THE FADING DAYS OF THE AUTUMN
(CONTINUED)
April 10.--Yesterday the wind was from the east and it came with a
maddening hiss. To-day it is from the south, still, sharp, and icy.
There is a great commotion in the ice. Old leads have again opened
and widened, new fissures have formed, and there is a distinct swell
noticeable in the steady, regular shift of the ice-floes. About the
ship the ice is much crevassed, and less than one hundred yards away
there is opening a new lead, which is now forty feet wide. We saw
in this lead two finback whales and several seals. Seals and whales
have been heard blowing most of the day. While taking a usual evening
excursion over the floes I saw, to-night, two distinct fragments of an
arc aurora in the south-east. The thing remarkable about this aurora
was its colour. It began as two faint, luminous patches, crescentic
in form. There was a rapid play of light in these from a pale, pearly
glow to a vivid cream color, but the most wonderful of all was the
glistening green shade to which it changed for a few seconds just
before it disappeared. The same aurora reappeared at about half-past
eight in the evening, but it was white and dull.
It is Easter Sunday. We have been up most of the night trying to settle
the many disputes which have arisen out of the “beauty contest.” It
is so long since we have seen a girl that I doubt our ability to pass
judgment on the charms of beautiful women. On the whole, though, we
have not come to any definite conclusions except that the Princess
de Chimay and Cleo de Merode are voted by the majority to be the
world’s most beautiful women. The excitement of the contest has
been such that a new life and a new stream of ideas are coming over
our frosty spirits. To-day we talk of sweethearts, of sisters, of
mothers, and of home. For a time we have forgotten the never ceasing
sameness of storm-beaten pack-ice and our uncertain future. Our minds
and our hearts are homeward, and it is a good change in the drift
of sentiments. We can ill afford to go into the spell of the long,
unknowable night with the air of despondency which has fogged our
mental energy for the past few weeks. Easter Sunday should bring new
joys and the poetry of the budding passions of spring. The artificial
hilarity of last night has placed us in an easy mood for a new period
of fresh pleasures.
But how different is our lot to that of the usual Easter worshipper!
The seasons are here reversed. We have not behind us the winter storms
and cold discomforts. We have not before us the evident joys of a
coming summer; sweet smelling flowers, green fields, pretty girls
in new bonnets, and the hundreds of things which go to make up the
accustomed pleasures of Easter are all far removed from us. We are
on the verge of what promises to be the worst winter on record. The
faint delights of summer are behind. The desperation, the despondency,
the mystery of the unknown, impenetrable darkness, with its ceaseless
frost, is on the horizon. Hellish storms with icy vapours are almost
constantly sweeping over us. There is not a rock or anything suggestive
of land within many hundreds of miles, and there is not a tree or
flowering plant within thousands of miles. Nearly one-third of the
circumference of the globe is between us and our loved ones at home.
Under such circumstances, far away from the world of life, isolated
from accustomed comforts, on a sea of moving ice, in a dead, white
world of eternal frigidity, how can we enjoy Easter? We try hard to
arouse a buoyant spirit, and each has taken it upon himself to bring
out the bright side of the one nearest to him, but our efforts are
poorly rewarded. For after superficial laughter we sink into a lethargy
which becomes more and more normal to us as the winter and the night
advance. Some one has said we want only our home surroundings, some
loving women, fresh food, a few flowers, and our lot will be happy. I
believe this, but I also believe it is just these which are all that is
required to make Hell agreeable to the average man.
April 11.--The ice is spreading, leaving large open lanes in which we
see whales, seals, and penguins. The day is clear with a very light
air from the south-west. Four white petrels are about the ship,
and far out over the leads we observe a few giant, and some spotted
brown, or antarctic petrels. Aside from our usual work of making
observations, and recording the passing conditions of weather, and
life, and ice, we have begun to house the _Belgica_. The sailors
have, for a long time, been building a wall of blocks of snow about
the bark. The great quantity of drift-snow during the past few weeks
has evened this up to the gunwales, but the decks are still too open
and permit, unnecessarily, the escape of the heat from our stoves.
It will be necessary to economise greatly with fuel, for we have
now hardly sufficient to give full steam for fifteen days. The poop
remains buried under a bed of snow and ice two feet thick, and most of
the windows are being closed because there is already upon the glass
too much condensation of frost to permit light to enter. Amidships
we are building a shed to permit a sheltered passage from the cabin
to the laboratory. This will be covered by snow, and under it the
engineer will erect a smith-shop in which to make iron repairs to
the _Belgica_ and the various articles of equipment. Heretofore
it has been difficult to get out because of the great quantities of
snow which has buried everything on deck. We hope the new shed will
eliminate this misery which almost forbids our disembarkment. We have
found it necessary to make double storm doors and double windows to
prevent sudden changes in interior temperatures. By experience it has
been found that ventilation through small pipes from corners of the
rooms is the best. If the windows or doors are opened a volume of cold
air rushes in, and at once everything is wet from the condensation
out of the air by sudden chilling. If I were to sum up in two words
the things which in polar regions bring about the greatest amount
of suffering, I would say humidity and isolation. We try in every
possible way, in the cut of our garments, in the construction of our
winter quarters, and in the arrangement of our sleeping apartments to
eliminate moisture, but our success is small. If we drop our hands
behind our beds a weight of frost falls with a metallic tingle. If
the mattress is removed every nail is found to be covered with ice.
Both Racovitza and Danco vow that they have icebergs as bedfellows,
and when one goes between decks there is always sufficient hoar-frost
falling down one’s back to keep up a warm volley of words. My room
mate frequently opens the port and forgets to close it when the wind
changes: consequently we have to shovel a bank of snow out of our beds
every second or third day. If we could only get rid of this infernal
humidity which plagues and follows us like an agent of Satan, and if
we could take a run to a civilised town once monthly so that we might
absorb a new train of thoughts, life would be bearable. Certainly the
cold is not a cause of serious suffering in the antarctic, for I have
shivered more in New York.
[Illustration: Crab-eater (_Lobodon Carcinophaga_).]
[Illustration: Ross-Seal (_Ommatophoca Rossi_).]
[Illustration: True Sea-Leopard (_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx_).]
April 12.--Snow is falling in huge flakes. The temperature is now
rising, but during the night it fell to -23.5° C. The wind is
east-north-east. The ice continues to separate, but we have seen no
life to-day. We are still at work housing the _Belgica_ and
fitting the cabins for the long imprisonment. It is warm, and dull,
and gloomy, making the air on board unendurable. Everything about the
decks and the doors is moist, and the coating of hoar-frost, which
yesterday made every nail and every bit of iron sparkle, is melting,
making the floors, the table, and the chairs uncomfortably wet.
April 14.--The wind has veered to the south-east and is coming with
increasing force charged with a dry sand-like snow which cuts the skin
like a knife. Temperature, 6 A.M., -8°; 10 A.M., -19°. We saw two
finback whales and one snow petrel. As is always the case when the air
is charged with drift snow, we have a variety of sun and moon dogs
to-day. At 7 P.M. there was in the south-east an unusual aurora. It was
an arc with steady brilliancy, and to the westward were fragments of
two additional arcs.
April 15.--To-night we saw an aurora of exactly the same form as last
night, in the same position, appearing first at the same hour. The
zenith has been clear, but the horizon has been hazed by the suspended
ice specular which again made a countless number of sun and moon halos,
parhelias, and paraselenes.
April 16.--In this shiftless sea of ice everything depends upon the
wind. If it is south, we have steady, clear, cold weather. If it is
north we have a warm, humid air with snow and unsettled weather. If it
is east or west it brings a tempest with great quantities of driving
snow; but it never ceases blowing. It is blow, blow, from all points of
the compass. It is because of this importance of the wind, because it
is the key-note to the day which follows, that our first question in
the morning is “how is the wind?” To-day it is east, and has increased
to a gale, in which it is absolutely impossible to take even a short
walk on the pack. For recreation we have taken to mending. Racovitza
is patching his pantaloons for the tenth time. This, he says, will be
the last time, and I think he is right, for he has used leather to
strengthen all the weak parts. Amundsen is patching boots; Lecointe is
mending instruments; Danco and I are trying to repair watches. Nearly
all of our good timepieces are out of commission. Our hands are better
adapted for the trade of a blacksmith than that of a jeweller, but we
are trying hard and have, to some extent, succeeded. Just at present it
is the crystals which we wish to replace. We have no extra glasses, but
we have found some small pocket compasses with crystals too small. How
can we make them fit? Danco said, “Try sealing wax,” which we did. We
covered half of the watch and a good part of the crystal and thus made
a very effective job, but in appearance it is a woeful object.
April 20.--The easterly storm which has raged unceasingly for a week,
and almost continuously for a month, shows some signs this morning
of ceasing. At 4 A.M. the barometer began to rise, and the
temperature fell to -2° C. The wind shifted to the north-east, but its
force was soon spent. During the day the wind came only in intermittent
puffs. The mouse-coloured clouds separated, permitting an occasional
sunburst to light up the awful gloom which has so long hung over us.
To-night, at ten o’clock, it is actually calm, and snow is falling
lightly in huge, feathery flakes. This sudden calmness and dark
unbroken silence, after the many days of boisterous gales, instill
within us a curious sensation. The ship no longer quivers and groans.
The ropes about the rigging have ceased their discordant music, and
the floes do not utter the usual nerve-despairing screams. This sudden
stillness, seemingly increased by the falling snow, brings to us a
notion of impending danger.
April 21.--The night and the morning continued calm. What a relief
to be able to step out upon the open expanse of the frozen sea
without being pounded, and battered, and smothered with needle-like
ice crystals driven by these damnable storms! We are all out on the
pack to-day to get a breath of air in comfort and to see once more
the height of the sky and the broadness of the horizon. This polar
underpart of the world is decidedly unfit for human life, for it is
seemingly the part which receives the kicks of the angered spirits
as the globe passes through space. The temperature has fallen from
-3° this morning to -17° at eight to-night. The sun has struggled to
pierce the heavy cloud of ice crystals which rests on the pack, but
its efforts have been rewarded only by prismatic effects. Halos, and
parhelias, and fog-bows have been on the sky most of the day; the
warmth of direct beams, however, has not been felt. For two days we
had seen no life, but to-day we heard a whale spout, and saw two white
petrels.
At noon the sun was visible behind a screen of suspended ice
particles. Its edges were barely perceptible, but the captain tried
an observation to find our location on this unknown sea. The result of
the calculations was latitude 71° 03′ 18″. The sun is now extremely
unreliable as a fixed point to find our positions. It is so low on
the horizon at noon that, owing to the great refraction caused by the
increased depth of the atmosphere and the increased refractive quality
of the air at this temperature, it is difficult to make the necessary
corrections. From this time on, until the sun rises higher next summer,
Captain Lecointe will use the stars to get positions.
April 22.--During the night there was another fall of snow of about two
inches. This morning the sky was dull and gray. The air continues calm,
which is remarkable, but because of the unstability of the barometer
and the persistent gloominess of the sky we anticipate another storm
presently. At noon we felt coming, this time from the north, the first
breath of this promised gale. It swept the pack with a blackness and a
moisture which are characteristic of northerly winds. The temperature
ranges from -6° to -9° C. The ice is in considerable agitation; old
leads are closing and new ones are opening, with a direction almost due
north. We made a sounding at two o’clock in the afternoon, hoping that
the night would be clear enough to permit an observation for position,
but the night is cloudy, which makes the work of sounding useless. The
captain has figured out the declination of the compass for our position
of yesterday and finds it to be 38° 37′ east of north.
April 25.--It has been a charming, clear day, with only a few stratus
clouds along the horizon, and a light, pearly mist rising in a straight
line from the ice. Several times during the day we saw parts of a white
rainbow or fog-eater. The photographs which we now take prove that the
light is feeble, though seemingly bright. It is quite impossible to
make good negatives at the present time. This, I believe, is due not
only to the feebleness of the light, but to the glancing direction of
the rays, the yellowness of their colour, and the fact that the beams
of light strike the snow at such an angle that they glance off into
space, and make the atmosphere itself partly luminous, which destroys
the plates.
The pack is again apparently at rest; the new leads and lakes are
covered with young ice, which is frosted by a beautiful growth of
flowery bunches of hoar-frost. These leads, in the present yellow
light, have assumed a most intense green colour, and as they wind about
the blue ice-walls and the cream-coloured floes the scene becomes
entrancing. The temperature this morning was -21° C.; to-night, at
nine, it is -27.5° C. There is a feeble arc aurora in the usual
position. Its brightness is about like that of the milky-way, and this
is the average strength of most antarctic auroras. Our position is
daily getting to be of greater interest. This is shown by our attention
to the work of the captain and others upon whom we depend to tell us
where, in this aimless drift, we are pointing. When Captain Lecointe
goes out to “shoot” the stars we await his return with some impatience,
and, though he cannot at once give us the exact figures, we are
inquisitive to learn quickly his guesses at the amount of the latest
drift, but he must often stamp and kick, and we must punch and rub him,
to start his circulation before he can talk.
An electric signal has been arranged so that Dobrowolski, who assists
Lecointe, can remain in a comfortable stateroom with the chronometer
to fix the time for the observations. The captain has exhausted every
ingenuity to make the work as agreeable as possible, but there seems to
be no way to lessen materially his own discomforts while sighting the
stars. The observatory is sheltered from the wind, but the air in it
is just as cold as that outside. To-night the temperature was almost
-28° during the time of the observation. The difficulty of keeping the
teeth from chattering, the eyes from quivering, or the instruments
from shaking, can be more easily imagined than explained. Danco came
in after making his sights with a frosted foot, and with a piece of
skin, torn from his eye, frozen to the metal of the eye-piece of his
instrument. Lecointe lost some of his eye-lashes, and a bit of his ear
was white. Both Danco and Lecointe have resolved to cover the metal
parts of all instruments with flannel in the future, and from them we
have copied the idea and covered the metallic portions of everything we
use for our work outside. It is, however, an almost daily occurrence
to have men come to me with fingers “burnt,” as they express it, by
contact with bits of cold metal. One sailor, who was at work between
decks nailing up cases containing geological specimens, placed two
nails in his mouth. He snatched them out quickly, bringing along bits
of his tongue and lip, and leaving ugly wounds which in character were
exactly like the injuries of a hot iron. The sailors who have metallic
pegs in their boots claim that ice-caps form under their feet. This I
have taken as a sailor’s yarn, but to-night I went on deck in slippers;
on returning my stockings were thoroughly wet,--removing the slippers
to discover the source of humidity I saw about a dozen, glistening caps
of ice that had formed over nails which had been carelessly driven
through the soles. These things seem incredible, but similar instances
are repeated daily.
But I have started out to-night to write, not of the little nothings
which really do make up the bulk of our work and pastime, but of the
more serious drift of the _Belgica_. We are going westerly with
a steady and rapid gait, and though we drift frequently northward,
our general progress is also at times slowly southward. Where will we
be when the thaw of next summer shall set us free? Since the first
of March, when our position was latitude 71° 04′ 45″, longitude 85°
26′, we have gone a zigzag course westerly, now above the 71 parallel,
now below it, but generally west, until at present our situation is
latitude 70° 50′ 15″, longitude 92° 21′ 30″. We have thus, in less
than two months drifted westward about seven degrees of longitude. We
are curious to know whether this drift will continue, or whether the
prevailing winds of the coming winter will send us adrift in another
direction. Almost without knowing it, without setting sails, and
without steam, we have made a snaky course of about five hundred
miles over an unknown sea. This is peculiar navigation. We have seen
nothing move, there has been no fixed point to indicate our drift,
and we cannot see that we pass through the water because the entire
horizon, the countless fields and mountains of ice, slide with us at
the same rate of speed. We are carried along with the restless pack,
slowly but steadily, with majestic ease, against our desires, without
seasickness, always on and on in response to the ever furious winds.
This is exploring under difficulties because we are absolutely helpless
to direct our course, but we hope that the Hand of Nature will guide us
to some interesting region.
[Illustration: Weddell Sea-Leopards on the Pack-ice.
(_Leptonychotes Weddelli._)]
Our drift has already proven geographical problems of considerable
interest. We are now drifting two degrees south of the assigned
position of Peter Island, and we have seen no definite signs of land.
This proves that the island is not one of an archipelago, extending far
south and guarding closely a continental mass of land as might have
been supposed. The freedom with which we drift here, and the absence
of unusual pressure, warrants the assertion that there is no land of
sufficient extent to check the drift of the pack within a hundred
miles. We have now sailed with the bergs and the floating crust of the
earth over a sea about 500 metres deep, through a region where John
Murray has placed a hypothetical continent. Murray’s “Antarctica,” if
it exists, must be reduced in size, for we have sailed over it without
finding a projecting rock. We have, in our helpless drift, been forced
south of Bellingshausen’s farthest, and are now headed for Wilke’s
“appearance of land” and Captain Cook’s historic farthest. Perhaps if
we were able to direct the vessel we could not more effectually explore
these regions. May the elements which have sent us thus far continue to
guard and push us forward!
[Illustration: Arctowski and Amundsen ready for a stroll]