THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED)--DAYS OF DISCONTENTMENT.
[Illustration: A Helpless Ship in a Hopeless Sea of Ice.]
The grayness of the first days of the night has given way to a
soul-despairing darkness, broken only at noon by a feeble yellow haze
on the northern sky. I can think of nothing more disheartening, more
destructive to human energy, than this dense, unbroken blackness of the
long polar night. In the arctic it has some redeeming features. There
the white invader has the Eskimo to assist, teach, and amuse him. The
weather there is clear and cold; and in the regions about Greenland,
where I have been engaged, there is land--real solid land, not the
mere mockery of it, like the shifting pack that is about us here. With
land at hand, prolonged journeys are always possible, but what are we
to do on a moving sea of ice?
May 29.--Yesterday we had a warm northerly gale with much snow and
a thick fog. The ice is again in rapid motion. There are many new
leads, numerous pressure angles, and fresh fissures in the ice. Danco
is steadily failing. To-day is Sunday; the men look forward with some
anticipation to this day because Sunday is set aside, not as a day
of worship, for I have never seen a man on the _Belgica_ with a
Bible or prayer-book in his hands, but as a time of freedom from usual
duties. It is the weekly period of recreation and special feeding.
The few eatables which are still relished are placed on the menu for
Sunday. This serves to mark time and to divide, somewhat, the almost
unceasing sameness of our life.
This morning had in it no element of promise or cheer. Even at noon it
was dark and gloomy. But the wet, warm, northerly wind of yesterday is
blowing its last breath. The cold air of the upper atmospheric stratus
is settling down over us again, as it always does in an approaching
calm. In this region nothing is more conducive to comfort than a
sharp atmosphere with a low temperature. Warm weather is nice enough
in summer or in more temperate latitudes; but in this sea of ice
and in midwinter, it is far from desirable. Aside from the personal
discomforts, high temperature in our position adds enormous dangers to
our safety. The ice, now being firmly congealed, is crushed and thrown
from one part of the ever restless sea to another. It is broken,
crushed, and ground into a snowy powder, which only too well indicates
to us what would become of our vessel if it were torn from its present
bed.
[Illustration: Penguin Interviews.]
Last night a tremendous force was expended against the end of our floe,
which made the sleeping _Belgica_ quiver from stem to stern; but,
fortunately, the good old ice-block held together, while the smaller
ice pans around her were pushed on the surface with a groan like that
of a man in dire pain. To-day all is quiet, no pressure groans, no
noise of animals, no wind, even the usual noise on board has ceased.
Since three o’clock the temperature has fallen three degrees every
hour. Now, at eight o’clock, it is -25.2°; this is our favourite
temperature and what a joy it brings. The day is, perhaps, as a Sunday
ought to be, cold, solemn, and silent. A feeble arc aurora appeared
at about nine o’clock to-night. It was in the usual position, but the
exhibit was so faint that had we not been trained by our previous
observations, the phenomenon would have passed unrecognised.
May 31.--By a careful observation Captain Lecointe deduces our latitude
to 71° 36′, longitude 87° 33′ 30″. For about a week we have drifted
very little. The longitude has changed slightly, but since the 18th
we have gone southward about nineteen miles. To the present this is
our farthest point southward. On the 20th of March we were at 71° 35′,
longitude 88° 02′, a position very near that at present. (The latitude
of this day, 71° 36′, proved to be our farthest south during the entire
drift with the pack.)
The morning is perfect, as we regard weather. The thermometer is at
-23° C. There is almost no wind, and every break in the pack is covered
by a thick sheet of new ice. We expected cold, clear weather, but it
was otherwise yesterday and last night. The wind howled, the ice was
again torn into small pieces, and there was a great amount of pressure
evident in the lines of hummocks running easterly and westerly. Either
we have come against some obstruction southward, or the northerly
pressure is extraordinary. During the night we were anxious about the
safety of the _Belgica_; for, as the fury of the wind rushed over
us, the ice was broken and the vessel was subjected to a great amount
of pressure. The ice is heaped up around the _Belgica_ in huge
walls from five to twenty feet in height. The floes are turning, giving
the good old ship hard jabs in her ribs. She takes the savage blows
with an agonizing moan. Although the pressure has been such that we
packed our kits and were prepared to try the hospitality of the pack,
there has been no real injury which we can discover. We were extremely
glad, this morning, to find that the broken ice had been reunited, and
we soon learned that the raised walls about would prove an effective
embankment in future battles with the storms.
At noon there was a faint show of a dawn. The sky in the north was
touched with light fiery clouds. The snow had upon it not the slightest
suggestion of this red, but remained a dull gray, while the sky above
was a smoky blue. One not familiar with the freaks of polar day would
have thought the sun would surely rise, or that it had just sunk under
the snow, but we know only too well that we are doomed to see it make a
fainter and fainter display at noon for three more weeks.
Precisely at twelve o’clock a strange rectangular block of fire
appeared in the east-south-east. Its size was that of a small tabular
iceberg, but it had a dull crimson glow which made the scene at once
weird and fascinating. Its base rested on the horizon and it seemed to
rise, brighten, and move northerly. The sky here was a purple, thinly
veiled by a light smoky haze, caused by icy crystals in the lower
stratus of atmosphere, but there was not another speck of redness on
this side of the heavens except the orange bow usually seen over the
twilight zone. We watched this with considerable awe and amazement for
ten minutes before we could determine its meaning. It passed through
several stages of forms, finally it separated, and we discovered that
it was the moon. It was in fact a sort of mirage of the moon, but the
strange rectangular distortion, the fiery aspect, and its huge size,
made a sight long to be remembered.
During the past days of the night we have made soundings of the sea,
and have taken samples of submarine and surface life. This has given
Arctowski and Racovitza an abundance of work. It is interesting to
see them plod along, working steadily and faithfully in the dark
laboratory, packing away specimens, jotting down notes, stooping over
the microscopes and other instruments, always with a pencil in one
hand, and a stick in the other to greet the first man who dares to
interrupt them in their den. Poor fellows!--their faces are tired and
drawn, as if some great calamity had come upon them. Danco is keeping
up with doggish persistency his magnetic observations, the details of
which are such that he is almost constantly occupied during working
hours. He is steadily failing, but he complains little and keeps up a
kind of abnormal cheerfulness.
The meteorological work is now the most troublesome task, for it
requires some one to make the observations every hour, and sometimes
oftener. Each of us had planned a work of some magnitude to be
completed before sunrise. Commandant de Gerlache started to rewrite
the ship’s log. Lecointe began to complete the details of the summer’s
hydrographic work. Racovitza, in addition to regular laboratory
work, was to plan the outlines of a new book on the geographical
distribution of life. Arctowski had in mind a dozen scientific problems
to elucidate. Amundsen entered into a co-partnership with me to make
new and more perfect travelling equipment; and in addition to this, I
had the anthropological work of the past summer to place into workable
order, and a book on antarctic exploration. Thus we had placed before
us the outline for industrious occupation; but we did little of it. As
the darkness increased our energy waned. We became indifferent, and
found it difficult to concentrate our minds or fix our efforts to any
one plan of action. (The work mapped out was partly accomplished, but
it was done after the return of the sun.)
The regular routine of our work is tiresome in the extreme, not because
it is difficult of execution or requires great physical exertion, but
because of its monotony. Day after day, week after week, and month
after month we rise at the same hour, eat the same things, talk on the
same subjects, make a pretense of doing the same work, and look out
upon the same icy wilderness. We try hard to introduce new topics for
thought and new concoctions for the weary stomach. We strain the truth
to introduce stories of home and of flowery future prospects, hoping to
infuse a new cheer; but it all fails miserably. We are under the spell
of the black antarctic night, and, like the world which it darkens, we
are cold, cheerless, and inactive. We have aged ten years in thirty
days.
Here is an outline of a day’s life on the _Belgica_. Rise at
7.30 A.M.; coffee at 8; 9 to 10, open air exercise; 10 to
12, scientific work, such as the regular meteorologic, magnetic, or
laboratory tasks, for the officers; and for the marines, bringing in
snow, melting snow for water, replenishing the ship’s stores, repairing
the ship, building new quarters, making new instruments, and doing
anything which pertains to the regular work of the expedition; 12 to
2 P.M., dinner and rest or recreation; 2 to 4, official work
(regular work during this period was suspended for the greater part of
the night); 6 to 7, supper; 7 to 10, card-playing, music, mending, and,
on moonlight nights, excursions. At ten o’clock we went to sleep.
Up to this time our health had been fairly good. Excepting a few
light attacks of rheumatism, neuralgia, and some unimportant traumatic
injuries, there had been no complaint. We ate little, however, and
were thoroughly disgusted with canned foods. We had tried the meat of
the penguins, but to the majority its flavour was still too “fishy.”
We entered the long night somewhat underfed, not because there was a
scarcity of food, but because of our unconquerable dislike for such
as we had. It is possible to support life for seven or eight months
upon a diet of canned food; but after this period there is something
in the human system which makes it refuse to utilise the elements
of nutrition contained in tins. Against such food, even for a short
period, the stomach protests; confined to it for a long period, it
simply refuses to exercise its functions. Articles which in the canning
retain a natural appearance usually remain, especially if cooked a
little, friendly to the palate. This is particularly true of meat
retaining hard fibers, such as ham, bacon, dried meats, and corned
beef. It is also true of fruits preserved in juices; and vegetables,
such as peas, corn, tomatoes; and of dried things. Unfortunately
this class of food formed a small part of our store. We were weighed
down with the supposed finer delicacies of the Belgian, French, and
Norwegian markets. We had laboratory mixtures in neat cans, combined
in such a manner as to make them look tempting--hashes under various
catchy names; sausage stuffs in deceptive forms, meat and fishballs
said to contain cream, mysterious soups, and all the latest inventions
in condensed foods. But they one and all proved failures, as a steady
diet. The stomach demands things with a natural fiber, or some tough,
gritty substance. At this time, as a relief, we would have taken kindly
to something containing pebbles or sand. How we longed to use our teeth!
The long darkness, the isolation, the tinned foods, the continued
low temperature, with increasing storms and a high humidity, finally
reduced our systems to what we call polar anaemia. We became pale, with
a kind of greenish hue; our secretions were more or less suppressed.
The stomach and all the organs were sluggish, and refused to work.
Most dangerous of all were the cardiac and cerebral symptoms. The
heart acted as if it had lost its regulating influence. Its action was
feeble, but its beats were not increased until other dangerous symptoms
appeared. Its action was weak, irregular, and entirely unreliable
throughout the night. The mental symptoms were not so noticeable.
The men were incapable of concentration, and unable to continue
prolonged thought. One sailor was forced to the verge of insanity, but
he recovered with the returning sun. The first to feel the effects
of polar anaemia seriously was our lamented friend and companion,
Lieutenant Danco. With the descent of the sun began the beginning of
his end. On the short journeys which we took during the few moments of
noonday twilight Danco complained of shortness of breath. Indeed, we
all had some difficulty of respiration upon the slightest exercise, but
Danco would frequently stand still and gasp. For this he came under
medical care early in May, but in spite of every effort he rapidly sank.
June 1.--It is now difficult to get out of our warm beds in the
morning. There is no dawn,--nothing to mark the usual division of night
and morning until nearly noon. During the early part of the night it
is next to impossible to go to sleep, and if we drink coffee we do not
sleep at all. When we do sink into a slumber, it is so deep that we are
not easily awakened. Our appetites are growing smaller and smaller,
and the little food which is consumed gives much trouble. Oh, for that
heavenly ball of fire! Not for the heat--the human economy can regulate
that--but for the light--the hope of life.
June 2.--The night was very cold with a wind veering from south-west to
west, coming in puffs with a coldness that made the ice and the rigging
of the _Belgica_ groan. At about six o’clock last night, while a
stiff wind was blowing, the ice fractured around the _Belgica_ and
allowed her to sink gradually into the water out of which she had been
raised. The squeaking of the ship, the groaning of the ice, and the
howling of the wind, were for a short time maddening. After a time we
became accustomed to this and sank our anxiety and some fear (though we
hesitated to own it) in a lively game of whist. This proved to be the
coldest night thus far -29° C. (-20.2° F.).
I had resolved to rise at seven o’clock, but owing to the lethargy due
to the long darkness and the profound sleep, I did not find myself
out of my berth until eleven. When I arise at this time I omit the
formality of a breakfast, and of this my stomach does not complain.
Four months ago, during the antarctic summer, to omit breakfast would
have been to reject one of the delights of polar life, but now in
this melancholy darkness it is like being relieved of a weighty duty.
[Illustration: The Small Pack Penguin (_Pygoscelis
Adeliae_).]
[Illustration: The Royal Penguin (_Aptenodytes Forsteri_).]
June 3.--The men forward are kept busy with the usual work of the ship,
cleaning, restowing, repairing sails, ropes, and woodwork, etc. One man
is constantly occupied in keeping the fires going. Another man keeps up
the supply of snow, which is melted for water. The work of sounding,
taking deep sea temperatures, and fishing, keeps many busy. For much of
the time it is also necessary to employ several men to keep the vessel
well banked with snow, and the observatories need a similar attention.
Thus the sailors are evenly occupied in easy work which keeps them from
feeling the melancholy of our isolation from the world, and also helps
them to forget the prolonged darkness of this dayless night.
Our floe has again grown to encouraging dimensions. From the mere
fragment, which remained after the last severe disturbance, it has
gradually taken unto itself pan after pan, until now we can no longer
see its end. On the sky we observe mouse-coloured bands at noon, which
tell us that there are a few fissures where a heavy mist rises from the
open water. This is the usual water-sky in miniature. From the shape of
these dark streaks we know the size and outline of the open water under
it. The bergs change position a little, new ones occasionally crowd
over our horizon and remain visible a short time, then return to their
old positions; old ones turn about somewhat, thus presenting a new face
to us. Some are raised by a mirage, and all are buried under the gloomy
veil of blackness which is so rapidly spreading over the once white
splendour.
We have had much snow within a fortnight, which by the aid of the
varying winds has drifted over the icy hummocks and ridges, raised by
pressure, and made for us a substitute for Mother Earth once more.
On _ski_ and snowshoes we can again travel about for miles on
the newly-assembled old floe. But the position marking the old leads
and lakes is still difficult for pleasurable journeys. These places
resemble in their contour a bird’s-eye view of a large city. To cross
them is as if we tried to cross a city over the roofs of the houses.
Still, it is possible to travel in this wilderness of ice if one is
fortunate enough to have polar patience, and a body which can be tossed
about like a football. Our floe, with all its roughness, with all its
faults, is nevertheless a providential protection to the good little
_Belgica_ and a godsend to its occupants.
We are all eating appreciably less now than during the bright
season--and either there is a constant inclination to sleep or
persistent insomnia. We eat an amount of fat, however, that would
surprise most people; fat pork, fatty meats, the pure oil of bacon,
and tremendous quantities of oleomargarine, are consumed with apparent
relish. This is to me particularly surprising because during three
arctic voyages I never noticed any particular craving for fat; but
this I ascribe to the fact that we always ate liberally of fresh meats
north, and these we have not here. We eat a little penguin with a show
of pleasure, but most of us are quite tired of its marine flavour and
fish-oil smoothness. If we had sufficient ham it would afford immense
gastric delight. There is much indigestion now--fermentation, gastric
inertia, intestinal and gastric pain, imperfect hepatic action, and
a general suppression of all the digestive secretions. The heart is
unsteady, easily disturbed, and mitral murmurs, which I have not heard
before, are audible. Temperatures, almost without exception, are
subnormal. The breathing is often difficult, the blood retreats from
the skin, but the larger veins are abnormally full. Piles, hemorrhoids,
headache, neuralgia, rheumatism, are the systemic complaints; but while
we all have our little disorders, no one is really disabled.
[Illustration: Saennagras
A Swedish grass which was used in the boots to protect the feet.]