Everybody knows that the pressure exerted by a wind against an object in

its path mounts up in much greater proportion than the velocity of the

wind. Thus may be realized the stupendous force of the winds of Adelie

Land in comparison with those of half the velocity which fall within

one's ordinary experience. As this subject was ever before us, the

following figures quoted from a work of reference will be instructive.

The classification of winds, here stated, is that known as the "Beaufort

scale." The corresponding velocities in each case are those measured

by the "Robinson patent" anemometer; our instrument being of a similar

pattern

___________________________________________________________________

Beaufort scale |Velocities|Pressures | Apparent effect |

| in miles | in lbs. | |

| per hour | square | |

| foot | |

| | area | |

__________________|__________| _________|_________________________|

0|Calm | 2 | 0.02 |May cause smoke to |

| | | | move form vertical |

1|Light air | 4 | 0.06 |Moves the leaves of trees|

2|Light breeze | 7 | 0.19 |Moves small branches of |

3|Gentle breeze | 10 | 0.37 | trees and blows up dust |

4|Moderate breeze| 14 | 0.67 | |

5|Fresh breeze | 19 | 1.16 |Good sailing breeze and |

6|Strong breeze | 25 | 1.90 | makes white caps |

7|Moderate gale | 31 | 2.81 |Sways trees and breaks |

8|Fresh gale | 37 | 3.87 | small branches |

9|Strong gale | 44 | 5.27 |Dangerous for sailing |

10|Whole gale | 53 | 7.40 | vessels |

11|Storm | 64 | 10.40 |Prostrates exposed trees |

12|Hurricane | 77 | 14.40 | and frail houses |

___________________________________________________________________

Beyond the limits of this scale, the pressures exerted rise very

rapidly. A wind recorded as blowing at the rate of a hundred miles per

hour exerts a pressure of about twenty-three pounds per square foot of

surface exposed to it. Wind above eighty miles per hour is stated to

"prostrate everything."

The mileages registered by our anemometer were the mean for a whole

hour, neglecting individual gusts, whose velocity much exceeded the

average and which were always the potent factors in destructive work.

Obviously the greatest care had to be taken to secure everything. Still,

articles of value were occasionally missed. They were usually recovered,

caught in crevices of rock or amongst the broken ice. Northward from

the Hut there was a trail of miscellaneous objects scattered among the

hummocks and pressure-ridges out towards Penguin Hill on the eastern

side of the boat harbour: tins of all kinds and sizes, timber in small

scraps, cases and boards, paper, ashes, dirt, worn-out finnesko, ragged

mitts and all the other details of a rubbish heap. One of the losses

was a heavy case which formed the packing of part of the magnetometer.

Weighted-down by stones this had stood for a long time in what was

regarded as a safe place. One morning it was discovered to be missing.

It was surmised that a hurricane had started it on an ocean voyage

during the previous day. Boxes in which Whetter used to carry ice for

domestic requirements were as a rule short-lived. His problem was to

fill the boxes without losing hold of them, and the wind often gained

the ascendancy before a sufficient ballast had been added. We sometimes

wondered whether any of the flotsam thus cast upon the waters ever

reached the civilized world.

Whatever has been said relative to the wind-pressure exerted on

inanimate objects, the same applied, with even more point, to our

persons; so that progression in a hurricane became a fine art. The first

difficulty to be encountered was a smooth, slippery surface offering no

grip for the feet. Stepping out of the shelter of the Hut, one was apt

to be immediately hurled at full length down wind. No amount of exertion

was of any avail unless a firm foothold had been secured. The strongest

man, stepping on to ice or hard snow in plain leather or fur boots,

would start sliding away with gradually increasing velocity; in the

space of a few seconds, or earlier, exchanging the vertical for the

horizontal position. He would then either stop suddenly against a

jutting point of ice, or glide along for twenty or thirty yards till he

reached a patch of rocks or some rough sastrugi.

Of course we soon learned never to go about without crampons on the

feet. Many experiments in the manufacture of crampons were tried

with the limited materials at our disposal. Those designed for normal

Antarctic conditions had been found unserviceable. A few detachable

pairs made of wrought iron with spikes about one and a half inches in

length, purchased in Switzerland, gave a secure foothold. Some of the

men covered the soles of their boots with long, bristling spikes and

these served their purpose well. Ice-nails, screwed into the soles

without being riveted on plates, were liable to tear out when put to

a severe test, besides being too short. Spikes of less than an inch in

length were inadequate in hurricanes. Nothing devised by us gave the

grip of the Swiss crampons, but, to affix them, one had to wear leather

boots, which, though padded to increase their warmth, had to be tightly

bound by lashings compressing the feet and increasing the liability to

frost-bite.

Shod with good spikes, in a steady wind, one had only to push hard to

keep a sure footing. It would not be true to say "to keep erect," for

equilibrium was maintained by leaning against the wind. In course

of time, those whose duties habitually took them out of doors became

thorough masters of the art of walking in hurricanes--an accomplishment

comparable to skating or skiing. Ensconced in the lee of a substantial

break-wind, one could leisurely observe the unnatural appearance of

others walking about, apparently in imminent peril of falling on their

faces.

Experiments were tried in the steady winds; firmly planting the feet

on the ground, keeping the body rigid and leaning over on the invisible

support. This "lying on the wind," at equilibrium, was a unique

experience. As a rule the velocity remained uniform; when it fluctuated

in a series of gusts, all our experience was likely to fail, for no

sooner had the correct angle for the maximum velocity been assumed than

a lull intervened--with the obvious result.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

A copy of the wind-velocity (anenometer) and the wind direction

(anemograph) for a period of twenty-four hours, Adelie Land

This particular record illustrates a day of constant high velocity wind.

In the case of the upper chart each rise of the pen from the bottom to

the top of the paper indicates that another 100 miles of wind has passed

the instrument. The regularity of these curves shows the steadiness of

the wind. It will be observed that the average velocity for twenty-four

hours was 90.1 miles, and the maximum of the average hourly velocities

throughout that period was ninety-seven miles. The lower chart, the

record of the direction from which the wind blew, is marked only by a

single broad bar in the position of South-by-East, the wind not having

veered in the slightest degree.

Before the art of "hurricane-walking" was learnt, and in the primitive

days of ice-nails and finnesko, progression in high winds degenerated

into crawling on hands and knees. Many of the more conservative

persisted in this method, and, as a compensation, became the first

exponents of the popular art of "board-sliding." A small piece of board,

a wide ice flat and a hurricane were the three essentials for this new

sport.

Wind alone would not have been so bad; drift snow accompanied it in

overwhelming amount. In the autumn overcast weather with heavy falls

of snow prevailed, with the result that the air for several months was

seldom free from drift. Indeed, during that time, there were not

many days when objects a hundred yards away could be seen distinctly.

Whatever else happened, the wind never abated, and so, even when the

snow had ceased falling and the sky was clear, the drift continued until

all the loose accumulations on the hinterland, for hundreds of miles

back, had been swept out to sea. Day after day deluges of drift streamed

past the Hut, at times so dense as to obscure objects three feet away,

until it seemed as if the atmosphere were almost solid snow.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

A comparison of wind-velocities and temperatures prevailing at Cape

Royds, Mcmurdo Sound, and at winter quarters, Adelie Land, during the

months of May and June

At the time of plotting only the above two months were available, but

they are enough to illustrate the unusually severe winter conditions of

Adelie Land. The data for Cape Royds is that supplied by the Shackleton

Expedition. The solid black line refers to Adelie Land, the broken line

to Cape Royds. It will be noted that whereas the average temperature

conditions are closely similar at both stations, only on three days

during the period did the average wind velocity at Cape Royds reach that

of the lowest daily value of Adelie Land.

Picture drift so dense that daylight comes through dully, though,

maybe, the sun shines in a cloudless sky; the drift is hurled, screaming

through space at a hundred miles an hour, and the temperature is below

zero, Fahrenheit.** You have then the bare, rough facts concerning

the worst blizzards of Adelie Land. The actual experience of them is

another thing.

** Temperatures as low as -28 degrees F.

(60 degrees below freezing-point) were experienced in hurricane winds,

which blew at a velocity occasionally exceeding one hundred miles per

hour. Still air and low temperatures, or high winds and moderate

temperatures, are well enough; but the combination of high winds and low

temperatures is difficult to bear.

Shroud the infuriated elements in the darkness of a polar night, and the

blizzard is presented in a severer aspect. A plunge into the writhing

storm-whirl stamps upon the senses an indelible and awful impression

seldom equalled in the whole gamut of natural experience. The world a

void, grisly, fierce and appalling. We stumble and struggle through

the Stygian gloom; the merciless blast--an incubus of vengeance--stabs,

buffets and freezes; the stinging drift blinds and chokes. In a ruthless

grip we realize that we are

poor windlestraws

On the great, sullen, roaring pool of Time.

It may well be imagined that none of us went out on these occasions

for the pleasure of it. The scientific work required all too frequent

journeys to the instruments at a distance from the Hut, and, in

addition, supplies of ice and stores had to be brought in, while the

dogs needed constant attention.

Every morning, Madigan visited all the meteorological instruments and

changed the daily charts; at times having to feel his way from one place

to the other. Attending to the exposed instruments in a high wind with

low temperature was bad enough, but with suffocating drift difficulties

were increased tenfold.

Around the Hut there was a small fraternity who chose the outside

veranda as a rendezvous. Here the latest gossip was exchanged, and the

weather invariably discussed in forcible terms. There was Whetter, who

replenished the water-supply from the unfailing fountain-head of the

glacier. For cooking, washing clothes and for photographic and other

purposes, eighteen men consumed a good deal of water, and, to keep up

with the demand, Whetter piled up many hardly-won boxes of ice in

the veranda. Close unearthed coal briquettes from the heap outside,

shovelled tons of snow from the veranda and made himself useful and

amiable to every one. Murphy, our stand-by in small talk, travel,

history, literature and what not, was the versatile storeman. The store

in the veranda was continually invaded by similar snow to that which

covered the provision boxes outside. To keep the veranda cleared, renew

the supplies and satisfy the demands of the kitchen required no other

than Murphy. Ninnis and Mertz completed the "Veranda Club," to which

honorary members from within the Hut were constantly being added.

The meteorological instruments, carefully nursed and housed though they

were, were bound to suffer in such a climate. Correll, who was well

fitted out with a lathe and all the requirements for instrument-making,

attended to repairs, doing splendid service. The anemometer gave the

greatest trouble, and, before Correll had finished with it, most of the

working parts had been replaced in stronger metal.

When the recording sheets of the instruments had been successfully

changed, the meteorologist packed them in a leather bag, strapped on his

shoulders, so that they would not be lost on the way to the Hut. As soon

as he arrived indoors the bag was opened and emptied; the papers being

picked out from a small heap of snow.

It was a fortunate thing that no one was lost through failing to

discover the Hut during the denser drifts. Hodgeman on one occasion

caused every one a good deal of anxiety. Among other things, he

regularly assisted Madigan by relieving him of outdoor duties on the day

after his nightwatch, when the chief meteorologist was due for a "watch

below." It was in the early autumn--few of us, then, were adepts at

finding our way by instinct--that Hodgeman and Madigan set out, one

morning, for the anemometer. Leaving the door of the Hut, they lost

sight of each other at once, but anticipated meeting at the instrument.

Madigan reached his destination, changed the records, waited for a while

and then returned, expecting to see his companion at the Hut. He did

not appear, so, after a reasonable interval, search parties set off in

different directions.

The wind was blowing at eighty miles per hour, making it tedious work

groping about and hallooing in the drift. The sea was close at hand

and we realized that, as the wind was directly off shore, a man without

crampons was in a dangerous situation. Two men, therefore, roped

together and carefully searched round the head of the boat harbour; one

anchoring himself with an ice-axe, whilst the other, at the end of the

rope, worked along the edge of the sea. Meanwhile Hodgeman returned to

the Hut, unaided, having spent a very unpleasant two hours struggling

from one landmark to another, his outer garments filled with snow.

The fact that the wind came steadily from the same direction made it

possible to steer, otherwise outdoor operations would not have

been conducted so successfully. For instance, Webb, who visited the

Magnetograph House, a quarter of a mile distant, at least once a day,

made his way between various "beacons" by preserving a definite bearing

on the wind. His journeys were rendered all the more difficult because

they were frequently undertaken at night.

In struggling along through very dense drifts one would be inclined to

think that the presence of the sun was a matter of small concern. As a

matter of fact there was, during the day, a good deal of reflected white

light and a dark object looms up within a yard or two. In darkness there

was nothing to recognize. So Webb would often run by dead reckoning on

to the roof of the Hut, and would then feel his way round it till he

caught the glimmer of a hurricane lantern coming through the veranda

entrance.

I had always the greatest admiration for the unfailing manner in which

those responsible for the tidal, magnetic and meteorological work

carried out their duties.

As a measure of the enormous amount of drift, we set about constructing

a gauge, which, it was hoped, would give us a rough estimate of the

quantity passing the Hut in a year. Hannam, following the approved

design, produced a very satisfactory contrivance. It consisted of a

large drift-tight box, fitted on the windward side with a long metal

cone, tapering to an aperture three-quarters of an inch in diameter. The

drift-laden air entered the aperture, its speed was checked on entering

the capacious body of the gauge and consequently the snow fell to the

bottom of the box and the air passed out behind through a trap-door.

The catch was taken out periodically through a bolted lid, the snow was

melted, the resulting water measured and its weight calculated.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

The drift gauge

In thick drifts, one's face inside the funnel of the burberry helmet

became rapidly packed with snow, which, by the warmth of the skin and

breath, was changed into a mask of ice. This adhered firmly to the rim

of the helmet and to the beard and face. The mask became so complete

that one had to clear away obstructions continually from the eyes. It

was not easy to remove the casing of ice, outside in the wind,

because this could only be done slowly, with bare fingers exposed. An

experienced man, once inside the Hut, would first see that the ice

was broken along the rim of the helmet; otherwise, when it came to be

hastily dragged off, the hairs of the beard would follow as well. As

soon as the helmet was off the head, the icicles hanging on the beard

and glazing the eyelashes were gradually thawed by the fingers and

removed. The above treatment was learned by experience.

The abrasion-effects produced by the impact of the snow particles were

astonishing. Pillars of ice were cut through in a few days, rope was

frayed, wood etched and metal polished. Some rusty dog-chains were

exposed to it, and, in a few days, they had a definite sheen. A deal

box, facing the wind, lost all its painted bands and in a fortnight was

handsomely marked; the hard, knotty fibres being only slightly attacked,

whilst the softer, pithy laminae were corroded to a depth of one-eighth

of an inch.

The effect of constant abrasion upon the snow's surface is to harden it,

and, finally, to carve ridges known as sastrugi. Of these much will be

said when recounting our sledging adventures, because they increase so

much the difficulties of travelling.

Even hard, blue ice may become channelled and pitted by the action of

drift. Again, both neve and ice may receive a wind-polish which makes

them very slippery.

Of the effect of wind and drift upon rock, there was ample evidence

around Winter Quarters. Regarded from the north, the aspect of the

rocks was quite different from that on the southern side. The southern,

windward faces were on the whole smooth and rounded, but there was no

definite polish, because the surface was partly attacked by the chipping

and splitting action of frost. The leeward faces were rougher and

more disintegrated. More remarkable still were the etchings of the

non-homogeneous banded rocks. The harder portions of these were raised

in relief, producing quite an artistic pattern.

In regard to the drift, a point which struck me was the enormous amount

of cold communicated to the sea by billions of tons of low-temperature

snow thrown upon its surface. The effect upon the water, already at

freezing-point, would be to congeal the surface at once. Whilst the wind

continued, however, there was no opportunity for a crust to form,

the uppermost layers being converted into a pea-soup-like film which

streamed away to the north.

A description of the drifts of Adelie Land would not be complete

without mentioning the startling electrical effects which were sometimes

observed. The first record of these was made by McLean, when on

night-watch on March 22. While taking the observations at midnight,

he noticed St. Elmo's fire, a "brush discharge" of electricity, on the

points of the nephoscope. As the weather became colder this curious

phenomenon increased in intensity. At any time in the drift, an

electroscope exposed outside became rapidly charged. A spark gap in a

vacuum, connected with a free end of wire, gave a continuous discharge.

At times, when the effects were strong, the night-watchman would find

the edges and wire stays of the screen outlined in a fashion reminiscent

of a pyrotechnic display or an electric street-advertisement. The

corners of boxes and points of rock glowed with a pale blue light. The

same appeared over points on the clothing, on the mitts and round the

funnel of the helmet. No sensation was transmitted to the body from

these points of fire, at least nothing sufficiently acute to be felt,

with the drift and wind lashing on the body outside. However, the

anemograph several times discharged a continuous stream of sparks into

Madigan's fingers while he was changing the records. Once these sparks

reached half an inch in length, and, as his fingers were bared for the

work, there was no mistaking the feeling.

For regular observations on the subject, Correll fixed a pointed

collector--a miniature lightning-conductor--above the flagpole on the

summit of the roof. A wire was led through an insulator, so that the

stream of electricity could be subjected to experiment in the Hut. Here

a "brush" of blue light radiated outwards to a distance of one inch.

When a conductor was held close to it, a rattling volley of sparks

immediately crossed the interval and the air was pervaded with a strong

smell of ozone. Of course sparks were not always being emitted by the

collector, and it was important to determine the periods of activity.

To ensure this, Hurley devised an automatic arrangement, so that an

electric bell was set ringing whenever a current was passing; the

night-watchman would then note the fact in the log-book. However, the

bell responded so often and so vigorously that it was soon dismantled

for the benefit of sleepers. It was singular that the "brush discharge"

was sometimes most copious when the atmosphere was filled with very fine

drift, and not necessarily during dense drift.

After what has been said, it will be obvious that the drift-laden

hurricanes of the country were more than ordinarily formidable. They

scarcely seemed to provide a subject for poetic inspiration; still

the following effusion appeared by McLean, Editor of the 'Adelie

Blizzard':--

THE BLIZZARD

A snow-hush brooding o'er the grey rock-hills!

A wold of silence, ominous, that fills

The wide seascape of ice-roofed islands, rolls

To ether-zones that gird the frigid Poles!

Realm of purest alabaster-white,

Wreathed in a vast infinitude of light;

The royal orb swings to thy summer gaze

A glitt'ring azure world of crystal days.

The lorn bird-voices of an unseen land-

No hue of forest, gleam of ocean sand-

Rise in a ceaseless plaint of raucous din,

On northern tides the bergs come floating in.

The wind-sprites murmuring in hinter-snow-

The pent heart-throbbings of the wan plateau-

Wing through the pulsing spell thrown o'er the sea,

In wild and shrieking blizzard minstrelsy.

Swirl of the drift-cloud's shimm'ring sleet;

Race of the spray-smoke's hurtling sheet

Swelling trail of the streaming, sunbright foam,

Wafting sinuous brash to an ice-field home.

Eddy-wraiths o'er the splintered schist-

Torrent spume down the glacier hissed!

Throbbing surge of the ebbing seaward gust,

Raping stillness vast in its madd'ning lust.

Lotus-floe 'neath the Barrier brink,

Starting sheer--a marble blink-

Pelting shafts from the show'ring arrow-blast

Strike--ill the blackened flood seethe riven past.

Glow of the vibrant, yellow west

Pallid fades in the dread unrest.

Low'ring shades through the fury-stricken night

Rack the screaming void in shudd'ring might.

Requiem peace from the hinter-snows

Soft as river music flows.

Dawn in a flushing glamour tints the sea;

Serene her thrill of rhythmic ecstasy.

Sledging was out of the question. Indeed, we recognized how fortunate we

were not to have pushed farther south in March. Had we advanced, it is

more than likely that provisions would have been exhausted before we

could have located the Hut in the sea of drift. Our hopes were now

centred on midwinter calms.

Looking through my diary, I notice that on March 24, "we experienced

a rise in spirits because of the improved weather." I find the average

velocity of the wind for that day to have been forty-five miles per

hour, corresponding to a "strong gale" on the Beaufort scale. This tells

its own story.

When the high wind blew off shore, there was no backswell, on account of

the pack-ice to the north quelling the sea. The arrival of a true ocean

swell meant that the pack had been dispersed. On March 24 such appears

to have been the case, for then, during the day, a big northerly swell

set in, dashing over the ice-foot and scattering seaweed on the rocks.

After the equinox, the temperatures remained in the vicinity of zero,

Fahrenheit. The penguins took to the sea, and, save for the glimpse of

an occasional petrel on the wing, the landscape was desolate.

It was high time that our programme of construction was completed, but,

however much we tried, it was impossible to do a great deal in winds

exceeding fifty miles an hour. By taking advantage of days freest from

drift, the exterior of the Hangar was completed by April 6. After the

air-tractor sledge had been moved inside, the snow was piled so high

on the leeward face, that the shelter became naturally blocked with a

rampart of snow which served admirably in place of the wall of tarpaulin

which we originally intended to use.

Bickerton could now proceed at leisure to make any necessary

alterations. The Hangar was also used as a store for many articles which

had been crowded into odd corners or rescued from the snow outside. To

increase its size, tunnels were afterwards driven into the bank of snow

and timber was stowed in these so as to be safe from burial and loss.

The building was finished just in the nick of time. Snow came down so

thickly that had the falls occurred a few days earlier, the cases from

which the place was constructed would have been effectually buried and

the construction made an impossibility.

But for the wind, the Hut would have been lost to sight. Still, it was

completely surrounded by massive drifts, and the snow was driven by the

wind past the canvas flap and through the entrance, until the veranda

became choked.

Close, who was night-watchman during the early morning hours of April 7,

had the greatest difficulty in getting outside to attend to his duties.

To dig his way through the entrance, reach the instruments and to return

occupied a whole hour.

We were inundated with snow; even a portion of the roof was buried.

The situation required immediate attention; so it was decided to make a

tunnel connecting the entrance veranda with the store veranda. From the

north-western end of the latter, an out-draught had established itself,

preserving a vertical funnel-like opening in the snow bank, always free

for entrance or exit. This proved a fortunate accident.

Further, a second tunnel, over twenty feet in length, was driven out

from the original entrance with a view to reaching the surface at a

point beyond the lee of the Hut. It was thought that the scouring effect

of the wind, there, would keep the opening of the tunnel free of drift.

But when completed, it filled rapidly with snow and had to be sealed. It

was then used to receive slop-water. While the fever for excavation

was at its height, Whetter drove, as an off-shoot to the first, another

tunnel which came to be used as a nursery for the pups.

At this stage, to leave the Hut, it was necessary to crawl through a low

trap-door in the wall of the inside or entrance veranda; the way then

led to the connecting tunnel and onwards to the store veranda; finally

one climbed through a manhole in the snow into the elements without.

From the store veranda there was access to the Hangar by a hinged door

in the common wall, and, as an additional convenience, a trap-door was

made in the roof of the inner veranda to be used during spells of clear

weather or in light drift.

The old landmarks became smothered in snow, making the Hut's position a

matter of greater uncertainty. A journey by night to the magnetic huts

was an outing with a spice of adventure.

Climbing out of the veranda, one was immediately swallowed in the chaos

of hurtling drift, the darkness sinister and menacing. The shrill wind

fled by--

...the noise of a drive of the Dead,

Striving before the irresistible will

Through the strange dusk of this, the Debatable land

Between their place and ours.

Unseen wizard hands clutched with insane fury, hacked and harried. It

was "the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, the Wild that would crush

and rend."

Cowering blindly, pushing fiercely through the turmoil, one strove to

keep a course to reach the rocks in which the huts were hidden--such and

such a bearing on the wind--so far. When the rocks came in sight, the

position of the final destination was only deduced by recognising a few

surrounding objects.

On the return journey, the vicinity of the Hut would be heralded by

such accidents as tripping over the "wireless" ground wires or kicking

against a box or a heap of coal briquettes. These clues, properly

followed up, would lead to the Hut itself, or at least to its shelving

roof. In the very thick drifts it was even possible to stand on portions

of the roof without any notion of the fact. Fossicking about, one kept

on the alert for the feel of woodwork. When found and proved to be too

extensive to be a partially buried box, it might safely be concluded to

be some part of the roof, and only required to be skirted in order to

reach the vertical entrance. The lost man often discovered this pitfall

by dropping suddenly through into the veranda.

At the entrance to the tunnel, the roar of the tempest died away into a

rumble, the trap-door opened and perhaps the strains of the gramophone

would come in a kind of flippant defiance from the interior. Passing

through the vestibule and work-room one beheld a scene in utter variance

with the outer hell. Here were warm bunks, rest, food, light and

companionship--for the time being, heaven! Outside, the crude and naked

elements of a primitive and desolate world flowed in writhing torrents.

The night-watchman's duty of taking the meteorological observations

at the screen adjacent to the Hut was a small matter compared with the

foregoing. First of all, it was necessary for him to don a complete

outfit of protective clothing. Dressing and undressing were tedious, and

absorbed a good deal of time. At the screen, he would spend a lively

few minutes wrestling in order to hold his ground, forcing the door back

against the pressure of wind, endeavouring to make the light shine on

the instruments, and, finally, clearing them of snow and reading them.

For illumination a hurricane lantern wrapped in a calico wind-shield was

first used, to be displaced later by an electrical signalling-lamp and,

while the batteries lasted, by a light permanently fixed by Hannam in

the screen itself. To assist in finding the manhole on his return, the

night-watchman was in the habit of leaving a light burning in the outer

veranda.

I remember waking up early one morning to find the Hut unusually cold.

On rising, I discovered Hurley also awake, busy lighting the fire which

had died out. There was no sign of Correll, the night-watchman, and we

found that the last entry in the log-book had been made several hours

previously. Hurley dressed in full burberrys and went out to make a

search, in which he was soon successful.

It appeared that Correll, running short of coal during the early

morning hours, had gone out to procure some from the stack. While he was

returning to the entrance, the wind rolled him over a few times, causing

him to lose his bearings. It was blowing a hurricane, the temperature

was -70 F., and the drift-snow was so thick as to be wall-like in

opacity. He abandoned his load of coal, and, after searching about

fruitlessly for some time in the darkness, he decided to wait for dawn.

Hurley found him about twenty yards from the back of the Hut.

The suppression of outdoor occupations reacted in an outburst of indoor

work. The smaller room had been well fitted up as a workshop, and all

kinds of schemes were in progress for adapting our sledging-gear and

instruments to the severe conditions. Correll worked long hours to keep

up with the demands made upon him. Nobody was idle during the day,

for, when there was nothing else to be done, there always remained the

manufacture and alteration of garments and crampons.

As soon as the wind abated to a reasonable velocity, there was a rush to

the outside jobs. Lulls would come unexpectedly, activity inside ceased,

and the Hut, as seen by a spectator, resembled an ants' nest upon which

a strange foot had trodden: eighteen men swarming through the manhole in

rapid succession, hurrying hither and thither.

The neighbouring sea still remained free from an ice-crust. This, of

course, did not mean that freezing was not going on continuously. On the

contrary, the chilling was no doubt accelerated, but the bulk of the

ice was carried off to the north as fast as it was formed. Quantities,

however, remained as ground-ice, anchored to the kelp and stones on the

bottom. Gazing down through the clear waters one saw a white, mamillated

sheath covering the jungle of giant seaweed, recalling a forest after a

heavy snowfall. The ice, instead of being a dead weight bearing down

the branches, tended to float, and, when accumulated in large masses,

sometimes succeeded in rising to the surface, uprooting and lifting

great lengths of seaweed with it. One branching stem, found floating in

the harbour, measured eighteen feet in length.

Whenever a temporary calm intervened, a skin of ice quickly appeared

over the whole surface of the water. In the early stages, this formation

consisted of loose, blade-like crystals, previously floating freely

below the surface and rising by their own buoyancy. At the surface, if

undisturbed, they soon became cemented together. For example, during a

calm interval on April 6, within the interval of an hour, an even crust,

one inch thick, covered the sea. But the wind returned before the ice

was sufficiently strong to resist it, and it all broke up and drifted

away to the north, except a piece which remained wedged firmly between

the sides of the boat harbour.

In the calm weather, abundant "worms" freely swimming, jelly-fish,

pteropods and small fish were observed. Traps were lowered along the

edge of the harbour-ice and dredgings were made in every possible

situation. The bulk of the biological collecting was effected under

circumstances in which Hunter and Laseron might well have given up work

in disgust. For instance, I noted in my diary that on May 16, with an

off shore wind of forty-three miles per hour, they and several others

were dredging from the edge of the slippery bay-ice. The temperature at

the time was -2 degrees F.

During April the head of the boat harbour froze over permanently, the

ice reaching a thickness of eighteen inches in ten days. By that time

it was strong enough to be suitable for a tide-gauge. This was one of

Bage's charges, destined to take him out for many months in fair and

foul weather.

There were several occasions in April when the velocity of the wind

exceeded ninety miles an hour. On the evening of the 26th, the wind

slackened, and for part of the 27th had almost fallen to a calm. This

brought the optimists to the fore, once again, with the theory that the

worst was over. The prediction was far from being fulfilled, for, as the

days passed, the average velocity steadily rose. On May 11 the average

for the twenty-four hours was eighty miles per hour. By that time the

Hut had been further protected by a crescent of cases, erected behind

the first break-wind. In height this erection stood above the Hangar,

and, when the snow became piled in a solid ramp on the leeward side, it

was more compact than ever. Inside the Hut extra struts were introduced,

stiffening the principal rafters on the southern side. It was reassuring

to know that these precautions had been taken, for, on May 15, the wind

blew at an average velocity of ninety miles per hour throughout the

whole twenty-four hours.

Having failed to demolish us by dogged persistence, the hurricane tried

new tactics on the evening of May 24, in the form of a terrific series

of Herculean gusts. As we learned afterwards, the momentary velocity of

these doubtless approached two hundred miles per hour. At 11.30 P.M. the

situation was cheerfully discussed, though every one was tuned up to a

nervous pitch as the Hut creaked and shuddered under successive blows.

It seemed very doubtful whether the roof would resist the gusts, and the

feasibility of the meat cellar as a last haven of refuge was discussed.

After the passage of each gust, the barometer dropped, rising again

immediately afterwards. Similar pulsations of the barometer were

observed many times later in the year. The maximum sudden movement noted

was one-fifth inch. Had the interior of the Hut been more freely in

communication with the outside air, instead of resembling a hermetically

sealed box, the "kicks" would undoubtedly have been much greater.

Cyclonic gusts were repeated a few days after, when the upper tiers of

boxes composing the break-wind were thrown down and pebbles from the

moraine were hurled on the roof. The average velocity of the wind for

each of the three autumn months was as follows: March, 49 miles per

hour; April, 51.5 miles per hour, and May 60.7 miles per hour.

On May 1 the temperatures became lower, so that it was difficult to

move about in the gales without the face getting frost-bitten. Our usual

remedy when this occurred was to hold a mitt over the part affected;

thus sheltered, its circulation of blood was soon re-established,

unless the cold were very intense. In the extremities--the fingers and

toes--warmth was not so easily restored.

Returning from attending the instruments at noon on May 22, Madigan,

according to the usual habit, before taking off his wind-proof clothes,

commenced clearing away the ice adhering to his helmet and face. One

white patch refused to leave the side of his face, until some one

observed that it was a frost-bite, and acquainted him of the fact.

Frost-bites that day were excusable enough, for the wind was blowing

between ninety-five and hundred miles per hour, there was dense drifting

snow and a temperature of -28 degrees F.

We had found an accursed country. On the fringe of an unspanned

continent along whose gelid coast our comrades had made their home--we

knew not where--we dwelt where the chill breath of a vast, Polar

wilderness, quickening to the rushing might of eternal blizzards, surged

to the northern seas. Already, and for long months we were beneath

"frost-fettered Winter's frown."

CHAPTER VIII DOMESTIC LIFE

Our hearth and home was the living Hut and its focus was the stove.

Kitchen and stove were indissolubly linked, and beyond their pale was

a wilderness of hanging clothes, boots, finnesko, mitts and what not,

bounded by tiers of bunks and blankets, more hanging clothes and dim

photographs between the frost-rimed cracks of the wooden walls.

One might see as much in the first flicker of the acetylene through a

maze of hurrying figures, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the light,

the plot would thicken: books orderly and disorderly, on bracketed

shelves, cameras great and small in motley confusion, guns and a

gramophone-horn, serpentine yards of gas-tubing, sewing machines,

a microscope, rows of pint-mugs, until--thud! he has obstructed a

wild-eyed messman staggering into the kitchen with a box of ice.

The wilderness was always inhabited, so much so that it often became a

bear-garden in which raucous good humour prevailed over everything.

Noise was a necessary evil, and it commenced at 7.30 A.M., with the

subdued melodies of the gramophone, mingled with the stirring of the

porridge-pot and the clang of plates deposited none too gently on

the table. At 7.50 A.M. came the stentorian: "Rise and shine!" of the

night-watchman, and a curious assortment of cat-calls, beating on pots

and pans and fragmentary chaff. At the background, so to speak, of all

these sounds was the swishing rush of the wind and the creaking strain

of the roof, but these had become neglected. In fact, if there were a

calm, every one was restless and uneasy.

The seasoned sleeper who survived the ten minutes' bombardment before

8 o'clock was an unusual person, and he was often the Astronomer Royal.

Besides his dignified name he possessed a wrist-watch, and there was

never a movement in his mountain of blankets until 7.59 A.M., unless

the jocular night-watchman chose to make a heap of them on the floor.

To calls like "Breakfast all ready! Porridge on the table getting cold!"

seventeen persons in varying stages of wakefulness responded. No one

was guilty of an elaborate toilet, water being a scarce commodity. There

were adherents of the snow-wash theory, but these belonged to an earlier

and warmer epoch of our history.

For downright, tantalizing cheerfulness there was no one to equal the

night-watchman. While others strove to collect their befuddled senses,

this individual prated of "wind eighty miles per hour with moderate

drift and brilliant St. Elmo's fire." He boasted of the number of

garments he had washed, expanded vigorously on bread making--his brown,

appetizing specimens in full public view--told of the latest escapade

among the dogs, spoke of the fitful gleams of the aurora between 1.30

and 2 A.M., of his many adventures on the way to the meteorological

screen and so forth; until from being a mere night-watchman he had

raised himself to the status of a public hero. For a time he was most

objectionable, but under the solid influence of porridge, tinned fruit,

fresh bread, butter and tea and the soothing aroma of innumerable

pipes, other public heroes arose and ousted this upstart of the night.

Meanwhile, the latter began to show signs of abating energy after

twelve hours' work. Soon some wag had caught him having a private nap, a

whispered signal was passed round and the unfortunate hero was startled

into life with a rousing "Rise and shine!" in which all past scores were

paid off.

Every one was at last awake and the day began in earnest. The first hint

of this came from the messman and cook who commenced to make a Herculean

sweep of the pint-mugs and tin plates. The former deferentially

proceeded to scrape the plates, the master-cook presiding over a tub of

boiling water in which he vigorously scoured knives, forks and spoons,

transferring them in dripping handfuls to the cleanest part of the

kitchen-table. Cooks of lyric inclination would enliven the company with

the score of the latest gramophone opera, and the messman and company

would often feel impelled to join in the choruses.

The night-watchman had sunk into log-like slumber, and the meteorologist

and his merry men were making preparations to go abroad. The merry men

included the ice-carrier, the magnetician, the two wardens of the

dogs, the snow-shoveller and coal-carrier and the storeman. The rest

subdivided themselves between the living Hut at 45 degrees F. and the

outer Hut below freezing-point, taking up their endless series of jobs.

The merry men began to make an organized raid on the kitchen. Around

and above the stove hung oddments like wolf-skin mitts, finnesko, socks,

stockings and helmets, which had passed from icy rigidity through sodden

limpness to a state of parchment dryness. The problem was to recover

one's own property and at the same time to avoid the cook scraping the

porridge saucepan and the messman scrubbing the table.

The urbane storeman saved the situation by inquiring of the cook: "What

will you have for lunch?" Then followed a heated colloquy, the former,

like a Cingalese vendor, having previously made up his mind. The

argument finally crystallized down to lambs' tongues and beetroot,

through herrings and tomato sauce, fresh herrings, kippered herrings,

sardines and corn beef.

The second question was a preliminary to more serious business; "What

would you like for dinner?"

Although much trouble might have been saved by reference to the

regulation programme, which was composed to provide variety in diet and

to eliminate any remote chance of scurvy, most cooks adopted an attitude

of surly independence, counting it no mean thing to have wheedled from

the storeman a few more ounces of "glaxo," another tin of peas or an

extra ration of penguin meat. All this chaffering took place in the open

market-place, so to speak, and there was no lack of frank criticism from

bystanders, onlookers and distant eavesdroppers. In case the cook was

worsted, the messman sturdily upheld his opinions, and in case the

weight of public opinion was too much for the storeman, he slipped on

his felt mitts, shouldered a Venesta box and made for the tunnel which

led to the store.

He reaches an overhead vent admitting a cool torrent of snow, and with

the inseparable box plunges ahead into darkness. An hour later his

ruddy face reappears in the Hut, and a load of frosted tins is soon

unceremoniously dumped on to the kitchen table. The cook in a swift

survey notes the absence of penguin meat. "That'll take two hours to dig

out!" is the storeman's rejoinder, and to make good his word, proceeds

to pull off blouse and helmet. By careful inquiry in the outer Hut he

finds an ice-axe, crowbar and hurricane lantern. The next move is to

the outer veranda, where a few loose boards are soon removed, and the

storeman, with a lithe twist, is out of sight.

We have pushed the tools down and, following the storeman, painfully

squeezed into an Arcadia of starry mounds of snow and glistening plaques

of ice, through which project a few boulders and several carcases

of mutton. The storeman rummages in the snow and discloses a pile of

penguins, crusted hard together in a homogeneous lump. Dislodging

a couple of penguins appears an easy proposition, but we are soon

disillusioned. The storeman seizes the head of one bird, wrenches hard,

and off it breaks as brittle as a stalactite. The same distracting thing

happens to both legs, and the only remedy is to chip laboriously an icy

channel around it.

In a crouching or lying posture, within a confined space, this means

the expenditure of much patience, not to mention the exhaustion of all

invective. A crowbar decides the question. One part of the channel is

undermined, into this the end of the crowbar is thrust and the penguin

shoots up and hits the floor of the Hut.

The storeman, plastered with snow, reappears hot and triumphant

before the cook, but this dignitary is awkwardly kneading the dough of

wholemeal scones, and the messman is feeding the fire with seal-blubber

to ensure a "quick" oven. Every one is too busy to notice the storeman,

for, like the night-watchman, his day is over and he must find another

job.

Jobs in the Hut were the elixir of life, and a day's cooking was

no exception to the rule. It began at 7 A.M., and, with a brief

intermission between lunch and afternoon tea, continued strenuously

till 8.30 P.M. Cooks were broadly classified as "Crook Cooks" and

"Unconventional Cooks" by the eating public. Such flattering titles

as "Assistant Grand Past Master of the Crook Cooks' Association" or

"Associate of the Society of Muddling Messmen" were not empty inanities;

they were founded on solid fact--on actual achievement. If there were no

constitutional affiliation, strong sympathy undoubtedly existed between

the "Crook Cooks' Association" and "The Society of Muddling Messmen."

Both contained members who had committed "championships."

"Championship" was a term evolved from the local dialect, applying to

a slight mishap, careless accident or unintentional disaster in any

department of Hut life. The fall of a dozen plates from the shelf to the

floor, the fracture of a table-knife in frozen honey, the burning of the

porridge or the explosion of a tin thawing in the oven brought down

on the unfortunate cook a storm of derisive applause and shouts of

"Championship! Championship!"

Thawing-out tinned foods by the heroic aid of a red-hot stove was a

common practice. One day a tin of baked beans was shattered in the

"port" oven, and fragments of dried beans were visible on the walls

and door for weeks. Our military cook would often facetiously refer to

"platoon-firing in the starboard oven."

One junior member of the "Crook Cooks' Association" had the hardihood

to omit baking powder in a loaf of soda-bread, trusting that prolonged

baking would repair the omission. The result was a "championship" of a

very superior order. Being somewhat modest, he committed it through the

trap-door to the mercy of the wind, and for a time it was lost in the

straggling rubbish which tailed away to the north. Even the prowling

dogs in their wolfish hunger could not overcome a certain prejudice.

Of course some one found it, and the public hailed it with delight. A

searching inquiry was made, but the perpetrator was never discovered.

That loaf, however, like the proverbial bad penny, turned up for months.

When the intricate system of snow-tunnels was being perfected, it was

excavated. In the early summer, when the aeroplane was dug out of the

Hangar, that loaf appeared once more, and almost the last thing we saw

when leaving the Hut, nearly two years after, was this petrifaction on

an icy pedestal near the Boat Harbour.

No one ever forgot the roly-poly pudding made without suet; synthetic

rubber was its scientific name. And the muddling messman could never be

surpassed who lost the cutter of the sausage machine and put salt-water

ice in the melting-pots.

There appeared in the columns of 'The Adelie Blizzard' an article by the

meteorologist descriptive of an occasion when two members of the "Crook

Cooks' Association" officiated in the kitchen:

TEREBUS AND ERROR IN ERUPTION An 'Orrible Affair in One Act BY A

SURVIVOR

Dramatis Personae

TEREBUS | | Crook Cooks

ERROR |

Other Expedition Members

Scene: Kitchen, Winter Quarters.

Time: 5.30 P.M.

ERROR. Now, Terebus, just bring me a nice clean pot, will you?

TEREBUS [from his bunk]. Go on, do something yourself!

ERROR. Do something? I've done everything that has been done this

afternoon.

TEREBUS. Well, you ought to feel pretty fresh.

ERROR. And all the melting-pots are empty and I'm not going to fill

them. Besides, it's not in the regulations.

Voices. Who's going crook? Error!

[TEREBUS climbs from his bunk and exit for ice. ERROR attempts to

extricate a pot from the nails in the shelves. Loud alarums.

Voices. Champ-ion-ship!

[Alarums without. Loud cries of "Door!" Enter TEREBUS with box of ice;

fills all the pots on the stove.

ERROR. Good heavens, man, you've filled up the tea water with ice.

TEREBUS [with hoarse laugh]. Never mind, they won't want so much glaxo

to cool it.

ERROR [who has meanwhile been mixing bread]. What shall we bake the

bread in? I believe it is considered that a square tin is more suitable

for ordinary ovens, but, on the other hand, Nansen in his 'Farthest

North' used flat dishes.

TEREBUS. Use a tin. There'll be less surface exposed to the cold oven.

ERROR. What's all this water on the floor? I thought my feet seemed

cold. Some one must have upset a bucket.

TEREBUS. Oh, it's one of the taps turned on. Never mind, there's plenty

more ice where that came from. Get your sea-boots.

[Enter METEOROLOGICAL STAFF and others with snow-covered burberrys,

mitts, etc., crowd kitchen and hang impedimenta round the stove. Great

tumult.

TEREBUS. Here, out of the kitchen. This isn't the time to worry the

cooks.

ERROR. Take those burberrys away, please, old man. They're dripping into

the soup.

TEREBUS. Give it some flavour at least.

[Great activity in the crater of ERROR while TEREBUS clears the kitchen.

ERROR continues stirring Soup and tapioca custard on the stove. Strong

smell of burning.

VOICES [in peculiarly joyful chorus]. Something burning!

ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. It's all right. It will taste all right. Say

it's cloth on the stove.

TEREBUS. Somebody's burberrys burning against the stove!!

[General rush to the stove.

TEREBUS. It's all right, I've taken them away.

[Interval, during which much sotto voce discussion is heard in the

kitchen.

ERROR. We haven't put the spinach on to thaw and it's after six o'clock.

TEREBUS. Warm it up and put it on the table with the tin-openers.

ERROR. I'm afraid that's against the regulations. Put it in the oven and

shut the door.

[TEREBUS does so. Later, terrific explosion, followed by strong smell of

spinach.

VOICES. What's the matter? Terebus in eruption!

TEREBUS [wiping spinach off his face]. Nothing wrong. Only a tin of

spinach opened automatically.

ERROR. It's plastered all over the oven and on everything.

TEREBUS. Don't worry, it will be served up with the baked penguin.

[Period of partial quiescence of TEREBUS and ERROR, which is regarded as

an evil omen.

ERROR [in persuasive tone]. Have you made the tea, old boy? It's nearly

half-past six.

[TEREBUS takes off the lid of the tea-boiler, peers inside, making a

scoop with his hand.

ERROR. Here, don't do that. Mind your hands.

TEREBUS. It's all right, it's not hot.

ERROR. What shall we do, then? We'll never keep them quiet if we are

late with the tea.

TEREBUS. Put the tea in now. It will be warmed up by the second course.

[TEREBUS puts the infusers in the pot and stirs them round.

ERROR. Taste it.

[BOTH taste with a dirty spoon.

TEREBUS. Tastes like your soup--'orrible!

ERROR. There's nothing wrong with the soup. You attend to the tea.

TEREBUS. I think we'll have coffee. Pass the coffee and I'll put that in

and bring it to the boil. The coffee will kill the taste of the tea.

ERROR. Hope you make it stronger than that.

[During quiescent stage while each is thinking of a retort, 6.30 P.M.

arrives, and the soup is put on the table. Interval elapses during which

the victims are expected to eat the soup.

VOICES [in loud chant from the table]. How did you do it, Error?

TEREBUS [after a suitable period]. Any one like any more soup?

A VOICE. Couldn't risk it, Governor. TEREBUS. Bowls up! Lick spoons!

[Bowls are cleared away and baked penguin is put on the table.

ERROR. Cooks have got their penguin, gentlemen.

[Suspicious glances exchanged at table. Later, monotonous chant goes up,

preceded by a soft "One, two, three." "Didn't scrape the blubber off,

Error."

[Plates cleared away and scraped into dogs' bucket. ERROR takes tapioca

custard from oven in two dishes.

ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. Take some out of this one for us and don't

forget to put that dish in front of the Doctor, because I spilled soda

in the other.

[TEREBUS takes two large helpings out and puts rest on table as

directed.

TEREBUS. You need not remember the cooks, gentlemen.

A VOICE. Don't want to, if I can manage it.

ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. Put on the Algerian sweets, and then we can

have ours.

TEREBUS [taking several handfuls]. We'll put these aside for perks.

[The sweets on the table, TEREBUS and ERROR retire to kitchen to have

their dinner.

ERROR. Is this my pudding? It's only an ordinary share.

[TEREBUS is too busy to reply, and further eruption is prevented by the

temporary plugging of ERROR.

Cooking, under the inspiration of Mrs. Beeton, became a fine art:

On bones we leave no meat on,

For we study Mrs. Beeton.

So said the song. On birthdays and other auspicious occasions dishes

appeared which would tempt a gourmet. Puff-pastry, steam-puddings,

jellies and blancmanges, original potages and consommes, seal curried

and spiced, penguin delicately fried, vegetables reflavoured, trimmed

and adorned were received without comment as the culinary standard rose.

Birthdays were always greeted with special enthusiasm. Speeches were

made, toasts were drunk, the supple boards of the table creaked

with good things, cook and messman vied with each other in lavish

hospitality, the Hut was ornate with flags, every man was spruce in

his snowiest cardigan and neck-cloth, the gramophone sang of music-hall

days, the wind roared its appreciation through the stove-pipe, and

rollicking merriment was supreme. On such occasions the photographer and

the biologist made a genial combination.

The dark-room was the nursery of the topical song. There, by lantern

or candle-stump, wit Rabelaisian, Aristophanic or Antarctic was cradled

into rhyme. From there, behind the scenes, the comedian in full dress

could step before the footlights into salvoes of savage applause. "A

Pair of Unconventional Cooks are we, are we," and the famous refrain,

"There he is, that's him," were long unrivalled in our musical annals.

Celebrations were carried on into the night, but no one forgot the

cook and the messman. The table was cleared by many willing hands, some

brought in ice and coal or swept the floor, others scraped plates or

rinsed out mugs and bowls. Soon, everything had passed through the

cauldron of water, soap and soda to the drying-towels and on to the

shelves. The main crowd then repaired with pipes and cigars to "Hyde

Park Corner," where the storeman, our raconteur par excellence,

entertained the smokers' club. A mixed concert brought the evening to

the grand finale--"Auld Lang Syne."

After events of this character, the higher shelves of the kitchen, in

the interstices between thermographs, photographic plates ink bottles,

and Russian stout, abounded with titbits of pie crust, blancmange,

jelly, Vienna rusks, preserved figs, and other "perks." Such "perks," or

perquisites, were the property of the presiding cook or night-watchman

and rarely survived for more than a day.

The mania for celebration became so great that reference was frequently

made to the almanac. During one featureless interval, the anniversary

of the First Lighting of London by Gas was observed with extraordinary

eclat.

The great medium of monetary exchange in the Hut was chocolate. A ration

of thirty squares was distributed by the storeman every Saturday night,

and for purposes of betting, games of chance, "Calcutta sweeps" on the

monthly wind-velocity and general barter, chocolate held the premier

place.

At the "sweeps," the meteorologist stood with a wooden hammer behind the

table, and the gaming public swarmed on the other side. Numbers ranging

from "low field" and forty-five to sixty-five and "high field" were

sold by auction to the highest bidder. Excitement was intense while the

cartographer in clerical glasses worked out the unknown number.

As a consequence of wild speculation, there were several cases of

bankruptcy, which was redeemed in the ordinary way by a sale of the

debtor's effects.

Two financiers, indifferent to the charms of chocolate, established a

corner or "Bank" in the commodity. "The Bank," by barter and usurious

methods, amassed a great heap of well-thumbed squares, and, when

accused of rapacity, invented a scheme for the common good known as

"Huntoylette." This was a game of chance similar to roulette, and for

a while it completely gulfed the trusting public. In the reaction which

followed, there was a rush on "The Bank," and the concern was wound up,

but the promoters escaped with a large profit in candles and chocolate.

Throughout the winter months, work went on steadily even after dinner,

and hours of leisure were easy to fill. Some wrote up their diaries,

played games, or smoked and yarned; others read, developed photos, or

imitated the weary cook and went to bed. The MacKellar Library, so

called after the donor, was a boon to all, and the literature of polar

exploration was keenly followed and discussed. Taste in literature

varied, but among a throng of eighteen, the majority of whom were given

to expressing their opinions in no uncertain terms--there were no rigid

conventions in Adelie Land--every book had a value in accordance with a

common standard.

There was not a dissenting voice to the charm of 'Lady Betty across the

Water', and the reason for this was a special one. The sudden breath of

a world of warmth and colour, richness and vivacity and astute, American

freshness amid the somewhat grim attractions of an Antarctic winter was

too much for every one. Lady Betty, in the realm of bright images, had

a host of devoted admirers. Her influence spread beyond the Hut to the

plateau itself. Three men went sledging, and to shelter themselves from

the rude wind fashioned an ice-cavern, which, on account of its magical

hues and rare lustre, could be none other than "Aladdin's Cave." Lady

Betty found her hero in a fairy grotto of the same name.

'Lorna Doone', on the other hand, was liked by many. Still there were

those who thought that John Ridd was a fool, a slow, obtuse rustic, and

so on, while Lorna was too divine and angelic for this life.

'The War of the Carolinas' took the Hut by storm, but it was a

"nine days' wonder" and left no permanent impression on the thinking

community. Mostly, the story was voted delightfully funny, but very

foolish and farcical after all. A few exclusive critics predicted for it

a future.

Then there was 'The Trail of '98'. For power and blunt realism there was

nothing like it, but the character of the hero was torn in the shreds of

debate. There was general agreement on two points: that the portrayal

of the desolate Alaskan wild had a touch of "home," and that the heroine

was a "true sport."

All those who had ever hauled on the main braces, sung the

topsail-halliard chanty, learned the intricate Matty Walker, the

bowline-and-a-bite and a crowd of kindred knots, had a warm spot for any

yarn by Jacobs. Night after night, the storeman held the audience with

the humorous escapades of 'Ginger Dick', 'Sam' and 'Peter Russet'.

And lastly, there was a more serious, if divided interest in 'Virginibus

Puerisque', 'Marcus Aurelius', 'The Unveiling of Lhassa'--but the list

is rather interminable.

The whole world is asleep except the night-watchman, and he, having made

the bread, washed a tubful of clothes, kept the fire going, observed

and made notes on the aurora every fifteen minutes and the weather every

half-hour, and, finally, having had a bath, indulges in buttered toast

and a cup of coffee.

The Hut is dark, and a shaded burner hangs by a canvas chair in the

kitchen. The wind is booming in gusts, the dogs howl occasionally in the

veranda, but the night-watchman and his pipe are at peace with all men.

He has discarded a heavy folio for a light romance, while the hours

scud by, broken only by the observations. The romance is closed, and he

steals to his bunk with a hurricane lamp and finds a bundle of letters.

He knows them well, but he reads them--again!

Pearly light rises in the north-east through the lessening drift, and

another day has come.

CHAPTER IX MIDWINTER AND ITS WORK;

With the advent of the fateful Ides of March, winter ii had practically

set in, and work outside had a chequered career. When a few calm hours

intervened between two blizzards a general rush was made to continue

some long-standing job. Often all that could be done was to clear the

field for action, that is, dig away large accumulations of snow. Then

the furies would break loose again, and once more we would play the

waiting game, meanwhile concerning ourselves with more sedentary

occupations.

There was a familiar cry when, for some meteorological reason, the wind

would relapse into fierce gusts and then suddenly stop, to be succeeded

by intense stillness. "Dead calm, up with the wireless masts!" Every one

hastily dashed for his burberrys, and soon a crowd of muffled figures

would emerge through the veranda exit, dragging ropes, blocks, picks,

and shovels. There was no time to be lost.

So the erection of the wireless masts began in earnest on April 4,

continued feverishly till the end of the month, suffered a long period

of partial cessation during May and June, was revived in July and

August, and, by September 1, two masts, each consisting of a lower-mast

and top-mast, had been raised and stayed, while between them stretched

the aerial. For four weeks messages were sent out, and many of them were

caught by Macquarie Island. Nothing was heard in Adelie Land, although,

between certain hours, regular watches were kept at the receiver. The

aerial was about sixty-five feet from the ground, and it was resolved

to increase its height by erecting the top-gallant masts; but before

anything considerable could be done, a terrific gust of wind on October

13 broke three wire-stays, and down came the mast, broken and splintered

by the fall. That is a brief resume of the fortunes of the "wireless"

during the first year.

During February and March there were various other operations of more

immediate importance which prevented concentration of our workers on the

erection of the masts. There were many odd jobs to finish about the

Hut, the Magnetograph House and Absolute Hut were "under way," the

air-tractor sledge had to be efficiently housed, and all these and

many other things could be done in weather during which it was out of

question to hoist a mast into position. At first we were fastidious and

waited for a calm, but later, as we grew more impatient, a top-mast was

actually hauled up in a wind of thirty miles per hour, with gusts of

higher velocity. Such work would sometimes be interrupted by a more

furious outbreak, when all ropes would be secured and everything made as

ship-shape as possible.

On March 15 the following note was made: "The wind was on the cool side

just after breakfast. A few loads of wireless equipment were sledged up

to the rocks at the back of the Hut, and by the time several masts were

carried to the same place we began to warm to the work. One of Hannam's

coils of frozen rope (one hundred and twenty fathoms) had become kinked

and tangled, so we dragged it up the ice-slope, straightened it out and

coiled it up again. Several 'dead men' to hold the stays were sunk into

ice-holes, and, during the afternoon, one mast was dragged into position

by a willing crowd. Rocks were sledged to and packed around the 'dead

men' in the holes to make them compact. Towards sundown snow clouds

filled the northern sky and a blizzard sprang up which is now doing

sixty miles per hour. We philosophically expect another week cooped up

in the Hut."

It took a long time to establish the twenty good anchorages necessary

for the masts. Within a radius of eighty yards from the centre,

ice-holes were dug, cairns of heavy boulders were built and rocky

prominences dynamited off to secure an efficient holding for the stout

"strops" of rope. April 24 was a typical day: "We spent the morning

fixing up 'strops' for the wireless masts. The wind was blowing strongly

in fifty- to sixty-mile gusts with drift, but most of the fellows 'stuck

at it' all day. It was cold work on the hands and feet. Handling picks

and shovels predisposes to frost-bite. Several charges of dynamite were

fired in one hole wherein a mast will be stepped."

Each mast, of oregon timber, was in four sections. The lowest section

was ten inches square and tapered upwards to the small royal mast at a

prospective height of one hundred and twenty feet. At an early stage it

was realized that we could not expect to erect more than three sections.

Round the steel caps at each doubling a good deal of fitting had to

be done, and Bickerton, in such occupation, spent many hours aloft

throughout the year. Fumbling with bulky mitts, handling hammers

and spanners, and manipulating nuts and bolts with bare hands, while

suspended in a boatswain's chair in the wind, the man up the mast had

a difficult and miserable task. Bickerton was the hero of all such

endeavours. Hannam directed the other workers who steadied the stays,

cleared or made fast the ropes, pulled and stood by the hauling tackle

and so forth.

One day the man on the top-mast dislodged a heavy engineering hammer

which he thought secure. No warning was given, as he did not notice

that it had fallen. It whizzed down and buried itself in the snow, just

grazing the heads of Close and Hodgeman.

The ropes securing the aerial and running through various blocks were

in constant danger of chafing during the frequent hurricanes, from their

proximity to the mast and stays, or from friction on the sharp edges of

the blocks. Unknown to us, this had happened to a strong, new manilla

rope by which Murphy was being hauled to the top of the lower-mast. It

gave way, and, but for another rope close by, which he seized to break

his fall, an accident might have ensued.

Frost-bites were common. There were so many occasions when one had to

stand for a long time gripping a rope, pulling or maintaining a steady

strain, that fingers would promptly become numb and feet unbearably

cold. The usual restorative was to stamp about and beat the chest with

the hands--an old sailor's trick. Attempting to climb to a block on the

top-gallant mast one day, McLean had all his fingers frost-bitten at the

same time.

In May the weather was atrocious, and in June building the Astronomical

Hut and digging ice-shafts on the glacier absorbed a good many hands.

In July, despite the enthusiasm and preparation for sledging, much was

done. On August 10 the long looked-for top-mast of the southern mast

became a reality:

"We were early astir--about 7 A.M.--while the pink coloration of dawn

was stealing over the peaceful Barrier. For once, after months, it was

perfectly still. We hurried about making preparations--hauled Bickerton

up to the cross-trees and awaited the moment when we should raise the

top-mast. We pulled it up half-way and Bickerton affixed a pin in its

centre, above which two stays were to be attached. Suddenly, down came

the wind in terrific gusts and, after securing the stays, the job had to

be given up.... We were just about to have lunch when the wind ceased as

suddenly as it had begun. We all sallied out once more, and, this time,

completed the job, though for a while the top-mast was in imminent peril

of being blown away by a sharp northerly gust."

Next day the aerial was hoisted in a wind of sixty miles per hour, but

the strain was so severe on the block, upwind, that it carried away.

Fortunately the insulators of the aerial were entangled by the stays in

their fall to ground, otherwise some one may have been hurt, as there

were a dozen men almost directly below.

Six days after this accident, August 17, the top-mast halliard of the

down-wind mast frayed through, and as a stronger block was to be

affixed for the aerial, some one had to climb up to wire it in

position. Bickerton improvized a pair of climbing irons, and, after some

preliminary practice, ascended in fine style.

Finally, by September 30, the aerial was at such a height as to give

hope that long-distance messages might be despatched. There was a

certain amount of suppressed excitement on the evening of that day when

the engine started and gradually got up speed in the dynamo. The sharp

note of the spark rose in accompanying crescendo and, when it had

reached its highest pitch, Hannam struck off a message to the world at

large. No response came after several nights of signalling, and, since

sledging had usurped every other interest, the novelty soon wore off.

"Atmospherics"--discharges of atmospheric electricity--and discharges

from the drift-snow were heard in the wireless receiver.

While messages were being sent, induction effects were noted in metallic

objects around the Hut. A cook at the stove was the first to discover

this phenomenon, and then every one conceived a mania for "drawing"

sparks. A rather stimulating experience--the more so as it usually

happened unexpectedly and accidentally--was to brush one's head against

one of the numerous coils of flexible metal gas-piping festooned about

the place. Sparks immediately jumped the interval with startling effect.

October 13, the day when the mast blew down, was known in wireless

circles as Black Sunday. All had worked keenly to make the "wireless" a

success, and the final event was considered to be a public misfortune.

However, the honours were to be retrieved during the following year.

It fell to the lot of most of the Staff that they developed an interest

in terrestrial magnetism. For one thing every man had carried boulders

to the great stockade surrounding the Magnetograph House. Then, too,

recorders were regularly needed to assist the magnetician in the

absolute Hut. There, if the temperature were not too low and the

observations not too lengthy, the recorder stepped out into the blizzard

with the conviction that he had learned something of value, and, when

he sat down to dinner that night, it was with a genial sense of his own

altruism. In his diary he would write it all up for his own edification.

It would be on this wise: The Earth's magnetic force, which is

the active agent in maintaining the compass-needle in the magnetic

meridian** at any particular spot, acts, not as is popularly supposed,

in a horizontal plane, but at a certain angle of inclination with the

Earth's surface. The nearer the magnetic poles the more nearly vertical

does the freely suspended needle become. At the South Magnetic Pole it

assumes a vertical position with the south end downwards; at the North

Magnetic Pole it stands on its other end. At the intermediate positions

near the equator the whole force is exerted, swinging the needle in the

horizontal plane, and in such regions ordinary ships' compasses

pivoted to move freely only in a horizontal plane give the greatest

satisfaction. On approaching the magnetic poles, compasses become

sluggish, for the horizontal deflecting force falls off rapidly. The

force, acting in a vertical direction, tending to make the needle dip,

correspondingly increases, but is of no value for navigation purposes.

However, in the scientific discussion of terrestrial magnetism, both the

horizontal and vertical components as well as the absolute value of the

total force are important, and the determination of these "elements"

is the work of the magnetician. Affecting the average values of the

"magnetic elements" at any one spot on the Earth's surface are regular

diurnal oscillations, apparent only by the application of very delicate

methods of observation: also there are sudden large irregular movements

referred to as magnetic storms; the latter are always specially

noticeable when unusually bright auroral phenomena are in progress.

** The magnetic meridian is the straight line joining the North

and South Magnetic Poles and passing through the spot in question.

The observations made in the "Absolute Hut", carried out at frequent

intervals and on each occasion occupying two men for several hours

together, are necessary to obtain standard values as a check upon the

graphic record of the self-recording instruments which run day and night

in the "Magnetograph House".

But this is another story. Three hours, sitting writing figures in a

temperature of -15 degrees F., is no joke. The magnetician is not so

badly off, because he is moving about, though he often has to stop and

warm his fingers, handling the cold metal.

The Magnetograph House had by far the most formidable name. The Hut,

though it symbolized our all in all, sounded very insignificant unless

it were repeated with just the right intonation. The Absolute Hut had

a superadded dignity. The Hangar, in passing, scarcely seemed to have a

right to a capital H. The Transit House, on the and other hand, was the

only dangerous rival to the first mentioned. But what's in a name?

If the Magnetograph House had been advertised, it would have been

described as "two minutes from the Hut." This can easily be understood,

for the magnetician after leaving home is speedily blown over a few

hillocks and sastrugi, and, coming to an ice-flat about one hundred and

fifty yards wide, swiftly slides over it, alighting at the snow-packed

door of his house. The outside porch is just roomy enough for a man to

slip off burberrys and crampons. The latter are full of steel spikes,

and being capable of upsetting magnetic equilibrium, are left outside.

Walking in soft finnesko, the magnetician opens an inner door, to be at

once accosted by darkness, made more intense after the white glare of

the snow. His eyes grow accustomed to the blackness, and he gropes his

way to a large box almost concealing the feeble glimmer of a lamp. The

lamp is the source of the light, projected on to small mirrors attached

to the magnetic needles of three variometers. A ray of light is

reflected from the mirrors for several feet on to a slit, past which

revolves sensitized photographic paper folded on a drum moving by

clockwork. The slightest movements of the suspended needles are greatly

magnified, and, when the paper is removed and developed in a dark-room,

a series of intricate curves denoting declination, horizontal intensity

and vertical force, are exquisitely traced. Every day the magnetician

attends to the lamp and changes papers; also at prearranged times he

tests his "scale values" or takes a "quick run."

To obtain results as free as possible from the local attraction of

the rocks in the neighbourhood, Webb resolved to take several sets of

observations on the ice-sheet. In order to make the determinations it

was necessary to excavate a cave in the glacier. This was done about

three-quarters of a mile south of the Hut in working shifts of two men.

A fine cavern was hewn out, and there full sets of magnetic observations

were taken under ideal conditions.

On sledging journeys the "dip" and declination were both ascertained at

many stations, around and up to within less than half a degree of the

South Magnetic Pole.

While the wind rushed by at a maddening pace and stars flashed like

jewels in a black sky, a glow of pale yellow light overspread the

north-east horizon--the aurora. A rim of dark, stratus cloud was often

visible below the light which brightened and diffused till it curved as

a low arc across the sky. It was eerie to watch the contour of the arc

break, die away into a delicate pallor and reillumine in a travelling

riband. Soon a long ray, as from a searchlight, flashed above one end,

and then a row of vertical streamers ran out from the arc, probing

upwards into the outer darkness. The streamers waxed and waned, died

away to be replaced and then faded into the starlight. The arc lost its

radiance, divided in patchy fragments, and all was dark once more.

This would be repeated again in a few hours and irregularly throughout

the night, but with scenic changes behind the great sombre pall of the

sky. North-west, northeast, and south-east it would elusively appear in

nebulous blotches, flitting about to end finally in long bright strands

in the zenith, crossing the path of the "milky way."

By the observer, who wrote down his exact observations in the

meteorological log, this was called a "quiet night."

At times the light was nimble, flinging itself about in rich waves,

warming to dazzling yellow-green and rose. These were the nights when

"curtains" hung festooned in the heavens, alive, rippling, dancing

to the lilt of lightning music. Up from the horizon they would mount,

forming a vortex overhead, soundless within the silence of the ether.

A "brilliant display," we would say, and the observer would be kept busy

following the track of the evanescent rays.

Powerless, one was in the spell of an all-enfolding wonder. The vast,

solitary snow-land, cold-white under the sparkling star-gems; lustrous

in the radiance of the southern lights; furrowed beneath the icy sweep of

the wind. We had come to probe its mystery, we had hoped to reduce it

to terms of science, but there was always the "indefinable" which held

aloof, yet riveted our souls.

The aurora was always with us, and almost without exception could be

seen on a dark, driftless night. The nature of the aurora polaris has

not yet been finally demonstrated, though it is generally agreed to be

a discharge of electricity occurring in the upper, more rarefied

atmosphere. The luminous phenomena are very similar to those seen when a

current of electricity is passed through a vacuum tube.

One receives a distinct impression of nearness, watching the shimmering

edges of the "curtains" in the zenith, but all measurements indicate that

they never descend nearer than a few miles above the land-surface.

Careful records were taken to establish a relation between magnetic

storms and aurorae, and a good deal of evidence was amassed to support

the fact that auroral exhibitions correspond with periods of great

magnetic disturbance. The displays in Adelie Land were found to be more

active than those which occur in higher latitudes in the Ross Sea.

An occupation which helped to introduce variety in our life was the

digging of ice-shafts. For the purpose of making observations upon its

structure and temperature various excavations were made in the sea-ice,

in the ice of the glacier, and in that of the freshwater lakes. The work

was always popular. Even a whole day's labour with a pick and shovel at

the bottom of an ice-hole never seemed laborious. It was all so novel.

A calm morning in June, the sky is clear and the north ablaze with the

colours of sunrise--or is it sunset? The air is delicious, and a cool

waft comes down the glacier. A deep ultramarine, shading up into a soft

purple hue, blends in a colour-scheme with the lilac plateau. Two men

crunch along in spiked boots over snow mounds and polished sastrugi to

the harbour-ice. The sea to the north is glazed with freezing spicules,

and over it sweep the petrels--our only living companions of the winter.

It is all an inspiration; while hewing out chunks of ice and shovelling

them away is the acute pleasure of movement, exercise.

The men measure out an area six feet by three feet, and take a

preliminary temperature of the surface-ice by inserting a thermometer

in a drilled hole. Then the ice begins to fly, and it is not long before

they are down one foot. Nevertheless it would surprise those acquainted

only with fresh water ice to find how tough, sticky and intractable is

sea-ice. It is always well to work on a definite plan, channelling in

various directions, and then removing the intervening lumps by a few

rough sweeps of the pick. At a depth of one foot, another temperature is

taken, and some large samples of the ice laid by for the examination of

their crystalline structure. This is repeated at two feet, and so on,

until the whole thickness is pierced to the sea-water beneath. At three

feet brine may begin to trickle into the hole, and this increases in

amount until the worker is in a puddle. The leakage takes place, if not

along cracks, through capillary channels, which are everywhere present

in sea-ice.

It is interesting to note the temperature gradually rise during the

descent. At the surface the ice is chilled to the air-temperature, say

-10 degrees F., and it rises in a steep gradient to approximately 28

degrees F.; close to the freezing-point of sea water. The sea-ice in

the boat-harbour varied in thickness during the winter between five and

seven feet.

In contrast with sea-ice, the ice of a glacier is a marvel of prismatic

colour and glassy brilliance. This is more noticeable near the surface

when the sun is shining. Deep down in a shaft, or in an ice-cavern, the

sapphire reflection gives to the human face quite a ghastly pallor.

During the high winds it was always easy to dispose of the fragments

of ice in the earlier stages of sinking a shaft. To be rid of them, all

that was necessary was to throw a shovelful vertically upwards towards

the lee-side of the hole, the wind then did the rest. Away the chips

would scatter, tinkling over the surface of the glacier. Of course, when

two men were at work, each took it in turns to go below, and the one

above, to keep warm, would impatiently pace up and down. Nevertheless,

so cold would he become at times that a heated colloquy would arise

between them on the subject of working overtime. When the shaft had

attained depth, both were kept busy. The man at the pit's mouth lowered

a bucket on a rope to receive the ice and, in hauling it up, handicapped

with clumsy mitts, he had to be careful not to drop it on his

companion's head.

The structural composition of ice is a study in itself. To the cursory

glance a piece of glacier-ice appears homogeneous, but when dissected

in detail it is found to be formed of many crystalline, interlocking

grains, ranging in size from a fraction of an inch to several inches

in diameter. A grain-size of a half to one inch is perhaps commonest in

Antarctic glacier-ice.

The history of Antarctic glacier-ice commences with the showers of snow

that fall upon the plateau. The snow particles may be blown for

hundreds of miles before they finally come to rest and consolidate.

The consolidated snow is called neve, the grains of which are

one-twenty-fifth to one hundredth of an inch in diameter, and, en masse,

present a dazzling white appearance on account of the air spaces which

occupy one-third to one-half of the whole. In time, under the influence

of a heavy load of accumulated layers of neve, the grains run

together and the air spaces are eliminated. The final result is clear,

transparent ice, of a more or less sapphire-blue colour when seen in

large blocks. It contains only occasional air-bubbles, and the size of

the grains is much increased.

Lake-ice, freezing from the surface downwards, is built up of long

parallel prisms, like the cells of a honey-comb on a large scale. In a

lakelet near the Hut this was beautifully demonstrated. In some places

cracks and fissures filled with snow-dust traversed the body of the

ice, and in other places long strings of beaded air-bubbles had become

entangled in the process of freezing. To lie down on the clear surface

and gaze "through the looking-glass" to the rocky bottom, twenty feet

below, was a glimpse into "Wonderland."

In the case of sea-ice, the simple prismatic structure is complicated

owing to the presence of saline matter dissolved in the sea water.

The saline tracts between the prisms produce a milky or opalescent

appearance. The prisms are of fresh water ice, for in freezing the brine

is rejected and forced to occupy the interstices of the prisms. Water of

good drinking quality can be obtained by allowing sea water ice to thaw

partially. The brine, of lower freezing-point, flows away, leaving only

fresh water ice behind. In this way blocks of sea-ice exposed to the

sun's rays are relieved of their salty constituents, and crumble into

pellucid gravel when disturbed.

A popular subject commanding general interest, apart from the devoted

attention of specialists, was zoological collecting. Seals and birds

were made the prey of every one, and dredging through the sea-ice in

winter and spring was always a possible diversion.

It was a splendid sight to watch the birds sailing in the high winds of

Adelie Land. In winds of fifty to seventy miles per hour, when with good

crampons one had to stagger warily along the ice-foot, the snow petrels

and Antarctic petrels were in their element. Wheeling, swinging,

sinking, planing and soaring, they were radiant with life--the wild

spirits of the tempest. Even in moderate drift, when through swirling

snow the vistas of sea whitened under the flail of the wind, one

suddenly caught the silver flash of wings and a snow petrel glided past.

But most memorable of all were certain winter mornings of unexpected

calm, when ruddy clouds tessellated the northern sky and were mirrored

in the freezing sea. Then the petrels would be en fete, flying over from

the east following the line of the Barrier, winding round the icy

coves, darting across the jutting points and ever onward in their

long migration. In the summer they flew for weeks from the west--a

never-ending string of snow, silver-grey and Antarctic petrels, and

Cape pigeons. The silver-grey petrels and Cape pigeons were only abroad

during that season and were accompanied by skua gulls, giant petrels,

Wilson petrels, and penguins. The penguins remained in Adelie Land for

the longest period--almost six months, the skua gulls and giant petrels

for five months, and the rest for a shorter period--the tolerable season

of midsummer.

Birds that haunt the wide oceans all make use of the soaring principle

in flight, some much more than others. The beautiful sliding sweep of

the albatross is the most familiar example. With wings outspread, it is

a miniature aeroplane requiring no engines, for the wind itself supplies

the power. A slight movement of the tail-feathers and wing-tips controls

its balance with nice precision. Birds employing this method of flight

find their home in the zone of continuous steady winds which blow across

the broad wastes of the southern seas.

Many petrels on the wing were shot during the winter. Laseron, who

prepared the skins of our Adelie Land collection, determined, in the

case of a number of specimens, the ratio of weight to horizontal area

exposed to the wind. This subject is one which has lately exercised the

curiosity of aviators. The ratios are those evolved by nature, and,

as such, should be wellnigh perfect. Below is appended a table of the

results obtained.

WEIGHT OF CERTAIN ANTARCTIC BIRDS IN RELATION TO WING AREAS

(Stated in pounds per square foot of wing surface)

Each is the mean of several determinations by Laseron

Giant petrel........... 3.5

Albatross ........... 2.4

Antarctic petrel......... 2.1

Skua gull ........... 1.6

Snow petrel ........... 1.1

Wilson petrel........... 0.6

Values from a book of reference quoted for comparison

Bat ........... 0.1

Sparrow ........... 0.4

Wild goose ........... 1.7

During the winter, for a long period, no seals ventured ashore, though

a few were seen swimming in the bay. The force of the wind was so

formidable that even a heavy seal, exposed in the open, broadside-on,

would be literally blown into the water. This fact was actually observed

out on the harbour-ice. A Weddell seal made twelve attempts to land on

a low projecting shelf--an easy feat under ordinary circumstances. The

wind was in the region of eighty-five miles per hour, and every time

the clumsy, ponderous creature secured its first hold, back it would be

tumbled. Once it managed to raise itself on to the flat surface, and,

after a breathing spell, commenced to shuffle towards the shelter of

some pinnacles on one side of the harbour. Immediately its broad flank

was turned to the wind it was rolled over, hung for a few seconds on

the brink, and then splashed into the sea. On the other hand, during the

spring, a few more ambitious seals won their way ashore in high winds;

but they did not remain long in the piercing cold, moving uneasily from

place to place in search of protecting hummocks and finally taking to

the water in despair. Often a few hours of calm weather was the signal

for half a dozen animals to land. The wind sooner or later sprang up and

drove them back to their warmer element.

Under the generic name, seal, are included the true or hair seals and

the sea-bears or fur seals. Of these the fur seals are sub-polar in

distribution, inhabiting the cold temperate waters of both hemispheres,

but never living amongst the polar ice. The southern coast of Australia

and the sub-antarctic islands were their favourite haunts, but the

ruthless slaughter of the early days practically exterminated them. From

Macquarie Island, for example, several hundred thousand skins were taken

in a few years, and of late not a single specimen has been seen.

Closely related to the fur seals are the much larger animals popularly

known as sea-lions. These still exist in great numbers in south

temperate waters. Both are distinguished from the hair seals by one

obvious characteristic: their method of propulsion on land is by a

"lolloping" motion, in which the front and hind flippers are used

alternately. The hair seals move by a caterpillar-like shuffle, making

little or no use of their flippers; and so, the terminal parts of

their flippers are not bent outwards as they are in the fur seals and

sea-lions.

Of the hair seals there are five varieties to be recognized in the

far South. The Weddell seals, with their mottled-grey coats, are the

commonest. They haunt the coasts of Antarctica and are seldom found at

any distance from them. Large specimens of this species reach nine and a

half feet in length.

The crab-eater seal, a smaller animal, lives mostly on the pack-ice.

Lying on a piece of floe in the sunshine it has a glistening,

silver-grey skin--another distinguishing mark being its small, handsome

head and short, thin neck. Small crustaceans form its principal food.

The Ross seal, another inhabitant of the pack-ice, is short and

bulky, varying from a pale yellowish-green on the under side to a dark

greenish-brown on the back. Its neck is ample and bloated, and when

distended in excitement reminds one of a pouter-pigeon. This rare seal

appears to subsist mainly on squid and jelly-fish.

The sea-leopard, the only predacious member of the seal family, has an

elongated agile body and a large head with massive jaws. In general it

has a mottled skin, darker towards the back. It lives on fish, penguins

and seals. Early in April, Hurley and McLean were the first to obtain

proof that the sea-leopard preyed on other seals. Among the broken

floe-ice close beneath the ice-cliffs to the west of Winter Quarters,

the wind was driving the dead body of a Weddell seal which swept

past them, a few yards distant, to the open water. Then it was that

a sea-leopard was observed tearing off and swallowing great pieces of

flesh and blubber from the carcase.

The last variety of hair seal, the sea elephant, varies considerably

from the preceding. Reference has already been made to the species

earlier in the narrative. The habitat of these monstrous animals ranges

over the cold, south-temperate seas; sea elephants are but occasional

visitors to the ice-bound regions. Although they have been exterminated

in many other places, one of their most populous resorts at the present

day is Macquarie Island.

In the case of all the hair seals a layer of blubber several inches in

thickness invests the body beneath the skin and acts as a conserver of

warmth. They are largely of value for the oil produced by rendering down

the blubber. The pelts are used for leather.

The operation of skinning seals for specimens, in low temperatures and

in the inevitable wind, was never unduly protracted. We were satisfied

merely to strip off the skin, leaving much blubber still adhering to it.

In this rough condition it was taken into the work-room of the Hut to

be cleaned. The blubber froze, and then had the consistency of hard soap

and was readily severed from the pelt. It was found that there exuded

amongst the frozen blubber a thin oil which remained liquid when

collected and exposed to low temperatures. This oil was used to

lubricate the anemometer and other instruments exposed outside.

The main part of the biological work lay in the marine collections.

Hunter with the small hand-dredge brought up abundant samples of life

from depths ranging to fifty fathoms. In water shallower than ten

fathoms the variety of specimens was not great, including seaweeds up to

eighteen or more feet in length, a couple of forms of starfish, various

small mollusca, two or three varieties of fish, several sea-spiders,

hydroids and lace corals, and, in great profusion, worms and small

crustaceans. In deeper waters the life became much richer, so that

examples of almost every known class of marine animals were represented.

Early in June the sea bottom in depths less than ten fathoms had become

so coated with ice that dredging in shallow water was suspended.

Floating or swimming freely were examples of pteropods, worms,

crustaceans, ostracods, and jelly-fish. These were easily taken in the

hand-net.

In those regions where ice and water are intermingled, the temperature

of the water varies very slightly in summer and winter, remaining

approximately at freezing-point. In summer the tendency to heating is

neutralized by a solution of some of the ice, and in winter the cold is

absorbed in the production of a surface layer of ice. This constancy of

the sea's temperature is favourable to organic life. On land there is a

wide range in temperature, and only the meagre mosses and lichens, and

the forms of insect life which live among them can exist, because they

have developed the capacity of suspending animation during the winter.

The fresh-water lakelets were found to be inhabited by low forms of

life, mainly microscopic. Among these were diatoms, algae, protozoa,

rotifera, and bacteria.

The last-named were investigated by McLean and were found to be manifold

in distribution. Besides those from the intestines of animals and birds,

cultures were successfully made from the following natural sources:

lichen soil, moss soil, morainic mud, guano, ice and snow. The results

may open some new problems in bacteriology.

Of recent years much attention has been given to the study of

parasites--parasitology. Parasites may be external, on the skin;

internal, in the alimentary canal; or resident, in the corpuscles of the

blood. In tropical countries, where there is great promiscuity of life,

one is led to expect their almost universal presence. But in polar

regions, where infection and intimate co-habitation for long periods are

not the rule, while the climate is not favourable to organic existence,

one would be surprised to find them in any great number. The fact

remains that internal parasites were found in the intestine of every

animal and fish examined, and in all the birds except the Wilson petrel.

External parasites were present on every species of bird and seal,

though individuals were often free of them. This was so in the case of

the Adelie penguins. It is a demonstration of the protective warmth of

the feathers that Emperor penguins may harbour insect parasites in great

numbers. It is only less wonderful than the fact that they are able

to rear their young during the Antarctic winter. A large number

of blood-slides were prepared and stained for examination for

blood-parasites.

Searching for "fleas" amongst the feathers of birds and the hair

of seals, or examining the viscera for "worms" is neither of them a

pleasant occupation. To be really successful, the enthusiasm of the

specialist is necessary. Hunter allowed no opportunities to pass and

secured a fine collection of parasites.

Amongst other work, McLean carried out monthly observations on six men,

determining the colour-index and haemoglobin value of their blood over

a period of ten months. The results showed a distinct and upward rise

above the normal.

Among societies privileged to see the daily paper and to whom diversity

and change are as the breath of life, the weather is apt to be tabooed

as a subject of conversation. But even the most versatile may suddenly

find themselves stripped of ideas, ignominiously reduced to the obvious

topic. To us, instead of being a mere prelude to more serious matters,

or the last resort of a feeble intellect, it was the all-engrossing

theme. The man with the latest hare-brained theory of the causation

of the wind was accorded a full hearing. The lightning calculator who

estimated the annual tonnage of drift-snow sweeping off Adelie Land was

received as a futurist and thinker. Discussion was always free, and the

subject was never thrashed out. Evidence on the great topic accumulated

day by day and month by month; yet there was no one without an innate

hope that winter would bring calm weather or that spring-time, at least,

must be propitious.

Meanwhile the meteorologist accepted things as he found them, supplied

the daily facts of wind-mileage and direction, amount of drift,

temperature and so forth, which were immediately seized by more

vivacious minds and made the basis of daring speculations.

The daily facts were increased by the construction of a new instrument

known as the puffometer. It was entirely a home-made contrivance,

designed to measure the speed of heavy gusts of wind. A small aluminium

sphere was arranged to blow out at the end of a light cord exerting

tension on a calibrated spring. The pull was transferred to a lever

carrying a pencil, which travelled across a disk of carbonized paper.

The disk, moving by clockwork, made a complete revolution every hour.

The recording parts of the instrument were enclosed in a snow-proof box

in which there was a small aperture on the leeward side, through which

ran the cord attachment of the sphere. This may give a rough idea of

the apparatus employed to measure the momentary velocity of the cyclonic

gusts. The idea is not an original one, having been previously applied

for use on kites.

It was not always possible to use the puffometer in the strongest gusts

because these were often transient, occurring unexpectedly or during the

night; while it took a little time to get the instrument into running

order. Even in daylight, with the landscape clear of drift, it was a

time-absorbing and difficult task to secure a record.

Two men start from the Hut with iron crampons and a full complement of

clothes and mitts. Outside they find themselves in a rushing torrent

of air, pulsating with mighty gust-waves. Lowered from the estate

of upright manhood, they humbly crawl, or make a series of crouching

sprints between the gusts. Over the scattered boulders to the east of

the Hut, across a patch of polished snow they push to the first low

ridge, and there they stop for breath. Up on the side of "Annie Hill,"

in the local phrase, the tide sweeps by with fiendish strength, and

among the jagged rocks the man clutching the puffometer-box has a few

desperate falls. At last both clamber slowly to an eminence where a long

steel pipe has been erected. To the top of this the puffometer is hauled

by means of a pulley and line. At the same time the aluminium sphere is

released, and out it floats in the wind tugging at the spring.

The puffometer was left out for an hour at a time, and separate gusts up

to one hundred and fifty and one hundred and eighty miles per hour were

commonly indicated. I remember the final fate of this invention. While

helping to mount it one day, the wind picked me up clear of the ground

and dashed myself and the instrument on some rocks several yards away.

The latter was badly damaged, but thick clothing saved me from serious

injury.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

The wind velocity and wind direction charts for Midwinter's Day,

when the steady south-by-east gale was broken after noon by a welcome

lull--the wind veering the while all round the compass.

The average velocity for the day 66.9 miles per hour, and the maximum of

the average hourly velocities, ninety-six miles.

The steadiness of the temperature was a subject for debate. The stronger

the wind blew, the less variation did the thermometer show. Over a

period of several days there might be a range of only four or five

degrees. Ordinarily, this might be expected of an insular climate, but

in our case it depended upon the fact that the wind remained steady from

the interior of the vast frigid continent. The air which flowed over the

Hut had all passed through the same temperature-cycle. The atmosphere

of the interior, where the plateau stood at an elevation of, say, eight

thousand feet, might have a temperature -45 degrees F. As the air

flowed northwards over Adelie Land to the sea, it would rise slowly in

temperature owing to the increased barometric pressure consequent on the

descending gradient of the plateau. At sea-level the temperature of the

river of air would be, approximately, -20 degrees F.

Such a rise in temperature due to compression is a well-known

phenomenon, referred to as the Foehn effect.

The compression of the atmosphere during the gusts affected the air

temperature so considerably that, coincident with their passage, the

mercury column could often be seen rising and falling through several

degrees. The uniform conditions experienced during steady high winds

were not only expressed by the slight variation in the temperature,

but often in a remarkably even barometric curve. Thus on July 11 the

wind-velocity for twenty-four hours was, throughout, seventy miles per

hour; the temperature remaining within a few degrees of-21 degrees F.,

and the barometric curve did not show as much range as one-twentieth of

an inch.

In attending to the many instruments and in gathering the voluminous

meteorological data, Madigan had his hands very full. Throughout two

years he carried on the work capably and thoroughly. It was difficult to

keep the instruments free from the penetrating snow and in good running

order. The Robinson anemometer was perhaps the greatest source of

worry. Repairs and readjustments were unavoidable, as the instrument

was constantly working at high pressure. In order that these might be

carried out efficiently, the whole apparatus had to be carried down to

the Hut. Here, Bickerton and Correll were continually in consultation

with the meteorologist on the latest breakdown. Cups were blown off

several times, and one was lost and replaced with difficulty. Most

aggravating of all was a habit the clocks developed of stopping during

the colder spells. The old-fashioned method of boiling them was found

of assistance, but it was discovered that the best treatment was to put

them through successive baths of benzene and alcohol.

The most chronic sufferer throughout the vicissitudes of temperature was

the clock belonging to Bage's tide-gauge. Every sleeper in the Hut who

was sensitive to ticking knew and reviled that clock. So often was it

subjected to warm, curative treatment in various resting-places that

it was hunted from pillar to post. A radical operation by Correll--the

insertion of an extra spring--became necessary at last. Correll,

when not engaged designing electroscopes, improving sledge-meters and

perfecting theodolites, was something of a specialist in clocks. His

advice on the subject of refractory time-pieces was freely asked and

cheerfully given. By perseverance and unlimited patience, the tide-gauge

down on the harbour-ice was induced to supply a good series of unbroken

records.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

The tide-gauge

The rise and fall of the tide is coincident with the movements of

a perpendicular wire to which the Float is attached. The Wheel is

revolved, and through wire connections (indicated above) displaces

vertically the Pen. This traces a record on paper folded on the drum

which is driven by clockwork. In all weathers, the box was enveloped in

drift-proof canvas.

Antarctica is a world of colour, brilliant and intensely pure. The

chaste whiteness of the snow and the velvet blackness of the rocks

belong to days of snowy nimbus enshrouding the horizon. When the sky has

broken into cloudlets of fleece, their edges are painted pale orange,

fading or richly glowing if the sun is low. In the high sun they are

rainbow-rimmed.

The clouds have opened into rifts and the sun is setting in the

north-west. The widening spaces in the zenith are azure, and low in the

north they are emerald. Scenic changes are swift. Above the mounting

plateau a lofty arch of clear sky has risen, flanked by roseate clouds.

Far down in the south it is tinged with indigo and ultramarine, washed

with royal purple paling onwards into cold violet and greyish-blue.

Soon the north is unveiled. The liquid globe of sun has departed,

but his glory still remains. Down from the zenith his colours descend

through greenish-blue, yellowish-green, straw-yellow, light terra-cotta

to a diffuse brick-red; each reflected in the dull sheen of freezing

sea. Out on the infinite horizon float icebergs in a mirage of mobile

gold. The Barrier, curving to east and west, is a wall of delicate pink

overlaid with a wondrous mauve--the rising plateau. A cold picture--yet

it awakens the throb of inborn divinity.

Despite contrary predictions, there were some enjoyable days in June.

Occupation had to be strenuous, making the blood run hot, otherwise the

wind was apt to be chill. So the Transit House was founded, and there

were many volunteers to assist Bage in carrying the tons of stones which

formed its permanent base. The nearest large collection of boulders was

twenty yards away, on the edge of a moraine, but these after a while

became exhausted. Plenty of rocks actually showed above the surface, but

the majority were frozen-in, and, when of suitable size, could only

be moved by a heavy crowbar. Some of the men, therefore, dislodged the

rocks, while others carried them.

When Bage was wondering how long the supply would last, Ninnis and Mertz

came to the rescue with sledges and dog-teams. Boxes were piled on

to the sledges and away the teams went, careering across the ice-flat

towards the Magnetograph House close to which there were many heaps

of stones, wind-swept and easily displaced. Soon a regular service was

plying to the foundations, and, at the same time, the dogs were being

trained. This occupation was continued, weather permitting, for several

weeks before Midwinter's Day. Thus the drivers gained experience, while

the animals, with a wholesome dread of the whip, became more responsive

to commands. Eagerly the huskies strained at their traces with excited

yelps. The heavily laden sledges would break out and start off with

increasing speed over the rough ice. The drivers, running at full speed,

jumped on the racing loads--Mertz in the lead shouting some quaint yodel

song; Ninnis, perhaps, just behind upbraiding a laggard dog.

Midwinter's Day! For once, the weather rose to the occasion and calmed

during the few hours of the twilight-day. It was a jovial occasion, and

we celebrated it with the uproarious delight of a community of eighteen

young men unfettered by small conventions. The sun was returning, and we

were glad of it. Already we were dreaming of spring and sledging, summer

and sledging, the ship and home. It was the turn of the tide, and the

future seemed to be sketched in firm, sure outline. While the rest

explored all the ice-caves and the whole extent of our small

rocky "selection," Hannam and Bickerton shouldered the domestic

responsibilities. Their menu du diner to us was a marvel of gorgeous

delicacies. After the toasts and speeches came a musical and dramatic

programme, punctuated by choice gramophone records and rowdy student

choruses. The washing-up was completed by all hands at midnight.

Outside, the wind was not to be outdone; it surpassed itself with an

unusual burst of ninety-five miles per hour.

Menu du Diner

Escoffier potage a la Reine

Noisettes de Phoque | Claret

Haricot Verts | Tintara

Champignons en Sauce Antarctique |

Pingouin a la Terre Adelie | Burgundy

Petits Pois a la Menthe | Chauvenet

Pommes Nouvelle | 1898

|

Asperges au Beurre Fondu |

Plum Pudding Union Jack | Port

Pate de Groseilles | Kopke

|

Desserts |

Cafe

---------------0------------

During dinner the Blizzard will render the usual accompaniment--the

Tempest. For Ever and Ever etc.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

MIDWINTER'S DAY MENU AT THE MAIN BASE, ADELIE LAND, 1912

CHAPTER X THE PREPARATION OF SLEDGING EQUIPMENT

The world of fashion insists on its minute vagaries in dress not always

with an eye to utility and an explorer in the polar regions is a very

fastidious person, expending a vast amount of care on his attire, but

with the sole idea of comfort, warmth, and usefulness. The clothes

he wears are many and often cumbersome, but they have gradually been

perfected to meet the demands of the local weather conditions. After a

sojourn in the ice-lands, he returns to civilization with a new concept

of the value of dress. At last he can stand still without being reminded

that his feet are chilly; he experiences the peculiar sensation of

walking about in an airily light suit, in glove-tight boots, without

helmet or mitts. It gives him such a delicious feeling of freedom that

his energy is unbounded and life is a very pleasant and easy thing. Then

it is that he can turn in retrospect to the time in exile, appreciate

his altered circumstances and recall the many ingenuities which were

evolved to make him master of his environment.

It is sufficient to say that we found the proposition of clothing one

of unusual interest. Any one who was not a practised needleman and

machinist was handicapped for a time, until he fell into the ways of the

through-and-through and blanket-stitch, thimbles, shuttles, spools and

many other things he had once affected to despise as belonging to the

sphere of women's work. It was not long before he was an enthusiast in

many arts attaining to a stage of independence, in which he patented new

ideas and maintained them in hot opposition to the whole community of

the Hut. On some fundamental points all were in agreement, and one

of them was that Adelie Land was the country par excellence for the

wind-proof, drift-tight burberry.

Outside all other garments the burberry gabardine was worn. The material

was light and loosely fitting, but in wind and drift it had to be

hermetically sealed, so to speak, for the snow crept in wherever there

was an aperture. The trousers were of double thickness, as they were

exposed to the greatest wear. Attached by large buttons, toggles or

lampwick braces, they reached as high as the lower part of the chest.

Below, they had lamp-wick lashings which were securely bound round the

uppers of boots or finnesko. In walking, the trousers would often work

off the leather boots, especially if they were cut to a tailor's

length, and snow would then pour up the leg and down into the boots in

a remarkably short time. To counteract this, Ninnis initiated the very

satisfactory plan of sewing a short length of canvas on to the boots to

increase the length of the upper.

The burberry helmet and blouse were either in one piece or separate. For

use round the Hut, in thick drifts, the combination of helmet and blouse

was handy and time-saving. For sledging, when low temperatures and

strong winds might be expected all the time, it met the conditions well;

there being no necessity to worry about keeping the neck drift-tight.

Under ordinary circumstances it was very convenient to have a blouse

and helmet detached, as one so often could wear the former with a

well-padded woollen helmet and be reduced only as a last resource to

wearing the burberry helmet.

The blouse was roomy, giving great freedom of movement. Around the neck

was a draw-string, which bunched in the jacket tightly over the lower

part of the helmet. There was also a draw-string round the waist. It

was here that we had the greatest difficulty in making the garment fit

snow-tight. If simply tied, the blouse would soon slip up from below,

especially if one were working with pick and shovel, carrying cases or

blocks of ice. To obviate this, some of the men sewed loops or tags of

lamp-wick on to the sides of the trousers, to connect with corresponding

attachments on the blouse. As an additional security, others wore an

outside belt which was, even if the blouse slipped up for some distance,

a line of defence against the drift-snow.

The burberry helmet completely enclosed the head except for the face,

which remained uncovered at the bottom of a funnel stiffened by several

rings of copper-wire. Lampwick, the universal polar "cord," was sewn

in short strips in front of the ears and tied at the back of the

head, firmly securing the helmet. Since the voyage of the 'Discovery'

(1901-1904) lamp-wick had been used widely in sledging on account of

its width, softness, comparative warmth and because of the fact that

ordinary cord is not so easy to manipulate in cold weather. Large

buttons of leather or bone were not nearly so popular as small, smooth

lengths of stick engaging cross-wise with loops of cord--known as

toggles, which became quite a mania with some members of the Expedition.

Whetter, for instance, was known as the "Toggle King," because of the

multitude of these stick-and-cord appendages which hung from every part

of his clothing.

Under the burberrys thick, but light, suits of Jaeger fleece were worn.

They combined trousers and a sleeveless coat, over which a woollen

jersey was worn. In calm weather these with underclothing were

all-sufficient, but in the average fifty-mile wind at any temperature in

the neighbourhood of zero Fahrenheit, they felt distinctly porous.

In less windy weather the luxury of discarding burberrys, either partly

or wholly, was an indulgence which gave great satisfaction.

Finnesko were the favourite foot-gear--soft and commodious reindeer-skin

fur boots. Once these were stuffed with Lapp saennegras or manilla

fibre, and the feet covered with several pairs of socks, cold could

be despised unless one were stationary for some time or the socks or

padding became damp. Even though the padding were wet, violent exercise

kept the temperature "balance" in the warm direction, especially if one

were also under the stimulus of a recent hot meal.

Of course, on smooth ice or polished snow in even moderate winds it was

useless to try and keep one's feet in finnesko, although practice gave

great agility in calmer weather. As already indicated, spiked crampons

on approved models, tested on the glacier-slopes in a hurricane wind,

were almost always worn encasing the finnesko. With so many coverings

the feet often became uncomfortably hot, and for odd jobs about the Hut

and not far abroad spiked leather boots gave most satisfaction.

There were various coverings for the hands: felt mitts, mittens,

instrument-gloves and wolfskin mitts.

The first were used in conjunction with fingerless mittens. The wear and

tear on these was greater than on any other item of clothing. It was a

common sight to see them ragged, canvas-covered, patched, repatched and

again repatched, to be at last reluctantly thrown away. There were two

compartments in a single glove, one for the thumb and the other for the

fingers. It is much easier to keep the fingers warm when in contact with

one another than by having them in separate stalls.

Instrument-gloves of wool were used for delicate manipulations, as a

partial protection, since they reduced the stinging chill of cold metal

at low temperatures.

Wolfskin mitts are unexcelled for use in cold windy weather. Their

shaggy external hair entangles the drift-snow, which thaws, soaks the

skin and refreezes until the mitt is stiff as buckram. This is their

main disadvantage. These mitts or rather gauntlets were made longer in

the arms than usual so as to overlap the burberry sleeves and keep the

wrists warm.

Lambskin mitts with the wool facing inwards were very useful and wore

well for occupations like hauling on ropes and lifting cases.

Like every other movable thing, mitts had to be made fast to prevent

them blowing away. So they were slung round the neck by a yoke of

lamp-wick. The mittened hand could then be removed with the assurance

that the outer mitt would not be far away when it was wanted, no matter

how hard the wind blew.

There has been much discussion as to the relative merits of fur and

woollen clothing. After all the question has resolved itself into one

of personal predilection. It has been claimed that furs are warmer and

lighter. The warmth follows from the wind-proof quality of the hide

which, unfortunately, also tends to retain moist exhalations from the

body. In Adelie Land, the only furs we used were finnesko, wolfskin

mitts and sleeping-bags of reindeer skins.

As in every part of the equipment, modifications had to be made in the

circular Willesden-drill tents. To facilitate their erection in the

perpetual winds they were sewn permanently on to the five bamboo poles,

instead of being thrown over the latter previously set in position. Thus

the tents opened like large conical umbrellas. A rawhide loop was fixed

to the middle one of the three windward legs and, when raising a tent

during a high wind, it was the usual thing for a man to be inside

gripping the loop to pin down the windward legs and at the same time,

kicking out the two leeward legs. On hard surfaces, holes were dug to

receive the ends of the poles; at other times they were pressed home

into the snow by the man inside the tent.

When pitched, the tent was held down by blocks of snow or ice, helped

by spare food-bags, which were all piled round on a broad flounce.

Ventilators, originally supplied with the tents, had to be dispensed

with on account of the incessant drift. The door of the tent was an oval

funnel of burberry material just large enough to admit a man and secured

by a draw-string.