BLOCKED BY THE PACK ICE
On the evening of the 8th in latitude 63° 30′ we saw our first icebergs.
We were just starting dinner when news was brought, and the soup looked
tempting. So many times had “Wolf” been cried, that not a man moved!
However, later some of us climbed the main rigging and far away in the
east we could see two silvery pyramids glistening in the setting sun.
Not even a fortnight’s blockade in the pack has damped our admiration of
the icebergs, and I shall have much to say of their striking beauty.
Early on the 9th of December we entered the zone of pack-ice. On the
horizon was an enormous fragment of the Great Barrier, probably three
miles long, and one of the largest ever seen by those on board who knew
these regions well. It was a tilted berg, so that the upper surface
sloped considerably to the north. Most of these bergs float off from the
Barrier in the shape of huge bricks. In this form they are known as
tabular bergs. It often happens that large fragments of the lower
surface break away, and in that case there is a readjustment of the
flotation line, and the berg tilts over—as in the tilted example just
quoted. Often the old flotation line is exposed on the side of these
bergs as a furrow or line of caves cut by the waves. Still other bergs
exhibit _pinnacles_ and hummocks. It may be that these have actually
turned turtle, or possibly they may be from shore _glaciers_, which have
received ice debris from overhanging cliffs. Another group exhibit a
broad _domed_ surface sloping gradually from the centre. These are
particularly difficult to explain, for neither the barrier nor the
glaciers exhibit a surface of this nature, and it is difficult to see
how it could have arisen after the berg left the parent body of ice.
They may represent the large undulations seen in glacier tongues.
There had been little so far which came into the province of geology,
but from this time forward the three geologists (Priestley, Debenham,
and Taylor), and the physicist (Wright) formed an “Iceberg Watch.” Day
and night since the 9th every berg in sight has been noted and
catalogued as tabular, domed, tilted, or pinnacled. All within three
miles have been sketched and many photographed. Their distance has been
determined by the range-finder, and their height by the sextant.
The range-finder is a tube four feet long, containing a prism at each
end and an eyepiece in the centre. The instrument is mounted on a heavy
rotating standard, and the observer looks into the _side_ of the
instrument (as it were across the middle), and not lengthwise as in a
telescope. Through one prism appears the image of the upper half of the
berg, through the other prism (which can be rotated on a vertical axis)
the image of the lower half of the berg. Obviously, if the object is
very far away, the rays of light constituting these two images are
nearly parallel. If the berg is nearer, the movable prism must be
twisted inwards to make its image fall correctly under that of the fixed
prism. (From the end prisms it is a simple matter to deflect the images
again into the same central eyepiece.) The amount of rotation of the
right-hand prism measures the distance of the object.
A somewhat similar optical arrangement is made use of in the sextant.
Here, however, a mirror image of one object is made to coincide, by
moving an arm of the sextant, with the direct image of another object.
The _angle_ between the two objects—say the top and bottom of a big
berg—is thus obtained. We have found the distance by the range-finder,
and by a simple calculation can get the height in feet. The sextant will
also give the angular _width_ of the berg, and as we know the distance,
as before we can find the width in feet.
Within a few hours of the first icebergs we reached the pack-ice. At
first a few solitary spongy pieces of ice only a foot or two across, and
so tumbled and broken by the waves that we were doubtful if they were
not fragments of one of the bergs in the offing, rather than outliers of
the true pack. But by noon we were cutting through it, and from that
time it got thicker and more formidable as we penetrated southward. In
this region (65° S.) it lay in long streaks across our path about a
quarter of a mile wide, and broken by lanes of clear water. After a
heavy snowstorm at sea one finds the snow collecting into similar belts
across the direction of the wind. The floe was here composed of pieces
of ice about twenty feet across, and varying in thickness from one to
three feet. These have just the appearance of pancakes coated thickly
with icing sugar. The rounded outline is caused by the floes rubbing
against each other, and as a consequence the edges are often slightly
upturned. The contrast of the dark water with the dazzling floes is very
striking. Imagine Gargantuan sugared pancakes floating in a sea of
Stephens’ “blue-black” ink, and you will get an idea of the
colour-scheme of a field of young pack-ice.
As the boat hits this soft stuff there is a hustling and a surging, as
one large piece collides with another, or even overrides it. Sheets of
water sweep across the floes, and freeze almost immediately. The wake of
the ship for a short time remains open, but soon the floes reassemble,
and not for weeks do we see a horizon of clear water. Occasionally a
floe turns turtle, and these deeply pitted lower surfaces of clear ice
are very different from the level snowy surfaces of the undisturbed
pack. The spongy floes on the northern edge of the great pack assume
queer shapes. Here floats a large hollowed fragment like a waterlogged
boat, whose sides project several feet above the water. There is a white
cockatoo sitting on a log, with his crest angrily upraised. The crest
might readily have been dyed yellow—though veracity compels me to admit
it was not—for in places patches of intensely yellow ice, stained by
microscopic plants (diatoms), are numerous. Again a swan sails proudly
by, moulded in snow-white floe; while another bears the figure of a
woman with hands outstretched in mournful supplication.
We have met the pack some fifty miles north of previous expeditions. We
started a month earlier than Shackleton; but the _Morning_, only a week
later, hardly saw any pack at all!
At two o’clock on the 9th there were twenty-seven bergs around us,
mostly of tabular form. As we proceeded south the number of bergs
steadily decreased until none were visible on some days, though usually
three or four were in sight. This is but what one would expect. The
greater part of the heavy floe and nearly all the bergs have drifted
north before the southerly gale from the Barrier. The bergs would be
more affected by the wind than the low-lying floes, and so would take
the lead in this pilgrimage to the north. A month later nearly all this
pack will break away, and the entry to Ross Sea—which is an open sheet
of water even in December—can be made without difficulty or delay. Thus,
in the place of the fortnight we have taken, this belt between 65° and
69° could, under more favourable conditions, be traversed in two or
three days.
For the benefit of the cinematograph, we took the ship close to a
tabular berg which lay close to our course. From the crow’s nest the
officer of the watch was able to see the submarine ice-foot, projecting
like a battle-ship’s ram from the lower portion of the berg. The visible
part of the berg was about three hundred feet long and some seventy feet
high.
Along the water’s edge were several large caves, excavated by the waves
and coloured a vivid blue. A most interesting feature was that the
layers of the ice were horizontal in the upper thirty feet, but quite
steeply sloping in the lower visible layers. This pointed to some change
in position during the growth of the Barrier from which this berg was
calved. There was, in fact, what geologists would term a “strong
unconformity.” “Iceberg” is a loose term to apply to these Barrier
fragments; for they are largely consolidated layers of snow, and one can
detect almost every type of material, in the series from coarsely
granular snow to true ice, in one or other of the bergs.
On the 10th, at 5 a.m., we crossed the Antarctic circle (66° 23′) and
reached the lands (and seas) of the midnight sun. For two reasons I
stayed up to welcome him. Firstly, because I had not had the pleasure
before, and, secondly, because I had to. My particular portion of the
watch lies between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight—the best watch, in
my opinion. One has not to turn out of a comfortable blanket as in later
watches, and can share in all the incidents of the day, from which
officers on watch are debarred.
The time is 11.45 p.m. I am sitting on the foc’sle with unbuttoned coat
and no gloves. When there is no wind one does not feel at all cold. It
is perfectly bright; not only light, but so bright that the sun’s rays
through the cabin portholes below are too strong on one’s book. In the
south-east is a low bank of grey-purple cloud, whose lower edge is
turned into a vivid golden ribbon by the never-setting sun. We are
threading through lanes between floes some four feet thick. Sometimes we
move bodily through the ice. Occasionally she strikes a floe, on which
our ironshod bow makes no impression. High above us the officer on the
watch cries out, “Starboard, one turn.” From the poop comes the answer,
“Starboard it is, sir,” and our ship sidles her way to port. (This
paradox is a relic of the days of the tiller.) She reaches a crack at
the side of the obdurate floe, and slowly creeps towards the golden
clouds. Far ahead of us two geysers shoot suddenly into the tranquil
air. They appear again to the west and mark the path of two whales.
Around the ship circle two or three snowy petrels, beautiful little
birds that resemble white swallows and never appear north of the pack.
Let us climb into the crosstrees—an unpleasant task with ungloved hands
in any but a calm like this. All around us lies the pack, no longer like
pancakes, but much thicker, and resembling shortcake (to keep to homely
similes). In plan it has been compared to the pattern of our wardroom
tablecloth, that white mackintosh crossed by irregular meandering blue
lines. In the west the moon is reflected deep down in the still, dark
water. To the north the heavens are crossed by arcs of salmon-coloured
clouds, under which we passed several hours ago. The sea is coloured a
vivid brownish-pink between us and the northern horizon. It has an oily
sheen, which reminded me of nothing so much as the appearance of soft
putty—though I fear this is not a very artistic comparison. Looking back
on our course, we seem to have left a long dark line extending
indefinitely to the north. This is the Antarctic shadow of the sun, for
we are steaming straight for the latter. By this time we can notice a
perceptible increase in the elevation of the sun. At home he sets in the
west and rises in the east. In these regions both events may be
described as occurring in the south. Eight bells has just sounded and my
watch is over.
[Illustration:
ICING SHIP IN THE PACK ON THE STARBOARD QUARTER, DEC., 1910.
The lifeboat was carried away in the gale of March, 1912. The carcases
in the rigging are New Zealand sheep. The bridge, protected by high
canvas screens, is visible behind the lifeboat.
]
[Illustration:
THE NORWEGIAN DINGHY OR PRAM RETRIEVING BIRDS IN THE PACK ICE, DEC.,
1910.
The ship is fastened by the cable to the pack-ice.
]
On our second day in the pack the floes had become much thicker, and
soon after breakfast we heard the cry, “All hands on the floe to take in
water.” The ice anchor—a large bar of iron bent like a rough
fish-hook—was fixed in the floe, and stout ropes looped round projecting
hummocks. This particular floe, in the place of being perfectly flat,
and only a few inches above the level of the sea, was covered with large
blocks of ice some four feet long and two feet or three feet through. A
fragment of these blocks when tasted was found to be sweet, so that
here, five hundred miles from Antarctica, we had an abundant supply of
water, not only for the boilers, but also for drinking purposes.
Probably these fresh-water blocks had dropped on the floe from some
disintegrating berg—for the latter, as explained previously, were
originally beds of snow.
The ship, with its attached floe, drifted gradually to the east, and a
merry scene, lasting some hours, now took place. A sloping board was
placed against the ship’s side, and from this a stout plank led some
distance over the floe. With pickaxes and crowbars the crew and
afterguard attacked the ice blocks. These had a bad habit of splitting
into useless crescent-shaped fragments, but sometimes the crowbars would
wedge off a piece the size of a cabin trunk, and this could then be
broken into fragments of the size of a football with ease and celerity.
The surfaces of smooth ice were very slippery, and led to several
grievous tumbles which awakened more merriment than sympathy.
Occasionally, in prospecting for a fresh quarry, the pioneer’s foot
would slip through the floe, and he would realise with a shudder that
_terra firma_ lay 11,784 feet below him. (We sounded, with this result,
earlier in the day.) However, such slips led to nothing but wet clothes,
and they were not sufficiently novel to excite remark. A chain of men
led from the quarrymen to the plank, and blocks were tossed along to
slide from the plank to the wooden ramp, and up this with a
“Yo-heave-ho” to the deck. Nearer labourers would send their
contributions hurtling through the air, with a warning cry of “Fore!”
that was not always heard. This animated scene attracted our
cinematographer, and his battery opened on us while the sport waxed fast
and furious. In the open lanes around the floe our Norwegian dinghy (or
pram) was manœuvring, retrieving birds shot by the zoologists from the
poop. Nearly a dozen were shot for museums without difficulty, for the
innocent creatures continued to swoop around the ship in spite of the
havoc wrought upon their companions. When some half-dozen tons of ice
had been collected, we cast loose from the floe—now levelled like its
neighbours—and steamed to southward. The blocks of ice were gradually
transferred to melting-tanks over the engine-house, and gradually the
whole heap was converted into water.
Now that our environment had so changed, we met with a different and
much more interesting fauna. I have mentioned the snow petrel, and on
the same day we first met the Adelie penguins and the Crab-eater seal.
We have seen plenty of penguins since, but I shall never forget the
forerunner. He waddled towards us exactly like a tiny child learning to
walk, who runs quickly to his mother, knowing that a topple at the end
does not matter. Then he would stop and flap his wings (I was going to
say arms), and bow and turn his head around in a most human and
unbirdlike way. The most striking feature, I think, was the stiff little
tail which he dragged on the ground, and which probably helped to
support him. It is formed of a few stiff black feathers, consisting of
little but the quill, and adds to the comicality of the bird. The
colouring of pure white breast and black back reminds one of a stout
little man in a swallow-tail coat and white shirt—both much too big for
him!
At three in the afternoon I heard our battery of guns in full action,
and rushing up on deck found that a family of four seals had met their
doom in the interests of science and of the kitchen. A few hundred yards
away lay three of the seals dead in their tracks, but one poor beggar
had crawled to another floe before receiving a fatal bullet. Several
lanes of blue-black water separated the floes, but the pram was quickly
put overboard, and six of us made for the seals. A hawser on to a
hummock on the smaller floe brought the latter near the ship, and then
we dragged the large crab-eater (eight feet six long) to the ship’s
side, where she was hoisted on board by the crew. Then a short passage
in the pram brought us to the other floe, and a similar proceeding
enabled us to get the rest aboard also.
Of the four specimens only one was a male, and he was not full grown.
The largest female was over nine feet long. In colour they were a dirty
yellow-brown above and paler below. The young seals were prettily
dappled. All four had cruel scars a foot or more long on their flanks,
some barely healed, which were due to the attacks of killer-whales. No
one seems to know why they are called crab-eaters, unless perhaps
because they never eat crabs. Their chief food consists of small
shrimp-like animals called _Euphausia_, which they devour in great
quantities. The shrimps live on the yellow diatoms which encrust the
lower surface of the floes. The seals have rather large, strong teeth,
but these are of little use to them, and are a relic of bygone days when
the seal had hind legs like his cousin the otter. Very sinuous and
graceful is a seal in its native element, but on the ice its method of
progression can hardly be called beautiful. It wriggles along with rapid
undulations of its body, more like a large slug than a mammal. In death
this floppiness of structure—I know no more expressive word—made it
difficult to handle the weighty carcases. Before skinning they were
carefully measured by Dr. Wilson and Cherry-Garrard. Clad in overalls
and armed with keen knives, the two set to work, and soon separated the
skin and blubber from the carcases. In these seals the blubber formed a
continuous firm white layer about an inch thick, though in the Weddell
seals further south it is often much thicker.
The skeletons as well as the skins are to be preserved for museums. As
much flesh is cut off the bones as possible, and the remainder gradually
dries into a sort of “biltong,” and has no smell. The flesh was served
to the dogs, who soon got to like it, while the livers were cooked for
the wardroom, and tasted most uncommonly good, even in our present state
of plenty. I can well imagine how a returning sledge party looks forward
to seal’s liver at headquarters.
Next day Dr. Wilson rigged up a “flensing” table for freeing the skins
of the blubber. It is a wooden arrangement, very like a large
saddle-tree, forming a handy sloping surface on which the skin lies
while the blubber is pared away. The blubber was commandeered by Dr.
Atkinson for his patent blubber stove, which is going to help warm the
hut down south. The blubber is fed into a tin dish surrounding the
chimney of the stove. Here it gradually melts and runs down a narrow
pipe, which enters the stove and is curved over the floor of the latter.
Out of this curved “burner” the oil drips continually, and gives a hot
flame. The waste heat passes up the chimney, and renders more of the
blubber; and so the operation proceeds. Of course some coal is used at
first to warm the blubber-melter, but thereafter it seems to burn well,
and certainly gives off very little smell.
During the past few days the “iceberg watch” has been kept very busy.
All shapes and sizes of bergs have we passed, giving rise to many
arguments as to their mode and place of origin.
[Illustration:
Icebergs seen December 8, 9, 10, 1911, latitude 22° 5′. A. Showing
vertical points; B. Probably overturned tabular; C. Tilted tabular
with fine caves; D. Faulted tabular berg.
]
One of the most interesting bergs was about a mile long, and had
originally been tabular. All along the face were enormous vertical
cracks (“joints”) broadening into sea-caves below. These had split the
berg into columns and it was wonderful how it held together. Probably
the portion under water had not been eroded by the waves, and still
remained fairly solid. At each end was an isolated pillar a hundred feet
away from the main mass, and one was over a hundred feet high. It
exactly resembled the classic geological example of coast weathering
“The Old Man of Hoy,” a detached piece of sandstone in the north of
Scotland. The similarity was really not wonderful, seeing that the
method of sculpture on jointed material was identical. Another irregular
berg reminded us of a boar’s head in profile. Two pinnacles formed the
ears and a cave represented the eye. This specimen was probably an
overturned tabular berg. A tilted berg was crossed by cracks, which had
led to “faulting.” The ice between two cracks had slipped down and a
beautiful “fault valley” was the result. These examples of what has
happened on a larger scale in the earth’s crust were very interesting to
the geological members of the party, and are preserved in photographs or
as sketches. Debenham has made a series of pen and ink drawings which
are especially illustrative of their structure.
[Illustration:
A QUIET SUNDAY EVENING ON THE _TERRA NOVA_.
From a sketch by D. Lillie.
]
Later in the day a travelling troupe of four penguins entertained us. We
first saw them a few floes away, engaged in a sort of minuet. First they
would meet in pairs, and then all crowd together, and after some setting
to partners they waddled towards us. Soon they came to a break in the
floe, and one ran along it till he saw an edge free from ice-frost. Then
they dived in “follow my leader,” and came up with a “plop,” all
standing, on the next floe. One after another they shot up a couple of
feet and came down erect with a bounce. By this time they had approached
the ship, and formed up in line uttering an occasional squawk like a
crow. We threw down a potato and a lump of coal. Two tackled each
article, and much confabulation ensued. The coal partners summoned the
potato people to a consultation, and when they of the vegetable were
fully engaged the other pair quietly sneaked their property. Penguins
are very human.
On the 11th we were held up all night by the pack, and this experience
occurred but too often in the next fortnight. Let us glance around and
see how the afterguard spend this enforced leisure. Dr. Wilson is seated
on a box in the chief cabin, turning out water-colour sketches of birds
and icebergs. A cry of “Crab-eaters on the port quarter” is raised, and
up rushes “Dr. Bill” with notebook and rifle, ready to use either on the
potential specimen. Nelson is dragging in a large tow-net, in which he
captures medusæ and Euphausia and other wild fowl. Secluded in his
laboratory Lillie divides his attention between the microscope and a
series of extremely clever caricatures of the afterguard, each of which
arouses uproarious merriment in every member save one. Drake is busy
transcribing the ship’s logs, both general and meteorological, and
usually manages to annex a large portion of the wardroom table in the
process. Alongside him Dr. Simpson works out his interminable magnetic
observations. Lieutenant Gran, our Norwegian companion, is busy getting
the ski from the forehold and supplying them with the necessary straps.
On the poop Meares discourses of dog-harness in a weird sounding
language to the Russian grooms. Cherry-Gerrard is skinning penguins and
wrapping the skins neatly in brown paper. The carcases are handed over
to the cook and appear as a pilau at dinner. Day is busy with chamois
leather, coloured glasses and a cutting board, manufacturing spare
snow-goggles. His articles are in much request, for they are more
comfortable than the official pattern. Lieutenant Pennell is in the
crow’s nest, peering ahead to pick out a possible lane through the thick
floe.
In the port after-cabin are held the mysterious consultations of the
officers of the Eastern Party. It is rumoured that there is a capacious
private store in which all unclaimed articles are deposited for their
future benefit. But this is only a base libel, aroused by the orderly
character of Lieutenant Campbell. Priestley’s previous experience is
invaluable to the party. In the foc’sle Major Gates and Dr. Atkinson are
examining the ponies, all of which are doing very well since the gale.
Ponting selects choice compositions for pictorial photography, and
commandeers idle officers to lend life to his studies by disposing
themselves gracefully in the rigging. Debenham is profiting by Dr.
Wilson’s hints, and fulfilling his duties as honorary illustrator to the
iceberg watch. Wright is still engaged on his huge ice microscope,
endeavouring to cut down its ample proportions in readiness for our
forthcoming western expedition. From the “Nursery” come the dulcet tones
of the pianola, under the soulful touch of Lieutenant Rennick. The other
officers are on watch, or perhaps enjoying a well-earned snooze in their
respective cabins.
[Illustration:
D. LILLIE—SHIP’S BIOLOGIST.
With Ophiuroidea from the dredge.
]
[Illustration:
THE NORTHERN FRINGE OF THE PACK ICE, SHOWING THE WAKE OF THE SHIP
THROUGH OPEN PACK, DEC. 10, 1910.
[_See p. 58._
]
There are many features of interest which we can study during our
enforced stay in the pack, in addition to the fauna. We have been able
to obtain some half-dozen soundings in this portion of the Southern
Ocean, and to make current measurements. Great also have been the
achievements in ski-running under Lieutenant Gran’s tuition. The
sounding apparatus consists of an iron pipe about a foot long containing
a valve. This is connected to several miles of piano wire, and an iron
weight carries the apparatus to the bottom, where it is released by a
trigger so as to involve less labour in hauling up the valve-pipe. A
small telegraph winch is mounted on the port bow, and here the
afterguard in batches of six have spent many profitable hours winding up
miles of piano wire. Samples of the bottom are caught by the valve.
Reversing thermometers and water-bottles, bringing up samples of water
for analysis, all these are hung at intervals along the wire. On almost
every occasion small fragments of volcanic ash have been collected,
which seems to imply that this forms a constant deposit. There are many
small foraminifera shells (_Orbulina_) in the mud, which can be made out
under the microscope.
[Illustration: Sounding Compass enlarged]
The current-meter is a more unusual instrument, and is a Norwegian
invention. It consists of a small fan-wheel arrangement, which is
rotated by the current, and which actuates some clockwork recording the
velocity. At the back project two large vanes, which turn the apparatus
always to face the current. But most interesting is the method of
obtaining the direction of the current. A compass-box is attached under
the fan-wheel, and the area beneath the needle is divided into radial
compartments. The south arm of the needle has a groove cut along its
upper surface, and little metal balls, released by the clockwork, fall
on to the centre of the needle at regular intervals, and run down the
sloping needle into that one of the radial compartments which is
immediately beneath.
On drawing the apparatus to the surface—where the large directing vanes
give it the appearance of a huge dragon fly—the angle between the fixed
vanes and the compartments containing the balls gives the deviation of
the current from true north. This investigation was usually carried on
through a hole cut in the floe alongside; a derrick, consisting of three
oars lashed together, leading the wire to the winch on the ship.
On the 14th we tied alongside a floe of some three acres. Another ice
quarry was opened up for water, but on completion of this duty almost
every one proceeded to ski, or in current parlance (à la Gran) to go
“mit dee shee op.” We have for a week or more been wearing the
comfortable ski-boots. They are furnished with a deep and broad sole
around which the ski-strap is locked with a patent latchet. The toe is
rigidly fixed in an iron clamp with an over-strap, but the heel can lift
up and down off the ski. I suppose every one has a general idea of the
ski (which word is pronounced _shee_). The chief requisite is that the
wood shall be strong and straight in grain. Our “Chips” has made some on
board which answer very well. The others were brought from Norway by
Lieutenant Gran. They were smaller and simpler as regards straps than
the New Zealand and Kosciusko samples.
We learned from Gran that a knock-kneed man has the advantage in
ski-ing; at any rate we had to keep our knees together to counteract a
tendency of the ski to spread. Gran flapped along like an Atalanta on
pattens, but beginners need to go more cautiously, and not lift the ski
at all. We made a course all round the floe about three-quarters of a
mile in length, and several of us did five miles or so. It would have
amazed our friends at home to have seen us far south of the Antarctic
circle spending an hour on the ice clothed in nothing but a thin vest
and breeches. In this garb we were pleasantly cool, but after returning
to the ship a couple of thick jerseys and a coat were soon donned. When
I was half round the third lap on the further side of the floe I heard a
loud snorting, and looked into the water to see a whale just sinking out
of sight about fifty feet away. Occasionally a seal would put his head
on the edge of the floe, and blow through his nostrils at us before
sinking gracefully beneath the ice.
Sometimes we were not so fortunate in our ski-ing surface. At our next
block the floe was very mushy, and water immediately oozed into a hole
scraped an inch or two below the surface. This did not matter much as
far as ski-running went; I mean it was possible to cross it. But if one
came a “cropper,” as was but too usual in our party of novices, the
sudden shock and decrease in the bearing surface resulted in rather
dangerous cracks, and in a dolorous soaking. Towards evening the
surfaces often hardened appreciably. Of course the best section of
ski-work—that of coasting down slopes—was impossible on the floes. We
tried to coast down little hummocks, but I gave up this pastime after
smashing my ski-stick in a crevice covered with snow.
Meares had out the dog sledges on the large floe, and harnessed eight of
the dogs to the single rope-trace. They pulled vigorously, and were
guided solely by voice, “ka” meaning “to the right,” and “chui” “to the
left.” An unlooked-for happening, however, spoilt their good record.
Cherry-Gerrard had caught two penguins, and was carrying them to the
ship, when the dogs caught sight of him, and bolted for the penguins.
Then might have been seen a noble panorama: Dr. Wilson hanging on the
rope ladder over the deep water to receive the penguins, Cherry fleeing
for his life, the dogs tearing after him at their top speed, in spite of
the efforts of Meares on the rocking sledge; our honoured commander
roughly upset as he tried to stop the procession, and Gran flapping
along on his ski to be in at the death.
On the 18th we reached some fairly open water. I went on iceberg duty at
8 p.m. as usual. There was nothing to report until nine, when we
approached thicker pack. We had been moving at what seemed lightning
speed after our week’s wait. Gran and I were watching a floe bumped by
the ship. The nearer half sank under the blow, and then rose as we
passed. In the middle of the floe was something kicking violently. We
yelled out, “Fish oh!” and as we have not been able to catch any in
Antarctica so far, this small specimen, less than a foot long, roused
much excitement. It was of slaty-blue colour, and had been caught by the
uprising floe. Captain Scott ordered the ship to be sent astern, and the
whole expedition returned about a hundred yards to catch that fish. So
did two snowy petrels and a skua gull. Then might have been seen eminent
explorers, scientists, and sailor-men yelling themselves hoarse to scare
away the birds of prey! We backed on to the floe, and as I was about the
best situated, I jumped down to the ice and secured the fish, just as
the birds were deciding that the unseemly clamour could not hurt them. A
leather bucket on a line received the fish, but unfortunately the floe
started drifting away, and soon was held only by my pull on the
bucket-line. It was rather a comical situation, for if I let go the fish
would probably get adrift, and if they let go I should get adrift!
However, I had to let the bucket go, and luckily—though it filled with
water—the fish did not have time to jump out. Then a heavy rope drew the
floe to the ship’s side across some twenty feet of water—no easy job,
since the floe was twenty-five feet wide, and there was nothing to which
the rope could be tied. The fish turned out to be a blenny, allied to
the climbing perch of the Queensland coast. Whether it is new or not is
a question still to be decided.
[Illustration:
CATCHING THE FISH IN THE PACK.
From a drawing by D. Low.
]
We passed some very interesting icebergs during the next few days
(18–20th). I remember especially one long berg on the eastern horizon,
on which the setting sun was shining. It must have been a tremendous
length, and looked like a golden scimitar flung across a dead white
plain. Even our helmsman noticed it, and said, “A white-back, sorr; it
looked like the lights of a great city.” The pack was very heavy
hereabouts, but we made some progress along lanes of more or less open
water. A berg along which we skirted, instead of presenting clean cut
vertical cliffs, was corrugated on its sides, and very rugged on its
upper surface. Probably it was derived from a glacier. A stage of planks
was thrust out from the starboard bow, and on this Ponting perched his
cinematograph, and photographed our progress through the heavy pack.
Later in the day every one was called up on deck to see the magnificent
avenue we were traversing. Each side of the lane was bounded by immense
sheets of iceberg, with low cliffs, fifteen feet high, so strikingly
vertical that they might have been cut to a set square. The bergs were
six in number, and were probably fragments of one huge slab of the Great
Barrier, over a square mile in extent, which had been driven north
before the winter gales. (We novices did not appreciate the danger
involved if these bergs happened to press together, but our leaders had
an anxious time here.)
An Emperor penguin was sitting on one of the floes near the low bergs,
and we tried to stalk him in the _Terra Nova_. Surely with no other game
in the world could one manœuvre for half an hour in full view of the
victim with some hope of success. However, the Emperor did not wait
quite long enough, but dived just when the ship had backed to his floe,
which looks as if he had a sense of humour.
Dr. Wilson carefully preserved the contents of the stomachs of the
penguins. Among biological specimens, such as shrimps and the like, he
found about a dozen small pebbles. These, when carefully examined with a
lens, were readily identifiable by the geologists. There were three
eruptive rocks represented—a dark basalt ash, a denser stuff with little
augite crystals, and, most abundant, a hard felspar porphyry, with
numerous little twin felspar crystals. What geologist would have
expected to have such a fine collection of Antarctic rocks carried to
him in mid-ocean?
We were now collecting penguins also—for our Christmas dinner. Three
were seen alongside on a somewhat thin floe, and Dr. Wilson gallantly
undertook to augment our larder. Meanwhile the afterguard ranged
themselves on the poop, and sang “Rings on her Fingers and Bells on her
Toes,” which often has a calming effect on the penguins.
Perhaps the choir was not in unison; anyhow, the penguins waddled off,
and “Dr. Bill” followed hot-foot. They lay down on their white
shirt-fronts, and propelled themselves vigorously with their strong hind
legs. (“Hind” seems necessary, for in this position the flippers
resemble legs more than wings.) “Dr. Bill” came a cropper, and
involuntarily copied their movements, and then, seeing they were less
alarmed when he was prone on the floe, he crawled towards them, singing
winsomely the while. When a quarter of a mile from the ship, a final
leap, “swift as the striking cobra,” landed him on them, and he grabbed
one. His further efforts, hampered by a lusty penguin, were not
successful, and he returned reluctantly to his comrades, to find them
exhausted with laughing at his comical career all over the floe. Our
chief penguin-charmer (Meares) declares that he can drive away any
penguin by singing “God save,” as he calls it. But this is a _post hoc,
propter hoc_ statement, for we do not permit him to attempt this
dangerous experiment until they show signs of melting away.
Christmas being imminent, we felt it necessary to add to our scanty
penguin provender. A flock of nine were seen about six hundred yards
off, and four of us, armed with a shot-gun and mauser, lowered the pram
(a dinghy with a long upturned prow) over the side and headed for the
penguins.
Six hundred yards does not seem far, but it took a long time to
traverse. There was just about room to turn round in the water alongside
the _Terra Nova_. Then a choked lane led by a zigzag course to a large
sheet of water away to the west. The floes were 100 feet across and the
spaces between filled with spongy floe and by chunks of ice, which were
readily removable by the _Terra Nova_, but which we could hardly move.
However, by dint of pushing and prodding and hauling the pram over
ice-foot we got to the open water and then pulled over to the penguins.
They were needed for food, else it seemed cruel to drift down upon them
singing our siren song. Five fell at the first volley and four moved off
rapidly to the north. Again we skirted the floe and bagged three more.
The fourth was shot also but slipped into a hole, and when we cautiously
tramped over a floe—prodding in front with an oar—we found no sign of
the bird but the reddened snow. However, eight penguins was a fair bag,
and we returned toward the ship. We had had so much trouble rubbing our
way through zigzag gaps in the floes that we ran the pram on to the
larger floe near the ship and hauled her most of the way. It was
somewhat unpleasant to slip in almost to one’s waist in mushy floe, as
happened to two of the party, but otherwise we had no misadventure. A
close inspection of the penguins showed that their surprised appearance
in the photographs is not due to abnormally wide-open eyes, but to the
presence of a colourless eyelid completely surrounding the eye.
Although we made practically no progress south in the days around
Christmas, yet we did not allow this to affect our festivities. Owing to
the coincidence that Christmas Eve and Boxing Day were the birthdays of
two members of the afterguard, we celebrated them also with appropriate
ceremonial. We toasted the victim at dinner, and after much bashful
hesitation he made a satisfactory speech. Then he was “chaired” twice
round the mess (only, as there were no chairs, this consisted in passing
him from man to man shoulder high). He was next lifted up over the main
beam (crossing the wardroom) and passed down again and then left in
peace. Songs for two hours and a scrimmage in the “nursery” (which was
dignified by the name of Lancers!) completed the evening.
On Christmas morning we started off well by pumping for half an hour.
When the furnaces are out, this is done by hand; but she is making very
little water now. Sixteen of the afterguard, led by Priestley, singing
“Ranzo, Boys, Ranzo,” soon cause the valves to give the cheery chuckles
which announce that air is mixing with the water and that the bilge is
nearly dry. Then with a will to breakfast. After the meal was cleared
away, our “pack-ice” pattern tablecloth was replaced by one of noble
blue, and we decorated the wardroom for Christmas. All the sledge flags
were brought out and hung around the walls outside the cabins of their
owners, as in mediæval times. There was great discussion as to the
proper heraldic description of our flags, but the Encyclopædia on board
showed nothing like them in its article on heraldry. Captain Scott’s has
the white square with a red cross of St. George near the staff, and the
other portion divided longitudinally into yellow and blue. In the middle
is his crest of a stag’s head, with the motto, “Ready, aye, Ready!”
The service was read by Captain Scott and differed little from the
ordinary Church of England service, except by the insertion of two
special collects. Then some gifts of tobacco and sweets were distributed
to all on board. They were presented by the Dunedin Seamen’s Mission and
were much appreciated. Many of the afterguard unearthed treasures “not
to be opened until Christmas Day.” Some of these were of an edible
nature, and were seen but for a short space before they passed away. I
think the most noticeable feature of the dinner was the white damask
tablecloth. It supported turtle soup, penguin stew, roast beef, mince
pies, and plum-pudding. We enjoyed the meal thoroughly, but, then, that
is always the case. Songs—some written for the occasion—stories,
chanties, and banjo music filled in the evening.
Microscopic life simply swarms in these Polar seas, to an infinitely
greater extent than in the warm waters of the tropics, though one would
be inclined to the opposite belief. The economic research of German and
Norwegian biologists has shown that there is almost as much
protoplasm—the basis of all life tissues—per acre of ocean as there is
in a well-cultivated crop on land. Most of this floats near the surface
in the form of minute plants (diatoms) and minute infusoria,
foraminifera, and copepods (which are animals). As a result, the
struggle for existence is probably much more strenuous among these
floating organisms (plankton) than it is on land. What may be termed the
cycle of life—recalling the Indian idea of transmigration—is very
evident in the pack-ice. At the basis here, as on land, are plants; for
they alone can convert inorganic material into protoplasm. Almost every
floe in its lower layers is stained yellow from the presence of millions
of little organisms (such as _Corethron_) belonging to the Diatom
family. Our biologist is examining some specimens through his
microscope, and if we look down we see some transparent rods with
indications of granular matter at intervals. These are magnified some
thousand diameters, so that it can be realised how many are necessary to
colour the ice to a deep yellow. Hovering all about the floes, waiting
for the diatoms to thaw out, are the smallest marine animals, of which
the infusoria give rise to the phosphorescence seen in many seas, and
the foraminifera to that beautiful calcareous deposit known to every one
by the euphonious title of “globigerina ooze.” Feeding on these are
animals of a much higher order (crustacea, in fact, allied to shrimps),
and known as Copepods and Schizopods. Commonest of all is the large
schizopod _Euphausia_.
These fellows are so big that we can see them swimming around the floes.
They may grow to a length of two inches, and but for their split
feet—each branching into two, as the name Schizopod suggests—look very
like pale shrimps. They are the mainstay of the better-known animals—the
penguins, seals, and whales. Ever ready to attack the three latter is
the killer whale, a ferocious dolphin, which drives the seals and
penguins to take refuge on the floes. Here they fall easy victims to
man, for they have not yet learnt to expect any enemy except in the
water. Since the killers are credited with attempts to shake some of
Shackleton’s men off a floe into the water, it appears as if _homo
sapiens_ would be relished by these same shark-like mammals.
Undoubtedly, if man reigns on land _Orca gladiator_ is lord of the
Antarctic seas.
Towards the southern limits of the pack the “iceberg watch” was not very
strenuous, and I fear me I played truant at frequent intervals. One
expedition down to the cosy engine-room resulted in a glorious hot bath,
which is quite sufficiently a rarity to be chronicled. The second
engineer warmed a bucket of water by the Fijian method of dropping a
red-hot lump of fire-bar therein. This quiet officer was he who probably
experienced the most thrilling moment in Antarctica. With Petty Officer
Evans he accompanied Scott on his western expedition, and on the Ferrar
Glacier saw his two companions disappear together in a bottomless
crevasse. Captain Scott has told how he managed to climb up the trace,
but I can imagine Lashley’s despair as he grimly held back the sledge,
and thought of the dreadful solitary march that most probably confronted
him. Evans also has returned to his old leader’s flag, and is in charge
of the transport material. Cheetham and Paton have made five voyages
already across the seas, though I do not anticipate that they will join
the shore party. With the Eastern Expedition (to King Edward the Seventh
Land) goes Abbott, a naval man and a champion wrestler. Several other
members of the crew will join us in Antarctica, so that the _Terra Nova_
will seem very empty on her return voyage. She will be under the command
of Lieutenant Pennell, who will be accompanied by Lieutenants Rennick
and Bruce, and by Mr. Drake. They will have the wardroom—now occupied by
twenty-four officers—to themselves, and are trying to impress _nous
autres_ with the comforts combined with elegance which will characterise
the after-deck next March.
On the 27th we were drifting aimlessly in thick pack, but later in the
day the floes seemed to open a little. It was decided to raise steam and
trust our luck—for sail power had merely kept her nose to a big floe
most of the time—though the prospect did not look very hopeful. Towards
evening we met examples of overridden floes, two thin cakes being
recemented, and this seemed to indicate the effects of a recent swell.
Lieutenant Gran is a believer in a mild way in the powers of white
magic. That evening he saw the discarded Bridge pack lying on the table,
and said, “We’ll see how many days before we finish with this ice. If I
draw out a black card it will show us.” So he straightway turned over a
card, and it was the two of spades. As you shall hear in forty-eight
hours we were once more entering on open water! The next day we were
favoured with most beautiful weather. We slowly pushed and broke our way
through the floes which occasionally shook the good ship to her centre,
and hitting the propeller caused a succession of shudders that would
have “shivered the timbers” of any less stout vessel. The sun shone with
almost a tropic heat—there was no wind and a temperature of 37° brought
all the afterguard out on the poop to soak in the sunbeams. Every
available square inch was occupied by basking humanity, and this unusual
phase of our “strenuous life” formed the subject of several photographs.
[Illustration:
Course of _Terra Nova_ through the Antarctic pack, as far as Cape
Evans, from December 7, 1910, to January 4, 1911.
]
Until one has been blockaded for three weeks by some such unexpected
obstacle as this mighty width of pack, it is difficult to realise how
closely we scanned its texture for any hint of its boundary. Towards the
evening of the 29th we began to hope that the pack was showing similar
features to those we met with on entering. Very beautiful were some of
the piled up pressure blocks. I remember one of the nature of a
“glacier-table.” A flat-domed slab some three feet across, was perched
on a slender support above the floe. Pendant from the table were
numerous long icicles, consequent on the warm weather. The under surface
of the table, owing to repeated reflection, was a beautiful ultramarine,
which was seen through the curtain of icicles, and the whole structure
reminded me of one of those resplendent medusæ which float placidly on
the sea, with their tentacles hanging from the fringe of the “umbrella.”
Hereabouts the floe became thinner and more uniform. It was broken into
wide sub-angular surfaces, with vertical sides, as when a sheet of
“shortbread” is broken for consumption. At nine o’clock we entered a
wide lane where the placid water we had encountered hitherto was
replaced by an area of short choppy waves. Then an area of “pancake,”
with rounded outline and upturned edges, and, finally, just at midnight
we crossed several east-west belts of “brash ice,” and at long length
entered the open Ross Sea.
The _Morning_ and the _Discovery_ had each entered the pack in latitude
66½°, and emerged in 69½°. Thus they crossed three degrees of latitude,
or a little over two hundred statute miles. We entered it in 64½° and
left it behind in 71½°, which is seven degrees or almost five hundred
miles. Moreover, the width of the pack has this in common with the
height of a range of mountains, that the difficulties increase in a much
greater degree than _direct_ proportion as these factors grow large. For
a great width of pack implies older and thicker floes in the centre;
with an absence of cracks, since the swell cannot penetrate this region.
Four miles of a narrow pack may be traversed in an hour, but the same
distance in the middle of the belt often took us more than twenty-four
hours.