting the roofs of the laboratories and the deck-house. When the deck of the alley-way between was covered with sacks of coal a man’s head was very liable to crash into these beams in the effort to escape a sea. I had that misfortune several times, and our headstrong Canadian friend’s score must have mounted well into the ’teens.

Next day (the 2nd) the wind had veered to the west and south, and had increased very greatly; in fact, we experienced a full gale. The ship was hove-to for two days, and though we novices could see well enough that things were very lively, we did not know how grave a risk we were passing through. It was rather a rough breaking-in, for by this time our cabins were swimming in water. At first I rather selfishly hoped that my _lower_ bunk would be protected from the thirteen Niagaras flooding the upper bunk by the floor of the latter; but as the storm increased in violence both were soaked—blankets, tools, books, cameras, everything except a foot or so at the head end.

Early on Friday (the 2nd) it was obvious that not much more could be done with the hand-pumps. The seas were incessantly washing over the waist—where the pumps are placed at the foot of the main mast—and burying the deck under several feet of water. Casks of petrol were drifting about and staving in; the hammering on the port bulwarks was tremendous, and it was a risky business to get from the poop to the foc’sle. This was, of course, not unnatural in a gale, and would have caused little anxiety beyond that consequent on conditions of heavy lading and loose deck cargo. But it can be readily understood that water was finding its way into the bilge by a hundred channels with the constant sweeping of the decks by the waves. The poop was repeatedly washed, giving the helmsman a tough time to keep her head in the right direction. At this time the pumps all refused duty! A curious compound of coal-dust and oil had formed into balls and pellets, which collected in the bilge and choked both the hand and engine-driven pumps. But this could not be cleared out because the bilge was feet deep in water; moreover, the suction end of the hand-pumps could not be reached without lifting the hatches, an impossible expedient under the circumstances. Thus were we driven to a method almost unique with a ship of 750 tons—that of bailing out with buckets!

Day and night—in two-hour shifts—the bailing went on, until, luckily, the gale moderated. A very strenuous time, which I never desire to experience again.

Down in the engine-room floor are some movable iron plates, which cover a hole about two feet deep. Into this sump the bilge water and normal leakage drains, and is pumped out with the greatest ease either by the donkey-pump or by the hand-pumps. But during this gale the water was nearly four feet deep, covering the whole floor of the engine-room from side to side, and gradually creeping up till it was in the ashpits, only an inch or two from the heated bottom plates of the boilers. If these latter were reached there was great probability that they would buckle, and practically ruin the boilers. Luckily there was no lack of unskilled labour in the persons of the afterguard, and they assisted the stokers by forming a chain from the bottom of the ship to the poop-deck. Three iron ladders with two intermediate platforms led from the floor plates to the open air, and a gang of a dozen men occupied this for twenty continuous hours.

Vertical section illustrating incidents in the great storm, January
2–3, 1911.
]

Outside was the sound of the booming gale shrilling through the shrouds and ratlines in one continuous shriek. Cold waves washed over the bridge, but luckily did not penetrate very rapidly through the sou’-westers, oilskins, and thigh-boots worn by every one. But while the upper end of the chain was in an Antarctic atmosphere, the heated waters washing about the engine-room filled the latter with a steamy, oily heat, so that several of the workers kept their clothes dry by leaving them behind in their cabins. Down below the sound of the rushing waters dashing from side to side with every oscillation of the ship was broken only by a cry of “Water” as the chain of buckets went up, and “Empty” as they descended rapidly to the bottom. Occasionally some one would raise a chanty, which was sung vigorously until breath failed through swinging up the heavy buckets. One of them was a shade heavier than the others, and it was always a relief to be done with _that_ one for a brief space. At the hatchway, luckily on the lee side, the end man held the empty buckets to prevent them washing overboard. He was kept moderately warm by the water from the emptying buckets, since being in the line of fire he received most of it amidships, whence it trickled down inside his boots, forming a novel mode of keeping the feet warm.

Now and again would come a welcome cry of “Spell Ho!” and those below would climb into the cool air, and those outside dive inside to thaw themselves. Then to it again till five minutes before the watch ended, when some one would be sent off to warn the relief. The relieved watch turned in, into bunks soaking wet in many cases, and by the time one had warmed up and snoozed a few minutes, there came a cry of “Turn out; your watch!” However, by Friday night we were holding our own and gaining slightly on the water. Meanwhile the engineers were working double tides to cut a hole through the bulkheads so as to get at the lower end of the hand-pumps. This was accomplished after many hours’ work, and with the aid of a rat-trap the pumps were brought into use again. This humble implement was shaped to cover the end of the pipe, and served admirably to keep the coal-balls from clogging the valves. Soon sixteen men—eight on each long crank handle—were clanking away despite the incoming waves, and as the sea moderated the outrush from the hand-pumps assisted the steam-pumps so that on Saturday afternoon the ship was practically dry.

The toll of the gale was fairly heavy. Two of the ponies in the foc’sle stalls had died of the buffeting and exhaustion; one dog had been washed overboard; and the port bulwarks the whole length of the waist (about thirty feet) had been badly damaged. The after-portion for two panels (to use a landlubber’s term) had been torn out bodily, while for’ard of that the planking was washed away, leaving only the framework. Personal gear suffered greatly. Books and diaries in my bunk had been pulped, a camera so warped as to be nearly useless, and several surveying instruments, which I had placed in a canvas rucksack on the wall, ruined or badly damaged. During the gale I had felt that the rucksack was quite dry, but on clearing out the bunk a little later I found the bag contained half a bucketful of a sort of “hoosh”—consisting of rusty water, aneroids, compasses, and razors well mixed together! Waterproof bags have their disadvantages under such circumstances. In the log the gale is given the number 10, 12 being the maximum. We were unfortunate in meeting with it so early in the voyage; but, now it is all over, one is not sorry that for half an hour or so, in the words of Captain Scott, it was touch and go.