THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED)--THE DEATH OF DANCO
The weather is unendurable, the temperature is -30° C. and an easterly
gale is burying us in a huge drift of snow. With a high wind, an air
thick with flying snow, and a temperature such as we have had for the
past three days, ranging from -28° to -30°, it is utterly impossible
to exist outside in the open blast. In calm weather such a temperature
causes delight, but in a storm it gives rise to despair. I think it is
Conan Doyle who says, “What companion is there like the great restless,
throbbing polar sea? What human mood is there which it does not match
and sympathise with?” I should like Mr. Doyle to spend one month with
us on this great, restless, throbbing sea, under this dense, restless,
throbbing blackness of the antarctic night. I am sure he would find
conditions to drive his pen, but where is the companionship of a sea
which with every heave brings a block of ice against your berth making
your only hope of life, the bark, tremble from end to end. Where is
the human being who will find sympathy in the howling winds under the
polar night?
For several days our beloved companion Danco has been failing. From
nearly the very first day of his sickness I saw that, coming upon
him as it had done in the dusk, it must prove fatal during the long
antarctic night. To pass through a polar night, with its prolonged
and awful cold, and remain well is a very difficult matter even for
a man with sound organs. One who has not these, and perfect health,
always fares badly in these sunless and lifeless polar days. Danco
has had, unconsciously, for years a serious heart defect. For a time
the heart walls increased in strength and thus a safe equilibrium was
established; but to keep an even or compensatory balance, mild exercise
was necessary in the open air with an abundance of sunlight. The sun
has now been entirely absent for more than a fortnight, and for forty
days its light has been of no physiological service. The atmosphere has
been so constantly filled with snow and ice-crystals that, at best, the
sun shone with less brilliancy than the moon, and that only for a few
moments at midday. During all of this time Danco has not felt well; his
manly courage, however, is such that he will not complain. But as the
darkness becomes blacker, and the frigid night advances he has been
compelled to surrender himself a candidate to the sick list.
June 4.--The ice is again breaking and the pressure of the floes, as
they ride over each other, makes a noise converting the otherwise dark
quietude into a howling scene of groans. It is again snowing and the
wind keeps veering from the north-west to north-east.
Whenever we have advanced on our mysterious drift with the restless
pack, either far east or far south, or both, we are arrested in
our progress and the temperature falls. In the east there is also
great pressure, and it is only in the far east or south that we get
easterly or southerly winds. These winds have the character of land
breezes--extremely dry, with a low temperature--followed by delightful,
clear weather. From these facts we must conclude that the east and
south are lined with land of large proportions or islands united by
ice. An easy wind south or west drives us quickly; indeed, at times we
drift northward without wind. The bergs now seem to press north and
east.
June 5.--To-day we have to record the darkest page in our log--the
death of our beloved comrade, Danco. It has not been unexpected, for
we have known that he could not recover, but the awful blank left by
his demise is keenly felt, and the sudden gloom of despair, thus thrown
over the entire party, is impossible of description. Poor fellow!
in the past forty-eight hours he had been steadily improving, and,
although we were not encouraged by this, he felt so much better that
he was cheerful and altogether more like his former self, but it was
the calm before the storm. Without any premonition of his coming death
Danco passed away easily to-night; his last words to me were, “I can
breathe lighter and will soon get strength.” A companion with noble
traits has left us. The event is too sad to note in detail. His life
has steadily and persistently sunk with the northerly setting of the
sun. In ordinary health, his circulation was so nicely balanced that it
needed but the unbalancing element of the prolonged darkness to disturb
the equilibrium, and send him to a premature grave.
June 7.--We have made a bag of sail-cloth, and into it the remains of
Danco have been sewn. This morning we searched the crevasses for an
opening which might serve as a grave. We found no place sufficiently
open, but with axes and chisels we cut an aperture through the young
ice in a recent lead, about one hundred yards from the bark. Owing to
the depressing effect upon the party, we found it necessary to place
the body outside on the ice upon a sledge the day after the death.
At a few minutes before noon to-day the commandant, followed by the
officers and scientific staff, came to this sledge. The crew, dressed
in an outer suit of duck, then marched out and, taking the drag rope,
they proceeded over the rough drifts southerly to the lead. The day
was bitterly cold, with a wind coming out of the south-west. Much snow
in fine crystals was driven through the air, and it pierced the skin
like needles. The surface of the ice was gray, but the sky had here and
there a touch of brightness. In the north there was a feeble metallic
glow, and directly overhead there were a few stratus of rose-coloured
clouds. The moon, fiery, with a ragged edge, hung low on the southern
sky. There was light enough to read ordinary print, but it was a weird
light. Danco was a favourite among the sailors, and his departure was
as keenly felt in the forecastle as among us. The men expressed this in
the funeral procession. Slowly but steadily they marched over the rough
surface of the ice with an air of inexpressible sadness. The sledge was
brought to the freezing water. Here the commandant made a few fitting
remarks, and then two heavy weights were attached to the feet, and the
body was entrusted to the frosted bosom of the antarctic ocean.
June 8.--The melancholy death, and the incidents of the melancholy
burial of Danco, have brought over us a spell of despondency which we
seem unable to conquer. I fear that this feeling will remain with us
for some time, and we can ill afford it. Though there are none among
us sick at this time, we may at any moment have small complaints which
will become serious under this death-dealing spell of despair. We
are constantly picturing to ourselves the form of our late companion
floating about in a standing position, with the weights to his feet,
under the frozen surface and perhaps under the _Belgica_.
June 10.--The temperature remains low. Yesterday it fell to -32° C.
(-25.6° F.), and it seems to linger about the twenties. The weather
is more and more settled and steady, as the night advances and the
cold increases. The wind is moderate, and it intermits with calm
periods, but the barometer is very high. There is little movement in
the ice; all the crevasses and leads are closed by new ice, and the
_Belgica’s_ berth is now positively secure for a long time to
come. The small floes, into which the ice was broken ten days ago,
have been pushed over and under each other in such a manner, that the
bark has been raised out of the water with an uncomfortable list. We
have seen no life for a long time, but there is no open water near. We
are inclined to believe that when there is a space of open sea there
will be found some life, even at this time.
[Illustration: Head and Foot of the Royal Penguin.
(_Aptenodytes Forsteri._)]
[Illustration: Head and Foot of the Small Pack Penguin. Showing
the Changed Summer Plumage under the Bill.
(_Pygosulis Adeliae._)]
It is the doctor’s birthday. We have had a special feast with
champagne. Many efforts were made to lighten the spirits of the men,
but our efforts were only of temporary duration. The captain has made
the greatest endeavour to break the spell of “shivers” which hung over
us. He fixed up in his full-dress suit, and induced the doctor to do
the same. In this costume we came to the dining table, and took the
cabin by surprise. After a half-hearted meal, a full-hearted exchange
of greetings followed a certificate of honour, presented by Captain
Lecointe.
DOCTOR COOK:
I make fast the occasion of your anniversary in order to exprime
all the sympathy you suggest to me.
In proof of that friendship, and because of that great day, I
take the engagement to repair one pair of your knit stockings.
Dixi,
G. LECOINTE.
Antarctic Ocean, S. Y. _Belgica_, June 10, 1898.
The amusement, however, was expensive to us, for we shivered and felt
most uncomfortable. We had not worn stiff collars nor boiled shirts in
seven months; nor had we the custom of arranging neckties and holding
our heads and bodies steady enough for the tight fit of our suits.
Lecointe made a nautical observation in the suit with an ordinary
winter overcoat. The temperature was about -20° C. The stars used
for the observation were Jupiter and Canis Majoris, and the position
as fixed was latitude 71° 20′ 7″, longitude 87° 17′ 50″. Lecointe
declared that he would never try the experiment again. He came to the
cabin shivering with a chill, which did not entirely pass off for some
minutes.
June 12.--The barometer still continues very high, but we are
momentarily expecting a reaction. Already the temperature has fallen
from -2° to -25° C., and it promises to fall still more. The west
is black, and out of its gloom comes a half-gale with wet snow.
The _Belgica_, feeling the effect of the sudden change in the
temperature, is alive with weird noises. The masts, the spars, the
ropes, and every projecting object have long been covered by a thick
encasement of accumulating hoar-frost. Heavy pieces of this ice-plating
are loosened by the warm draught of the winds and they fall to the
decks below with thunderous bolts. The bark changes its position in
its bed of ice somewhat like its occupants in their bunks, and this is
followed by a long series of jars and groans. Altogether, the noise
outside and in is maddening. We hope for a speedy return of cold
weather to our favourite temperature somewhat below -20° C.
June 16.--No wind; a few cirrus and stratus clouds; the stars at
zenith are visible at noon. The Southern Cross over the mizzenmast is
arrayed in all its glory. The sun has only five minutes more to recede
before it reaches the equinox, and then it will come back slowly and
perceptibly, with its life-giving rays. We are drifting eastward, but
there is no sign of movement in the ice,--no cracks, no leads, no lakes.
June 17.--We are still drifting eastward, slowly but steadily, which
fact suggests several questions: Is there land to the eastward or
southward? If so, what is its character? If not, why are the easterly
and southerly winds cold and dry, and why are we checked in our
drift, after passing far eastward or southward? There are but two
explanations. First: It is possible that we are far off a continuous
coast line, or nearly so, in which case the ice near the land, with a
westerly wind, would be forced toward the point of least resistance,
which would generally be north. This would explain what we have often
noticed, a northerly drift with a westerly wind. But even with our
checked progress we seem to move eastward too quickly for such a
condition of things. The next probability seems to explain better our
actual experience. The second explanation is, that the easterly drift
of the ice is only checked by a few widely separated islands through
which the pack is forced into the Weddell sea by the prevailing wind.
When the sun returns, and the ice loosens its grasp on our bark, we
hope to clear up this mystery.
We are having considerable trouble in keeping our stoves burning.
With the use of soft coal it is necessary to disturb the fire often,
which makes the air unendurable because of the escape of poisonous
gases, while it also fills the room with smoke and soot and ashes.
The moisture which leaves the room through the stove draughts is
condensed in the pipes and mixed with soot; the whole mass freezes,
which occludes the opening of the pipe. To remove this obstruction
it is necessary to take out the pipes once weekly and clean them, an
operation of no little consequence in polar regions. This is the second
expedition with which I have been connected where we have had the same
trouble. It would be entirely overcome by the use of anthracite coal
for the winter fires, instead of the bituminous, with its unnecessary
filth.
Mr. Peary has tried to overcome this by a substitution of oil stoves,
but such a procedure, in my judgment, is not only accompanied by a
polluted atmosphere causing headaches, insomnia, and difficulty of
respiration, but it is quite dangerous to life. A coal fire removes
from a room most of its poisonous gases and keeps up a free circulation
of air, but an oil stove does just the reverse. An oil or a gas stove
consumes air in a somewhat similar manner to man. It burns oxygen and
gives off carbon dioxide and other gases. An ordinary oil stove will
consume as much oxygen as fifteen men, and it does not replace the
polluted air, as does a coal or wood fire. There is another point,
which has been too little regarded in polar ventures. During the
long months of winter darkness the life-giving rays of the sun are
withdrawn, leaving the summer whiteness of the earth in cold and
despondent blackness. Bright artificial lights relieve this to some
extent, but all the animal organism is in a condition similar to that
of a planet deprived of the direct sunlight. The skin is pale, the
muscles are weak, and the organs refuse to perform their functions with
usual vigour. This effect is most noticeable in the action of the heart
which, during the long night, is deprived of its regulating force;
now quick, now slow; then strong, again feeble, but never normal. The
best substitute for this absence of the sun is the direct rays of heat
from an open fire. From an ordinary coal or wood fire the effect is
wonderful. I have stripped and placed men, before the direct rays of
heat, whose pulse was almost imperceptible, and in the course of less
than an hour had a heart action nearly normal. From an oil stove it is
quite impossible to get this effect, hence its use in polar regions
should be confined to camp life.
The selection of proper means for obtaining artificial light is quite
as important as that of heat. Electric light is ideal, but the means
for obtaining electricity are not easily transported. Candles are
said to be the safest and best for general use; but the illumination
of a single candle is so feeble that each man must have one or more
in general use. From this it results that candles are posted in all
parts of the rooms,--in the bunks and other nooks where a conflagration
might easily originate. Hence the danger of a fire by candles is quite
as great as that of petroleum lamps, while the light is far inferior
to it. A good petroleum lamp is undoubtedly the most practical. But
even a petroleum lamp has its drawbacks in polar regions. On the
_Belgica_ we had several, and about fifty glass chimneys, all of
which were broken during the past few weeks of the antarctic night. We
were then bound to utilise the ingenuity of the mechanics on board to
make substitutes. The geologist, who is a chemist by profession, made
the first trial with glass tubes; this was better than nothing, but
the assistant engineer next took the matter in hand, and after a time
became quite a lamp specialist. He altered the construction of the
lamp and of the burner; made chimneys of glass jelly jars, removing
the bottom and placing over all a zinc funnel. On the whole it was a
very happy contrivance, and while it was not quite perfect it served
the purpose for which it was intended, during the balance of the black
night.
June 19.--A midwinter and a midnight thaw, with the ice breaking and
pressing upon the vessel, is the most dreadful thing which could happen
to us now. But it is just this most despairing condition of ice and
weather which is threatening us in these darkest days of the midnight.
The temperature and the wind for three days have suddenly risen. It is
now blowing a gale from the west. The temperature is -2°; the ice is
breaking and separating, leaving wide endless leads running northward
and southward. Between the gloomy clouds northward there is a faint
suggestion of brightness, but this only seems to increase our longing
for light. It is dark! dark! Dark at noon, dark at midnight, dark
every hour of the day. And thus we jog along day after day, through
the unbroken sameness. There is plenty of work close at hand. The
weather should be carefully studied; the sky and the frozen sea contain
problems for solution. We are in a world unknown, but just at present
we care little about our novel position or our future rewards.
The darkness grows daily a little deeper, and the night soaks hourly
a little more colour from our blood. Our gait is now careless, the
step non-elastic, the foothold uncertain. The hair grows quickly, like
plants in a hot-house, but there is a great change in the colour. Most
of us in the cabin have grown decidedly gray within two months, though
few are over thirty. Our faces are drawn, and there is an absence of
jest and cheer and hope in our make-up which, in itself, is one of the
saddest incidents in our existence. There is no one willing to openly
confess the force of the night upon himself, but the novelty of life
has been worn out and the cold, dark outside world is incapable of
introducing anything new. The moonlight comes and goes alike, during
the hours of midday as at midnight. The stars glisten over the gloomy
snows. We miss the usual poetry and adventure of home winter nights.
We miss the flushed maidens, the jingling bells, the spirited horses,
the inns, the crackling blaze of the country fire. We miss much of life
which makes it worth the trouble of existence.
At noon some of us went on a _ski_ journey, and about a mile
south-east of the ship we were stopped by a wide lead of inky water,
extending north and south as far as the sight could reach. The
darkness was such that we dared not approach closely to the open sea.
We were anxious to search the fringe of ice bordering on the gloomy
water for animal life, and discussed the possibilities for some time,
but the thickening veil of darkness drew over us tighter and tighter
as we waited. Looking toward the _Belgica_ we saw that she was
already nearly obscured by the sooty blackness, which was falling
from the noonday heavens. Looking over the silent and endless sea of
ice, however, the aspect was not one of night. A subdued glow seemed
to rise from the white snows and illuminate the lower stratas of air;
but this was only apparent. Nearly all irregularities were obscured or
distorted. Huge hummocks, ten to twenty feet high, were not observed
until we stumbled against them. Small elevations, with sharp angles,
sometimes produced a mirage like that of an iceberg at a great
distance. We would glide along leisurely on _ski_ and suddenly
find that we had crossed this huge obstacle,--in reality only a few
inches in height.
For the past month we have not felt like writing. Our humour and our
ambition are not such as to make us transfer ideas to paper easily. If
I could write poetry I should like to select the topics of conversation
as subjects for gloomy moods,--for we certainly painted the skies
darker, and made the snow blacker, than they ever appeared in reality.
We made a feeble attempt to lift the gloomy seal, now and then, by a
superficial humour,--a sort of frothy effervescence of the soul, but
the efforts were as feeble as our anaemic muscular fibres. The long
polar night lies heavily upon us. Our health has suffered considerably.
We have not been so fortunate as Nansen’s party, if we may accept
Nansen’s account of the health of his crew at the dawn of the arctic
day. With a few boastful remarks he passes over the physical effects
of the arctic night, and concludes to his own elation that they felt
none of the usual complaints; but since it is reported that one of
the best men has returned mentally deranged, of which Nansen leaves
us in ignorance, we may infer that other matters have also slipped
his memory. It is not possible for an expedition, with twelve men, to
live three years in the arctic or any other region without some bodily
ailments. These are as certain as human sins, and quite as interesting,
but we look for them in vain in Nansen’s narrative. Perhaps Dr.
Blessing or some other member of the expedition will give us a more
serious account.
In my experience with polar expeditions, and from every reliable record
which I have been able to find where the observations have been given
by honest and competent observers, there is a general agreement in
the description of the physical effects of the polar night. Anaemia,
or a condition allied to it, in one form or another and under various
descriptions is always found if sought by an experienced eye. This
malady we have had in by far the severest form which I have noticed
in any arctic experiences, and more severe than is recorded in the
literature of polar exploration. We have lost one officer, and a
second barely escaped death. The marines are all afflicted; the
condition is truly alarming. At present I have the captain in the
“baking treatment.” He is pale and yellowish, with a feeble, almost
imperceptible, pulse of from 100 to 140,--his recovery, while hopeful,
is uncertain.
[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]
[Illustration: Megalestris. (_Megalestris antarctica._)]
[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]
[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]
[Illustration: Megalestris. (_Megalestris antarctica._)]
[Illustration: Antarctic Petrel. (_Thalassoica antarctica._)]
[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]