OVER UNKNOWN WATERS INTO THE FROZEN SEA
February 25.--The expected storm has not struck us, but the ice has
separated a little and offers us a chance to push westerly. We are
passing through a loose pack with much new ice, which offers but
little resistance to the vessel. On the ice there are many groups of
small penguins, and we have also seen several royal penguins. Many
snowy petrels follow in the wake of the ship, but they are silent
companions, never uttering a song or a cry of delight or fear, always
gliding lightly in the air and dropping easily into the water to seek
the pelagic fish, which is their food. There is no wind to-day. The
temperature is again higher -3.5° C. (25.7° F.), and the sky is lined
with stratus and alto-stratus clouds of the usual steel gray. Our
position at noon was latitude 69° 17′, longitude 82° 24′.
From here we again pushed out into the open sea northward, and
following closely the edge of the pack westerly, we continued our
cheerless voyage still in search of a promising bay or open lead
which might permit us to push to a higher latitude. At noon on the
twenty-seventh our position was 69° 26′, longitude 86° 46′. After the
ensnaring powers of the pack-ice, which we have learned in the past
few weeks, we were not eager to put ourselves again in a position to
become entangled. For such an entanglement would now mean confinement.
The season for a campaign to the far south is past. The nights are
becoming long and black, and new ice is forming on every side; but in
spite of these forbidding signs M. de Gerlache believes it incumbent
upon himself to abandon the new programme, and push heedlessly into the
freezing waters to make as strong an effort as possible to beat the
“farthest south” of other explorers.
The entire scientific staff are opposed to this effort, because it is
thought too late in the season. No direct opposition, however, was
offered when the _Belgica_ was again headed southward. She was
forced into the pack and out again, time after time, making after each
rebuff a new effort farther westward. On February twenty-eighth we were
forced to take to the ice that the ship might better ride out a howling
storm.
I can imagine nothing more despairing than a storm on the edge of
the pack. At best it is a cold, dull, and gloomy region, with a high
humidity and constant drizzly fogs. Clear weather is here an exception.
Storm with rain, sleet, and snow, is the normal weather condition
throughout the entire year. During the day of the twenty-eighth we are
unable to get a glimpse of the sun, and are in consequence in doubt
as to our actual position. There is something about the sea and sky
which promises a night of unusual terrors. The wind comes in a steady
torrent from the east, and with it come alternate squalls of rain,
sleet, and snow. Hour after hour it blew harder, and before night it
brought with it a heavy sea studded with icebergs--moving mountains of
blackness. The _Belgica_ runs westerly before it, almost under
bare poles, and edges closer and closer toward the fragments of ice to
the south, where the sea is easier. The sky to the north and east is
smoky and wavy, as if a number of huge fires were there sending out
gusts of smoke, and on the southern sky there is a bright pearly zone.
This is an ice-blink, a reflection of the ice beyond our horizon upon
the particles of watery vapour suspended in the air. As night comes
upon us it becomes necessary to choose between the forbidding blackness
of the north and the more cheerful, but less hospitable, whiteness of
the south. With icebergs on every side, always in our course, coming
as suddenly out of the thickening darkness as if dropped from the
skies, it is not wise, or prudent, either to move out of, or to rest
in, our position. To be more friendly with the ice, or to rid ourselves
entirely of its companionship, is plainly our duty.
We have decided to seek the harbouring influence of the pack, as
an experiment, to ride out the increasing fury of the tempest. The
_Belgica_ is headed southward, and quickly plows through the
trembling icy seas. But the noise and commotion which come to a climax
every time she rises to the crest of a great swell, are terrible. The
wind beats through the rigging like the blasts out of a blowpipe,
the quivering masts sweep the sky with the regularity of a pendulum,
and the entire ship is covered with a sheet of ice. As the eye drops
over the side of the ship the sea glitters with the brightness of a
winter sky. This brightness of the sea, with the sooty blackness of the
heavens above it, formed a weird contrast, never to be forgotten. Here
and there are sparkling, semi-luminous pieces of ice which spring from
the darkness with meteoric swiftness, and are again as quickly lost in
the gathering blackness behind us. These fragments increase in number
and in size as we press poleward; but the _Belgica_ strikes and
pushes them aside as easily as a broom removes dust.
After a short but very exciting time, the pieces of ice become more
numerous and of larger dimensions, and the bergs are so closely grouped
that further progress seems impossible. The sea rolls more and more,
in long easy swells, as we pass through the ice. This eases the ship
and makes matters more comfortable to the sufferers of seasickness. I
must hasten to confess that about one-half of us are thus afflicted
at this time. Still, we try to be cheerful. I cannot imagine a scene
more despairing, though, than the _Belgica_ as she pushes into the
pack during this dark night. The noise is maddening. Every swell that
drives against the ship brings with it tons of ice, which is thrown
against her ribs with a thundering crash. The wind howls as it rushes
past us, and comes with a force which makes us grasp the rails to keep
from being thrown into the churning seas. The good old ship keeps up a
constant scream of complaints as she strikes piece after piece of the
masses of ice. Occasionally we try to talk, but the deafening noises
of the storm, the squeaking strains of the ship, and the thumping of
the ice makes every effort at speech inaudible. With our stomachs
dissatisfied, and our minds raised to a fever-heat of excitement, and
with the prospect of striking an iceberg at any moment and sinking to
the bottom of the sea, we were, to say the least, uncomfortable. When
we had sufficiently entered into the body of the pack, and were snugly
surrounded by closely-packed ice-floes, the sea subsided, and here the
overworked ship rested for the night.
In the morning the wind changed to the north-east, and the ice
separated, leaving long open leads of water. These leads offer a
tempting highway poleward, and Gerlache was not long in deciding the
course. With a fair wind pressing the sails and with steam, we push
southward. The navigation is not easy, still it is less difficult
at this time than it usually is in an antarctic pack. The pans are
small--from fifty to a hundred yards in diameter and about four feet
thick. They are separated by quantities of pulverised fragments and
discs of new ice.
Evenly scattered about in the icy expanse are numerous icebergs;
usually about two hundred can be counted from the crow’s-nest. The
navigating officer remains at the masthead, and directs the course of
the ship. It is exciting navigation. The sky in the north is lined with
heavy, lead-coloured clouds, and in the south there is the ever-bright
ice-blink. Petrels in large numbers and in great varieties hover about
us, as if to ask our business in their domain. Penguins walk about
on the ice, uttering squeaky noises which re-echo from berg to berg.
Seals, lazily sunning themselves, come to the edge of the floe to see
the human intruders. Meanwhile the ship is forced on in a wild manner
into the ice. Now she is running upon the floes to break them; again
she is pushed between to force them aside; but always she is fighting
an uneven battle against the huge masses of ice.
After two days of this ice-ramming, we found that we had passed through
about ninety miles of ice. We are now made to realise that further
progress is out of the question. The ice is too closely packed; and
the floes here are heavier; it is no longer practicable to break them,
or push them aside. We are so closely hugged, indeed, that movement
in any direction is impossible. To the south there are several lakes
visible from the crow’s-nest, and to the north-west there are also
spaces of open water; but after several efforts we found ourselves
unable to reach these. On the fourth of March, we were forced to admit
our inability to extricate ourselves. Our position at this time was
latitude 71° 22′, longitude 84° 55′--about three hundred miles across
the polar circle and about 1,100 from the geographical pole. The
nearest land from here is the still unknown group of Alexander Islands,
about three hundred miles eastward.
We are now again firmly stationed in a moving sea of ice, with no
land and nothing stable on the horizon to warn us of our movements.
Even the bergs, immense, mountainous masses, though apparently fixed
and immovable, sail as we do, and with the same apparent ease. The
astronomical positions which we obtain from the sun and from the
stars indicate to us that we drift from five to ten miles per day. It
is a strange sensation to know that, blown with the winds, you are
moving rapidly over an unknown sea, and yet see nothing to indicate a
movement. We pass no fixed point, and can see no pieces of ice stir;
everything is quiet. The entire horizon drifts with us. We are part of
an endless frozen sea. Our course is zigzag, but generally west--we do
not know our destination, and are always conscious that we are the only
human beings to be found in the entire circumpolar region at the bottom
of the globe. It is a curious situation.
March 5.--We are not yet prepared to resign ourselves to the doubtful
destiny of an unknowable life in the restless sea of ice. We still
hope against hope that some favourable force will separate the ice
and permit us to retreat. Day after day we have tried to slide into
some promising lead, but each effort has been a bitter disappointment.
The weather is getting colder and clearer. The pack and the sky is
touched with new charms of colour, and the life is full of inspiration.
Altogether, the new region in which we are now held is more hopeful
and less monotonous than the hundreds of miles of desolate icy waste
through which we have passed. If there were only some sort of relief at
hand for our rescue, in case the ship were crushed, we would gladly
make arrangements to pass the winter and the long night here. If our
vessel should be destroyed no one at home could possibly know the
location of our wanderings, or the site of our final destruction, and
with our equipment we could not navigate the Cape Horn seas to a land
of human habitation. Our faith then is pinned on the _Belgica_;
our life is linked with hers. If she gains freedom our liberty is
assured; if she sinks, we shall all go to an icy grave.
The drift of conversation for several days has been in this strain.
We must seek to divert thought to other channels, for to constantly
weigh the prospects of death and misfortune is to cast the mind into a
melancholy state, from which it is difficult to arouse. To be caught
in the ice is, after all, the usual luck of polar explorers. It is a
life of hardship, of monotony, and isolation, full of certain dangers
and uncertain rewards. For success there awaits honorable reward, but
for failure there is always ready a storm of condemnation. Our success
to the present has been such that we feel proud of our work. We have
seized the records to-day and hope to elaborate our observations.
Everything which we have done will require careful revising, and this
brings to us a new interest and a brighter promise. It serves to divert
our attention from the darker side of our future.
[Illustration: A Lake. The Sporting Place of Whales, Seals and
Penguins.]
[Illustration: Moonlight Photograph of the _Belgica_, May
20, 1898.]
Outside, the conditions, for the past few days, have been more
cheerful, though there is every indication of our being permanently
fixed here. The nights are clearer and colder, but longer and
darker, and the mercury is sinking into the bulb. When on the ship
we brood over, and complain of our miserable lot, but when we stroll
over the pack, interview the groups of friendly penguins, seek the
company of the gregarious seals, watch the petrels dive into the icy
waters, and behold the restfulness and contentment of this life within
its lonely world of ice, we are encouraged to stay and experience the
unknown conditions. There is now also a short glory in the sky as the
sun departs, and a long scene of joy in the curious colours playing on
the ice. Every day we see new charms in our surroundings, which makes
us almost hope that we will stay to study the strange effects. The
warm golden sunsets, followed by a long soft blue twilight, are now a
daily delight. The milky white of the old floes, with the glitter of
its miniature mountains, is under a thin veil of evening lilac. The new
ice, which is quite as extensive as the old, takes the heavenly colours
and glows in lakes of gold, while the water separating these is a most
delightful azure. There is a fascination in all this; there is a spirit
of contentment in the white silence, which hangs over all.
March 4.--This morning a bunch of sharp rays of light pierced my port
as the sun rose over the icy stillness of the north. It was like a
bundle of frosted silver wire, and it served well the purpose of an
eye-opener. Sleep here is an inexpressible dream. It does not matter
how difficult the work, or how great the anxiety, we sink easily into
prolonged restful slumbers. We awake rested, refreshed, and full of
youthful vigour, always ready for the day’s task. In the first days of
our life in the pack we ate when we were hungry, slept when we were
tired, and worked when the spirit moved us. (But later we were never
hungry, always tired, and the spirit never moved us.)
This morning the vessel was allowed to rest quietly, though there was
considerable water about. On board we are adjusting things to guard
against the expected heavy seas, which we anticipate when we leave this
accursed pack. At noon we took a sounding and struck bottom at 530
metres. Soon after, steam was raised and we began to ram through the
ice northward. We now intended to visit Peter Island if possible. At
first we made good progress. The young ice was five inches thick, but
this we cut like butter. The large old floes were either pressed out of
our way, or broken. There were many groups of small penguins, shedding
feathers and resting with their ragged coats in the lee of hummocks.
There were also many seals on the ice. On the whole, however, our hard
efforts were poorly rewarded, for, after battling with the ice six
hours, we had gained not more than two miles and were again as snugly
beset as before.
[Illustration: Lichen.
(_Gyrophora vellea (L.) Nyl._)]
[Illustration: Lichen.
(_Usnea sulphurea (Müll) T. Fr._)]
[Illustration: Mosseo Andreae a laxifolia H. and W.]
We have wearied of pushing southward this season, and are discouraged
in our ability to move in any direction, but we have tried hard to make
a higher latitude. Nature frowns upon us and refuses to reward our
dearly-bought venture. She guards the mysteries of the frozen south
with much jealousy. She tempts us by permitting a small advance
and a long look ahead, but when we have resolved to force on into the
white blank, the icy gates close as if to say, “You can look, but
you must not enter.” A water sky, a land blink, or some other sign,
indicative of land or open water, is constantly before us and these
are, to the polar explorer, like the Star of Bethlehem to the children
of Israel. They perpetually urge us on. We burn down the fires and
wait impatiently for better success on the morrow, feeling always that
we have won our success, thus far, by our own hard efforts, and by
the same methods we hope to master the barriers now walled around us.
Pressing ice, blasting head winds, blinding snow squalls, and all the
worst elements of sea and weather combine to bewilder and defeat us.
The south polar lands are carefully shielded and fenced off by the
circumpolar pack. The regions beyond the outer edge are not to be
secured from the depths of mystery by a dash or an assault. The
fortifications are more firmly laid than ever a human mind suggested.
The prodigious depths of snow above, and the endless expanse of
ensnaring sea around are mostly impregnable to man. He who contemplates
an attack on this heatless under-surface of the globe will find many
tempting allurements and many disheartening rebuffs. Such has been our
experience. The battle, however, should be fought, though it promises
to be the fiercest of all human engagements. Science demands it, modern
progress calls for it, for in this age a blank upon our chart is a blur
upon our prided enlightenment. A measure of success is certain to
follow, and the victory should be crowned by the “Stars and Stripes.”
[Illustration: Moon Faces.]
[Illustration: Moon Faces.]
Except for the little touch of colour at sunrise this morning, the
weather has been one of a type which we now style gray days. These
gray days are entirely characteristic of the antarctic. There is no
brightness, no sparkle, no moving wind or water, nothing to infuse
new life or to lighten our spirits. The atmosphere is heavy, but not
opaque, the sky is low and gray, the extensive pans and bands of new
ice are a smoky colour, the water is leaden, and only the snow-decked
old pans form a contrast to the gray monotony, and even these take
on a dirty aspect. All of this is impressed upon the mind, and when
taken together with our immobility it sets up a greyness in our moods.
To-night we saw a sight which aroused us to other thoughts. The sun had
set rather tamely, leaving only a narrow zone upon which colour was
poured; this zone was light blue at the water-line, a little darker
above, merging into a violet, and then into an orange red, and over
all was a mouse-coloured sky. These colours soon vanished, leaving a
lemon colour which followed the sun on its journey eastward. At about
eight o’clock a speck of fire was seen above the purple ice northward,
but neither the ice nor the sky showed any signs of a reflected light.
The sky was a dark purple blue. All was still and dead; there was not
a breath of air stirring. The dull flame slowly increased in size
and changed its form with marvellous rapidity. Above it there was a
little blackness suggestive of smoke, and under it was a cone-like
image of a mountain peak from which the fire and smoke seemed to ooze.
Excitement ran high on the _Belgica_. The thing came upon us out
of the smoky purple sky with the suddenness of a flash-light. To many
of us it seemed like a volcanic fire; to all it was an awe-inspiring,
but fascinating, puzzle. As it rose slowly higher it seemed to pull
the mountain up with it; presently we noticed that the weird object
had not only an upward movement but also a lateral progress. Then the
fire separated from the mountain and later the smoke separated from the
fire, and then both smoke and mountain vanished, leaving only a cone of
rayless flame. Every few seconds for fifteen minutes this extraordinary
object underwent a remarkable transfiguration; now it was oblong with
its greatest diameter parallel to the line of the horizon, again it
formed an inverted cone, at other times it became semi-circular, and,
most curious of all, it was a globe divided by a line. There was at
no time any sign of luminosity about the spot. It remained a dull
red, fading into orange, and when it had ascended about five degrees
it assumed the form of a ragged ball of old gold. By this time we had
discovered that it was the moon making anomalous faces as it passed
through the icy atmosphere resting on the pack. (It was a sight which
we saw many times afterwards, and it was always full of a sort of weird
glory, of which we never tired.)
March 13.--For ten days we have had clear skies with a falling
thermometer, and though the ice has spread considerably, leaving large
open leads and lakes, new ice has covered the water so quickly that we
have been unable to push out of our icy imprisonment. Few of us now
entertain any hope of seeing real water or land again until the Frost
King loosens his grasp upon us. There is considerable difference of
opinion as to our present position. When one walks about the decks the
men are frequently heard discussing the recent efforts to push out of
the ice. They say the attempts have been half-hearted, and that we are
in the pack to winter by intention. This opinion is shared also by
some members of the scientific staff. Within the past four or five
days the ice has been much separated, but our efforts to force out
have been made with half-steam and for short periods. There is a claim
of indifference among the officers as to whether we return to South
America to winter, or harbour in the pack, and this indifference is
shown in the feeble attempts to navigate the ship.
[Illustration: M. van Rysselberghe at the condenser, which was
converted into a snow melter. This apparatus, by the combined
ingenuity of van Rysselberghe and van Mirlo, was taken out of the
engine-room, placed on deck, and so altered that it burned seal
blubber. From this the _Belgica_ was supplied with water.]
Most of us have assumed the responsibility of criticising the
management, and all blame the director for entering the main body of
the pack at the season’s end. After airing opinions, though adverse and
bitter to the men in charge, everybody feels better. These complaints
are a sort of safety-valve, and the grunts are taken good-humouredly.
The opportunity to find fault is the privilege of men on the threshold
of polar darkness, and, according to my experience, the members of
every expedition do it freely, but such sentiments are generally
expunged from the narratives. In spite of our disheartening prospects,
fits of melancholy, and spells of fault-finding, there is, in general,
hearty laughter and jolly good feeling on board. In the forecastle
the men sing, whistle, and squeeze out old tunes on the accordion.
On deck they kick and dance and tell funny stories. In the cabin the
music boxes are kept on cheerful notes, and altogether we are making
the dead world of ice about us ring with a boisterous noise. Even the
most disheartened among us now begins to see new charms in the curious
chance which may make us the first of all human beings to pass through
the long antarctic night.