Chapter III: Learning the Ropes

Sunday (4th) is a calm, restful day. I think most people on board slept well after the gale. “Rise and shine, Mr. Taylor, sir,” is the curious reveillé of the steward at 7.30. I don’t know how we are to shine, for I haven’t had a wash for three days, except a bucketful of sea-water caught with my own (by no means) fair hands. Many of us have had all our suits soaked, and as to-day is really sunny and almost warm, some queer garbs are seen. One scientist reverted to a fashionable Tudor garb—to wit, a long speckled knitted tunic reaching the knees, and a pair of very long thick blue stockings! Now that the ship has stopped rolling through 40°, it is possible to wedge oneself among the stanchions under the deck-pump and obtain a bracing bath. But, as the gentleman who occupies the cabin under the pump ungallantly objects to the water, so to speak, killing two birds with one stone, and bathing _him_ also, we are deprived of this pleasure, and revert to the even more chilly method of heaving up buckets from the vasty deep. The deck-house balcony—an enclosed strip of the poop overlooking the wardroom—forms our dressing-room, and was invaluable during the gale as a changing stage between the howling outer void and the snug wardroom below.

The first duty was to secure the loose boxes and cargo. The coal sacks were all emptied into the depleted bunkers, and the cases of petrol for the motor sledges transferred from the poop further for’ard.

A glance at the sketch-plan of the deck (p. 39) will show that the three enormous cases containing the motor sledges were almost as large as the permanent structure. Two of them, just in front of the main mast, help to form the walls of a snug “hangar” or enclosure for the dogs. Large tarpaulins overhang at the sides, and partly cover the central space; and here the dogs are snugger than they are likely to be in Antarctica. On the port side the broken bulwarks have been roughly barricaded by ropes and planks; the narrow alley alongside being largely occupied by spare timber and scantling, on which three or four other dogs are chained.

A prominent building is the ice-house, with a flat roof, on which are two most important instruments and some half-dozen dogs. The ice-house has walls a foot thick, and contains carcases of sheep, with, I believe, just three of beef. It may well be believed that there is little need at present (latitude 68°) for careful insulation; indeed, half a dozen carcases have been preserved by hanging them in the rigging; alongside some penguins, though the latter are not for food, but consecrate to the taxidermist. Mention has been made of the standard compass—tested by swinging the ship early in the voyage—by which the helmsman’s compass and various others on board are verified. In the centre of the ice-house is the range-finder—an historic instrument, which was used on the _Scotia_ in her Antarctic explorations. It will be mentioned later, when the icebergs are described.

Merry are the meals we have in the wardroom. Gigantic meals; four per diem, and one extra if you are on night-watch. Eight o’clock, twelve o’clock, four o’clock tea, and 7.30 for dinner. Let me try and give some idea of a dinner, say, on Saturday night. About three-quarters of an hour beforehand the steward, who is dressed, as are the officers, in grey jersey and corduroy trousers, appears with the remark, “Table, sir!” This is a sign to clear off charts, calculations, diaries, and not unusually novels, from the oilcloth, that he may set the table. If any books are missing after this clearance it is safe to examine the “nursery,” for our steward has a fixed idea that untidiness is a characteristic of the latter cabin, and so deposits findings on the pianola, whence they may emerge after many days. Tin mugs, bottles of lime juice, ship’s biscuits—either captain’s or digestives—butter, and enamel jugs of water are the table furniture. As the bell is jangled the afterguard pour into the wardroom. Four men do not get seats, but if you stand up the range of action is much greater, so that it really compares favourably with a seat. Captain Scott seats himself in the office chair at the head, and Lieutenants Evans and Campbell, if they are in time, sit next him. Dr. Wilson (chief scientist) has a fondness for the stool out of the pantry. I have a suspicion that his shrewd mind has realized that this combines the comfort of the seat with the mobility of the stander. The others sit where fancy lists; geologist next to pony expert, chemist, and motorman, taxidermist, navigator, lord of the dogs, doctors, etc., etc., each with his elbows lovingly exploring his neighbour’s anatomy. Two of our ’Varsity men, from Cambridge and Oxford respectively, prefer an elevated perch on a “sausage,” or clothes-bag, at the far corners. Perchance thus they feel like dons at their college high table. Enamel soup-plates are passed along, and the steward brings in two enormous jugs of pea or tomato soup. Meanwhile requests—one might say demands—of a nature strange to a landsman’s ears fly across the long table. “Carry on with the bread, Marie!” “Give the butter a wind, Jane!” (pronounced “wined”). “Belay with the biscuit!” “Where’s that drunkard’s companion?” (This last remark, terrifying to a teetotaler, merely refers to a knife with a _corkscrew_, a very precious possession.) I should like to record the ship-names bestowed on my esteemed comrades, some of whom rejoice in three or four synonyms, but forbear, for personally I should hate it to be known that I—a staunch Imperialist—have occasionally answered to the cry of “Keir Hardie.”

Soup despatched, plates of roast mutton are handed out from the pantry, with potatoes and beans, or some weird fibrous vegetable which was originally kale, I believe. Limejuice is practically the universal drink, and is extremely palatable. Indeed, this and the mutton and butter are most excellent, while all the food is good. There follows plum-duff, roly-poly, apple pie, or stewed fruits and blancmange, surely the best sweets, if the homeliest, yet devised by cooks. By this time hunger’s pangs are dying, and some one starts a chorus. We seem to prefer choruses of a rousing nature, though “it doesn’t much matter what words we sing, so long as the tune hath a right good swing.” For instance, “Rings on her fingers,” etc. (or as the Canadian sings it, “Fings on her ringers”), is very popular. “My name is Gertrude,” “Did she plant a tiny seed of love in —— —— stony heart?” (with an honoured member’s name inserted in the song) are always encored. Then, since it is Saturday night, “Sweethearts and Wives” is drunk in something stronger than the juice of the lime by about half the party. (I imagine this toast does not appeal to the other moiety.)

After dinner some dozen adjourn to the nursery for a concert. An upper bunk forms the dress circle, the washstand is the royal box, and the others crowd round the pianist. We have two flautists, two banjoists, and an expert on the mandolin, but are badly off for pianists. However, two of us can strum a little and are practising to eke out the performance. At any rate, there’s no need for the piano except the final chord of the bar, for the goodwill if not the execution of the other performers is so great that the piano is lost. After an hour of “Scottish Student,” the party disperse somewhat, except an enthusiast who plays favourite music on the pianola. Certainly ours is a quick-change programme; from “The Tarpaulin Jacket,” rather badly strummed, to “Lohengrin,” as played in grand opera!

By ten or eleven all but the watch have turned in, and we are one day nearer the Pole.

The 6th and 7th were days of dull weather, with some rain, and a wind veering to south-west, but we made good progress under steam, with just sufficient sail to keep her steady. As a matter of fact, in ordinary weather, she is a very steady ship, and anticipations of five weeks’ mal-de-mer have in my case not been realized in the slightest. All but one unfortunate turned out throughout the gale—an heroic effort in the case of two of the afterguard, who had no interest in the dinner-bell for over a week.

Indoor work perforce occupied us, except when the setting of sails required volunteers at the ropes. I hesitate to describe this operation, for up to the present I have not been able to distinguish the “main weather braces” from the “fore to’gallant lee shrouds.” However, I am busy learning them and the words of some of the chanties.

One of the most popular describes the adventures of a mythical hero, “Ranzo,” who “was no sailor” at the beginning of the epic, but being taught navigation by an unusually affable captain, ends up by realizing that proud position himself! The chorus, “Ranzo, boys, Ranzo,” is easily remembered. Moreover, it is etiquette to pull only during the chorus. No wonder the sailorman loves this chanty. At the conclusion of the hauling some mysterious signal passes along the “centipede” of sailors, and the experts let go, while the novice is jerked forward off his feet by some one coiling the rope rapidly round the belaying pins. Then we troop back to the wardroom, leave our oilskins and sea-boots in the “balcony,” and resume our reading, writing, or embroidery. This last may seem unusual, but was a fact.

Many of the afterguard were provided with silken sledge flags given to them by friends before leaving. Others had had them made in Christchurch. One of the officers, nothing daunted by feminine and professional examples, boldly set to work and evolved a fine one under the jeers of his companions. The first sledge flags were carried in the north on the Franklin Relief Expeditions, and they are all made on the same pattern. They are three feet long and one foot wide, the end having a triangular notch a foot deep. At the staff end is worked a square St. George’s Cross (red on white) while any desired design, such as a private crest, school shield or professional emblem, occupies the centre of the flag. A cord or ribbon of appropriate colour runs all round the flag. Some are very ornamental, and they will make a brave show down south. A maple leaf, and a map of Australia are patriotic signs. A flash of lightning adorns the meteorologist’s banner. Shields of the Cambridge colleges are numerous, and several well-known schools, both in Australia and England, are commemorated.

Members of the party were soon seized by Dr. Levick in the interests of science. He was armed with a wonderful array of slips of coloured glasses, and with a simple telescope, across which the glasses could be inserted. With these he examined the colour of all our eyes, for it is maintained that there is a perceptible change in the iris after a sojourn in polar regions. I do not suppose green eyes would change into the more popular violet, but on our return we may find we have moved up or down his scale of colours; just as one learned ethnologist declares that the hardy Norsemen are Africans decolorised by a changed environment!

In the evening a few of the afterguard may bring out novels, but there has been little time except a day or two in the Pack for this relaxation. It is interesting to see how tastes differ. Some swear by Conan Doyle and dislike Merriman. Others find the White Company tedious (though they are rare) and revel in biography. One officer—with an eye to the penguins may be—is carefully perusing the “Amateur Poacher,” while all of us have studied the book on Ski-Running. A most acceptable and suitable gift from Mr. Reginald Smith and others was a complete set of those handy sevenpenny and shilling books containing almost all the best English fiction of the last fifty years. They are well printed, fairly strong and not so valuable that one needs to don a dress-suit to read them. The strong book cupboard (now on the “balcony”) will be a most welcome addition to our winter quarters during the long night.

One problem, or set of problems, is engaging the attention of every class of officer, be he doctor, biologist, or geologist. It is that of field astronomy, for it is obviously essential that each sledging party should be able to locate itself fairly accurately by the sun or stars without reference to the natural features. The latter will probably be uncharted, or—in the Barrier and plateau journeys—non-existent. It is not a specially easy business, but bulks largely in exploration, and I should feel proud if I can briefly explain the two simplest methods so that a layman can follow them.

_Latitude_ is distance (in angular measure) north or south of the equator. The South Pole is 90°, and Melbourne 38° (subtended at the centre of the earth).

The sketch shows a vertical section through the earth, the polar explorer being supposed at I in the midst of illimitable ice plains. The position of the sun at midday is shown. With a sextant or theodolite he measures the angle between the horizon (H_{1}H) and the sun (which equals SOH). He knows the angle SOP; for this is given in the nautical almanac for the time of the observation. Now the angle IOE is the required latitude, and we have all the data needed to get it; as thus: Latitude, IOE = IOS + SOE = (90° − SOH) + (90° − SOP) (_i.e._ a right angle less altitude from sextant, added to a right angle less the almanac angle). By this short calculation the explorer can tell his exact distance from the equator; for a degree equals sixty-nine miles.

The celestial triangle is shaded. The earth is to be considered a
point.
]

But he does not know whereabouts is his position on this parallel of latitude. To do this we require the _longitude_. All that is necessary is to find the difference in time between that at Greenwich and the local time (as shown by the sun) in the aforementioned illimitable plain. A chronometer (a watch with a special compensation for temperature changes) gives him Greenwich time; and the problem is to get the exact local time and to transform the hours into degrees by multiplying by fifteen (24 hours = 360°). Our next diagram is on a larger scale. We have increased our spherical surface so that the sun lies on its surface at S. A vertical line, OZ, above our explorer hits this celestial sphere at Z. (The earth is really a mere dot at O compared with this huge sphere.)

Now we have a problem as clear as that involved in determining latitude. The position of the sun (S) on the sphere’s surface is determined by the intersection of two lines, PS and ZS. Of these PS is tabulated in the almanac, and SZ, between the sun and the zenith (directly overhead), is measured by the sextant. The remaining side PZ of the triangle PZS is given by 90° minus the latitude EZ. Hence PZ the colatitude is known from our previous calculation. Given three sides of a triangle (even if it be on a curved surface), we can, as in Euclid, determine the angle at the pole ZPS. But this angle is the angle between the required meridian of longitude PZE and the longitude of the localities at that moment experiencing midday. It is extremely simple to find out what the latter longitude is, since we know Greenwich time from the chronometer. For suppose our chronometer says it is seven in the morning at Greenwich, then at this time it will be midday at 75° east (five hours difference) at Bombay. If our angle ZPS turns out to be 100° under these conditions (and we know it is midday at Bombay), our longitude is 75 + 100, or 175°; about that of Cape Crozier.

I feel rather proud of this explanation. I have never seen the problems so described before, and it has passed the critical review of a navigator. May it help every reader who may chance to be lost with a sextant and nautical almanac!

After the gale the dogs took some time to recover their normal spirits. We had heard that the Peary dogs were huge, ferocious beasts, ready to eat a man on sight. But they tamed down wonderfully, and, truth to tell, seem somewhat afraid of the stockier Siberian horde. It is prophesied that they will fall victims to the latter when shore fighting starts, and consequently they may be sent with the Edward VII. Land (or eastern) party. They are fed on biscuits, and (lately) on seal meat, and are certainly not kept very hungry, for one often sees a little food left. Poor Osman, the leading dog, was very sick after the gale, and was accommodated with some straw in an iron washing-dish. In this he curled up snugly, and recovered in a few days. The ponies and dogs consume about 80 per cent. of the drinking water; but the latter were not so thirsty as expected, so that for some days each officer was allowed about as much as a dog in his cabin! Of course, with special soaps it is possible to get off a certain amount of grime with salt water, but fresh water is a great treat.

There are several pets on board. Firstly, a beautiful collie, who spends her time in the foc’sle, snuggled in some sacks. Then there’s “Niggsy,” the cat, “that walks,” as Kipling says. Imperturbable, as usual, he tolerates fulsome fondling, and escapes as soon as may be. Smaller fry in the shape of rabbits and a guinea pig accompany us. Early in the voyage one of the rabbits seems to have challenged a pony to mortal combat. At any rate, its flattened carcase was found in the stall. Poor piggy inhabited a cigar-box on occasion, and this was carelessly dropped overboard one day, so that unless a crab-eating seal carries him there he will never reach Antarctica.

During the next few days the geologists were busy discussing the first sub-expedition in Antarctica. It will probably be of interest to readers to know how the amount of sledging stores is arrived at. It is a problem almost as intricate as a determination of longitude! The first factor to be considered is _time_. We will work backwards. The middle of March is getting very cold and dark, and this fixes the end of sledging. The _venue_ of the proposed survey lies around Mount Lister, across MacMurdo Sound, and towering some 13,000 feet (see Map at end). Here, near Butter Point, three scientists (and perhaps one other officer) and a sailor will be landed from the ship as soon as possible after the winter quarters are well started. This may be about the 20th of January. The _time_ factor is therefore two months.

Our programme will be approximately as follows:—To leave the ship at Butter Point and march two days up the Ferrar Glacier to Descent Pass. Here we depôt four weeks’ provisions, and push on with two weeks’ to the Dry Valley, which we explore and map. Meanwhile the ship has made another depôt (near the Dailey Isles) of a fortnight’s stores, which we pick up on the 1st of March. So that we have to carry with us from the ship only _six_ weeks’ provisions, and of this only four weeks will need to be moved over long distances. So much for the distance factor.

A man can drag 200 lbs.; there are five men in the party, and the time is six weeks. Two pounds of food per man per day is roughly 12 lbs. a day for the party, giving a total of 500 lbs. food. One gallon of oil will last five men for a week and weighs with its tin 10 lbs. Hence for six weeks, say 70 lbs. oil.

Now for equipment. Two sledges weigh 130 lbs.; one tent, 35 lbs.; five sleeping-bags, 65 lbs.; finneskoes (shoes, etc.), total 50 lbs.; cookers, 25 lbs.; ropes, repair tools, ice-axes, a spade, etc., total 70 lbs. Finally, since we shall have much rock work and hard glacier ice, a pair of Day’s under-runners for the sledges—made of =Ꭲ= steel—will be carried. They weigh 40 lbs., and the equipment amounts to 400 lbs. in all.

Instruments are essential, and weighty. One of the five-inch theodolites, specially built for the expedition, only weighs 11 lbs. Thermometers (two), aneroids (three), clinometers (two), hypsometers (one), prismatic compasses (three), hammers and chisels will add 40 lbs. to our load. For personal gear (tobacco, diaries, socks, etc.), one is allowed 10 lbs. each, totalling 50 lbs. Cameras and oddments, 30 lbs. Now let us see how the grand total stands:—

lbs.
Food 500
Fuel 70
Sledges, etc. 400
Instruments 40
Personal gear 50
Cameras, etc. 30
————
1090 lbs.

to be discharged from the ship at Butter Point. This, it will be seen, nicely balances the pulling power of five men, which (at 200 lbs. each) equals 1000 lbs. The party live day and night in the clothes they start off in, so that there is no load due to blankets or change of clothing. Non-smokers are, however, advised to carry a pair of socks instead of Navy Cut among their personal gear.

At any time now we might expect to see icebergs and the pack. From New Zealand we had been accompanied by albatrosses and petrels. During the gale it was almost comic to glance overboard during a rest from the bailing, and watch the sea-birds swinging to and fro over the angry waves or even settling down on them. With perfect unconcern they carefully tuck in their wings and float quite comfortably in strong contrast to our position. On the 8th Dr. Wilson hung out a snare-line from the mizen shrouds. It was merely a long looped thin wire, without hook or bait. Soon one of the Antarctic petrels, as it swung back and forth in the wake of the ship, was caught in the snare and pulled in to join the zoologist’s collection. The bird was dark brown with a white breast and a particularly fierce action with its pointed beak. So our assistant zoologist discovered when he posed before the camera and was requested to let the bird look pretty! The most curious feature was the central nostril in the form of a bone tube over the beak. This is the characteristic of the petrels and distinguishes them from the albatrosses.