FARTHEST SOUTH
By the evening of New Year's Day we were within 172½ miles of the Pole,
so we had managed to beat all records North and South, and we also had
hopes of a better surface--which were, unfortunately, not fulfilled.
Again we had to battle over very soft snow, and the cold wind seemed to
go right through us, weakened as we were from want of food.
Impossible as it was to think of failure yet, I compelled myself to
look at the matter sensibly and to consider the lives of those who
were with me. I felt indeed that if we went on too far it would be
impossible to get back over such a surface, and then all the results of
our efforts would be lost to the world.
We had now definitely located the South Pole on the highest plateau in
the world, and our geological and meteorological work would be of the
greatest use to science. But all this was not the Pole. And how sadly I
realised that I need not say.
Still, man could only do his best, and after ten hours' struggle
against the strongest forces of nature, one pannikin of food with two
biscuits and a cup of cocoa did but little to warm and comfort and
satisfy him.
I resolved to make a depot on the 4th and then to dash for the Pole,
and on that day we left a depot on the great wide plateau, a risk which
nothing but the circumstances could justify, but to which my companions
agreed with the regardlessness of self which they had always shown.
Pathetically small did the bamboo look which we left to mark the little
stock of provisions--indeed, we lost sight of it in half an hour, and
had to trust that our footprints in the snow would guide us back again
to the depot.
By night, however, I knew--and had to acknowledge--that our limit was
almost reached. We had only been carrying 70 lb. per man since we had
made our last depot, but it was harder work than the 100 odd lb. we had
been pulling the day before, and far harder than 250 lb. had seemed
some three weeks previously.
Nothing could more clearly have convinced me of our failing strength,
even if I could have shut my eyes to the facts that our faces were cut,
our feet and hands always on the verge of frost-bite, our boots nearly
worn out, and that when we got up in the morning out of the wet bag,
our Burberries became immediately like a coat of mail, and also that
our heads and beards got iced up with the moisture when breathing on
the march.
What we would have given at that time for a pair of scissors to trim
our beards I should not like to say, and had we known that we were
going to experience such cold weather we should certainly have kept a
pair.
The main things, indeed, against us were the altitude and ice-cold
wind. Nature had declared against us, and at the best I had to abandon
all hopes of getting nearer than 100 geographical miles to the Pole.
During the next day we were absolutely obliged to increase our food if
we were to get on at all, for our temperatures were far below normal,
and I had such a headache that I should be sorry for any living man who
had to endure such pain.
Never once had the thermometer been above zero since we had been on to
the plateau, though this was the height of summer, and on January 6 we
had to endure 57° of frost with a strong blizzard and high drift.
Still, helped by the bigger rations--which did not amount to
anything approaching full rations--we marched thirteen and a quarter
geographical miles and reached 88° 7′ south. But at night I had to
admit that this must be our last outward march, though I determined
that we would make one more rush south with the flag. With what
feelings of sadness I came to this decision I cannot even try to
describe. Only one thing softened our grievous disappointment, and
that was the conviction that we had striven to the very limit of our
strength, and had not given in until the forces of nature combined with
our scanty supply of food had conquered us.
Two days, however, had to be passed in our bags before we could make
the final dash with the flag, days of shrieking blizzard and piercing
cold, days in which our valuable food was going without our marching,
and in which we had a gloomy foreboding that our tracks, to which we
were trusting mainly to find our depot, might drift up.
Truly we realised that we had taken a most serious risk, and that we
were in a most critical situation, but we were partly sustained by the
fact that, at any rate, we had played the game to the last and utmost.
With 72° of frost the wind cut searchingly into our thin tent, and even
the drift found its way on to our bags, which were wet enough already.
Cramp kept on attacking us, and every now and then a frozen foot had to
be nursed into life again by placing it inside the shirt and next to
the skin of the sufferer's almost as suffering neighbour. To add to our
dreariness we had nothing to read, as we had depoted our little books
so that we might save weight.
[Illustration: The Farthest South Camp after sixty hours' Blizzard.
(_See page 144_)]
We had honestly and truly shot our bolt at last, and when the wind
dropped about midnight we were soon up and ready to struggle forward a
little further and hoist the flag as near to the South Pole as we could
possibly bear it.
At 9 A.M. on January 9 we were in latitude 88° 23' south, longitude
162° east, half running and half walking over a surface much hardened
by the recent blizzard, and it was indeed strange to us to go along
without the nightmare of that heavy sledge dragging behind us.
Soon the time came when we had to hoist Her Majesty's flag and
afterwards the other Union Jack, and then we took possession of the
plateau in the name of His Majesty. And while the Union Jack blew out
stiff in the icy gale which was still cutting us to the bone, we looked
south with our powerful glasses, but could see nothing but the dead
white snow plain.
No break in the plateau was to be seen as it extended toward the Pole,
and we felt absolutely sure that the goal which we had struggled
for--and failed to reach--lay on this plain.
We stayed only for a few minutes, and then, taking the Queen's flag
with us, we turned our backs upon the Pole and began to retrace our
steps. Regretfully it is true, but conscious that, though failure was
ours, we had done our best to avoid it.