THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED). MIDNIGHT TO DAWN
June 22.--It is midnight and midwinter. Thirty-five long, dayless
nights have passed. An equal number of dreary, cheerless days must
elapse before we again see the glowing orb, the star of day. The sun
has reached its greatest northern declination. We have thus passed the
antarctic midnight. The winter solstice is to us the meridian day, the
zenith of the night as much so as twelve o’clock is the meridian hour
to those who dwell in the more favoured lands, in the temperate and
tropical zones, where there is a regular day and night three hundred
and sixty-five times in the yearly cycle. Yesterday was the darkest
day of the night; a more dismal sky and a more depressing scene could
not be imagined, but to-day the outlook is a little brighter. The
sky is lined with a few touches of orange, the frozen sea of black
snow is made more cheerful by the high lights, with a sort of dull
phosphorescent glimmer of the projecting peaks of ice. The temperature
has suddenly fallen to -27.5° C. at noon, and the wind is coming out of
the south with an easy force which has sent all the floating humidity
of the past few days down, leaving an air clear and sharp. There will
be an eclipse of one of the satellites of Jupiter this afternoon, and
from an observation of this phenomenon the industrious captain expects
to regulate our chronometers. He hopes also to get a good observation
to fix our position, for we are somewhat anxious to know just where we
are in this unknown world during the important days of the midnight.
June 24.--For the past three days we have had steady cold weather with
a temperature from -15° to -28° C. (-18.4° F.), and every night we
have also had a brilliant aurora in the usual position, at about the
usual hour. Auroras have been conspicuously absent from our skies for
nearly two months. There was a feeble display on May twenty-ninth, and
possibly a few faint exhibits have evaded our notice, but since the
end of April there has been no auroral phenomenon which has attracted
general interest. With this clear weather there is a noticeable
brightness at noon. To-day the northern sky has a tinge of orange-red,
limited by a band of green with a bit of the moon over it. Overhead we
can see the Cross and other stars of the same magnitude. Our position,
as calculated yesterday, is now far east, latitude 70° 47′ 45″,
longitude 83° 43′ 45″. A sounding at this point would be interesting.
For this purpose we have tried to cut a new hole through the ice. The
old opening was closed by the disturbance and pressure of a fortnight
ago, and since we have not been able to make another, but to-day we
are desperately at work, chopping and cutting ice for a fishing
and sounding hole. Having found that the canvas suits are entirely
inadequate to retain the bodily heat, we are also trying to devise some
more effective clothing.
[Illustration: Nansen, the Mascot. _Drawn by Koren, the Cabin
Boy._]
June 26.--It is Sunday; the weather is warm, wet, and too stormy
to permit our usual Sabbath excursions. We are playing cards and
grinding the music-boxes, and trying in various ways to throw off the
increasing gloom of the night; but something has happened which has
added another cloud to the hell of blackness which enshrouds us. One
of the sailors brought with him from Europe a beautiful young kitten.
This kitten has been named “Nansen,” and it has steadily grown into
our affections. “Nansen” was at home alike in the forecastle and in
the cabin, but with characteristic good sense he did not venture out
on exploring trips. A temperature thirty degrees below zero was not to
his liking; the quarters about the stove and the bed of a favourite
sailor were his choice. Since the commencement of the long darkness
he has been ill at ease, but previously he was happy and contented,
and glad to be petted and loved by everybody. The long night, however,
brought out all the bad qualities of his ancestors. For nearly a month
he has been in a kind of stupour, eating very little and sleeping
much. If we tried to arouse him he displayed considerable anger. We
have brought in a penguin occasionally to try to infuse new ambitions
and a new friendship in the cat, but both the penguin and the cat
were contented to take to opposite corners of the room. Altogether
“Nansen” seemed thoroughly disgusted with his surroundings and his
associates, and lately he has sought exclusion in unfrequented corners.
His temperament has changed from the good and lively creature to one
of growling discontent. His mind has wandered and from his changed
spiritual attitude we believe that his soul has wandered too. A day or
two ago his life departed, we presume for more congenial regions. We
are glad that his torture is ended, but we miss “Nansen” very much. He
has been the attribute to our good fortune to the present, the only
speck of sentimental life within reach. We have showered upon him our
affections, but the long darkness has made him turn against us. In the
future we shall be without a mascot and what will be our fate?
June 29.--Since my last writing there has been nothing to mark time or
disturb the gloom of the long black monotony. The temperature has been
high with its usual accompaniment of stormy discomfort. Yesterday and
the day before the thermometer rose to zero and everybody accordingly
rose to a spirit of discontent. Such disaffections are always heaped
upon the meteorologist who is blamed for all the freaks of the weather,
but he receives no credit for the blessings of the steady cold weather
which we like.
[Illustration: Amundsen After a _Ski_ Run.]
July 4.--It is the day of the Declaration of Independence of the United
States. With characteristic Belgian thoughtfulness the Commandant has
ordered a special feast and has sent up the Stars and Stripes to float
over the _Belgica_ to be waved by the virgin antarctic breezes.
America and American affairs are the topics around which our ideas
revolve to-day. It is curious to watch our thoughts wheel around the
incidents of current events. The beauty contest in April was succeeded
by heated discussions and sentimental philosophy for several weeks.
This was followed by the serious sentiments caused by the last sight of
the sun and the death of Danco. Then followed a lot of light talk about
“Nansen,” the cat, and his future. Has he a soul and is there a Heaven
for him? To-day we are building up a United States of Europe, and are
dreaming of annexing Canada and all of South America into one grand
Union of States.
There is a strong, steady, westerly wind charged with great quantities
of drift snow. The ice is separating, leaving wide, endless, ice-free
leads running north and south. In these we have seen a few finback
whales, spouting, and sporting, and courting, in the midday twilight.
The increasing light at noon is now very evident. From 10 A. M. to
2 P. M. on bright days it is clear enough to make _ski_ runs over
the pack, without tumbling over the many hummocks which a week ago
were invisible. Though the curtain of night is lifting, the men,
when carefully examined, show an alarming physical condition. Almost
everybody when questioned vows that he feels well, complaining only of
a lack of ambition, but the actual condition is otherwise. We are pale
and green about the facial folds. A slight exercise makes us gasp for
breath, and the heart runs at an alarming speed. We now make it a rule
to take an hour’s walk outside in a path about the bark, and during
these walks the men easily freeze parts of the face, the fingers and
toes, without knowing it. The reason for this is the blunted condition
of our senses and the enfeebled circulation, with imperfect blood.
July 8.--The temperature is again falling; to-day it is -30° C.
(-22° F.). All of the leads and open spaces of water of a few days
ago are covered with ice thick enough to travel over without fear of
breaking through. In this new ice there are small holes about two
inches in diameter. Along the edge of these holes is a ring of silvery
hoar-frost, and out of it there comes a jet of vapour every few
minutes. These are the blow-holes of seals, and the puff of vapour is
the expired air of the animals as they breathe. We have been anxious to
see these seals, for we have seen none since sunset, more than fifty
days ago. They must have come southward from the outer edges of the
pack, through the open leads a few days ago. In travelling over the
new ice we found a place to-night where the new ice had been broken,
and out of it came one seal after another, until about twenty had
mounted to the surface of the old ice. They all marched towards us,
and when within fifteen feet they stopped, sniffed the air, grunted,
showed their teeth, and then sought for a comfortable place to
sleep. Evidently our odour was not to their liking, for they ignored
our presence until we attacked them a half hour later. We killed
three, and surrounded two with the intention of driving them to the
_Belgica_. After a long chase over a tortuous path we brought the
animals to the side of the bark, and there examined them scientifically
and gastronomically at our leisure.
[Illustration: The _Belgica_ in September. The New Tent and
the Pack Travelling Outfit.]
June 10.--It is a bright, calm day, with a gentle air from the south
and a temperature of -30° C. The men are scattered over the pack in
little cliques. The Norwegians are quite separated from the Belgians,
and all are on _ski_. Some are aiming for a favourite nook
where there is a prospect of finding seals or penguins; others are
striking out for a hummock eastward, which offers a splendid slope for
_ski_ exercises. We of the cabin have formed a small party to make
the first long journey. There is an iceberg about two miles westward
which had been the favourite spot for _ski_ sport in the early
winter, and we are anxious to see what effect the winter has wrought
upon this berg.
We had no serious difficulty in reaching the berg; the ice was much
crevassed, and about the leads were great lines of hummocks which
made _ski_ travelling a task; but we were unencumbered and had
become somewhat accustomed to rough roads. We started shortly after
one o’clock. It took us an hour to reach our destination, and we spent
about forty minutes on the berg and about it, but then, noticing
that the light was quickly departing, we hurried home. The winter
effect upon the berg had been considerable. The pack-ice about it had
been much broken and raised in numerous hummocks by pressure. To the
westward side a great quantity of ice had been forced upon the berg
to a height of twenty feet, indicating what we had expected, that
the prevailing pressure during the night had been from the west. The
old crevasses were mostly closed, and the sharp, projecting spires
were coated with great quantities of coarse hoar-frost. There was no
evidence about the berg to warrant a belief in an upbuilding of bergs
during the winter. On the contrary the signs were indicative of their
having been considerably reduced in bulk. On our way back we secured
one king penguin, the first during the night, and it will be a pleasant
addition to our larder.
July 12.--The light is daily increasing at midday, which should be a
potent encouragement, but we are failing in fortitude and in physical
force. From day to day we all complain of a general enfeeblement of
strength, of insufficient heart action, of a mental lethargy, and
of a universal feeling of discomfort. There has, however, been one
exception; one among us who has not fallen into the habit of being a
chronic complainer. This is Captain Lecointe. The captain has had to
do the most trying work, that of making the nautical observations,
which often keeps him handling delicate instruments outside, and in
trying positions in the open blast for an hour at a time. He has come
in with frosted fingers, frozen ears, and stiffened feet, but with
characteristic good humour he has passed these discomforts off. His
heart action has steadily remained full and regular. The only other
man in the party of equal strength is the cook, Michotte. But to-day I
have to record the saddening news that Lecointe is suddenly failing.
Not that he has complained of any ill-feeling, for he still maintains
that he feels well; but in the usual daily examination, I notice that
his pulse is intermitting, the first sign of coming debility. He is
assuming a deathly pallor, does not eat, and finds it difficult to
either sleep or breathe. There is a puffiness under the eyes, his
ankles are swollen, and the entire skin has a dry, glossy appearance.
The symptoms are all similar to those of Danco in his last stages; but
Lecointe has a steady heart and sound organs, which augur in his favour.
July 14.--Lecointe has given up all hope of ever recovering, and has
made out his last instructions. His case seems almost hopeless to me.
The unfavourable prognosis has sent another wave of despair over the
entire party. Almost everybody is alarmed and coming to me for medical
treatment, for real or imaginary troubles. The complaints differ
considerably, but the underlying cause is the same in all. We are
developing a form of anæmia peculiar to the polar regions. An anæmia
which I had noticed before among the members of the first Peary Arctic
Expedition, but our conditions are much more serious. To overcome this
trouble I have devised a plan of action, which the sailors call the
“baking treatment.”
Medicament, I find, is of little service. A temporary relief is
sometimes effected by well-directed drugs, but the lasting effects
are disappointing. Iron and arsenic, and many of the ordinary tonics
effective in home anæmias, are entirely inert. After considerable
experiment, I have abandoned drugs as an important aid. Fresh food,
artificial heat, a buoyant humour, judicious clothing, and the
least possible humidity are the conditions which suggest a rational
treatment. I should like to take up this subject in detail and give
my reasons for this plan of treatment, but the discussions would take
us into a long and technical consideration, which I fear would be
of interest only to medical men. The plan of treatment in brief is
as follows: As soon as the pulse becomes irregular and rises to one
hundred beats per minute, with a puffiness of the eyes and swollen
ankles, the man is stripped and placed close to a fire for one hour
each day. I prohibit all food except milk, cranberry sauce, and fresh
meat, either penguin or seal steaks fried in oleomargarine. The patient
is not allowed to do anything which will seriously tax the heart. His
bedding is dried daily, and his clothing is carefully adjusted to
the needs of his occupation. Laxatives are generally necessary, and
vegetable bitters, with mineral acids, are a decided help. Strychnine
is the only remedy which has given me any service in regulating the
heart, and this I have used as a routine. But surely one of the most
important things was to raise the patient’s hopes and instil a spirit
of good humour. When at all seriously afflicted, the men felt that they
would surely die, and to combat this spirit of abject hopelessness
was my most difficult task. My comrades, however, were excellent
aids, for as soon as one of our number was down, everybody made it his
business to create an air of good cheer about him.
[Illustration:
OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.
Twilight Amid The Antarctic Ice]
The first upon whom I tried this system of treatment systematically was
Lecointe. I had urged part of it upon Danco, but he could not eat the
penguin, and when I told him he must, he said he would rather die. When
Lecointe came under treatment I told him that if he would follow the
treatment carefully I thought he would be out of bed in a week. I did
not have this faith in the treatment at that time, but I had confidence
in the soundness of Lecointe’s organs and I wished to boom up the man.
Lecointe replied by saying, “I will sit on the stove for a month and
eat penguins for the rest of my polar life if that will do me good.”
(He did sit beside the stove two hours daily for a month, and he ate,
by his own choosing, penguin steaks for the balance of his stay in the
polar circle. In a week he was about, and in a fortnight he again made
his observations, and for the rest of his polar existence he was again
one of the strongest men on the _Belgica_).
For a number of days the temperature has remained below -30° C.
Yesterday and to-day it has ranged from -34° to -37° C., with a strong
southerly and westerly wind. With such temperatures and a strong wind
it is impossible to exist outside. One freezes the extremities so
quickly that it is positively dangerous to be out; but in still weather
there is no temperature too low to prevent outdoor work. To-day the
ice is separating, leaving leads running eastward and westward, but for
a week past the entire horizon has been one solid, unbroken mass. There
is no life visible, but we have seen tracks of both the royal and the
small penguins.
July 15.--The weather continues cold, but clear and calm, the only
three qualities which make the antarctic climate endurable during
the night. There is now much light. One can read ordinary print at
9 A.M., and at noon the north is flushed with a glory of
green and orange and yellow. We are still very feeble. An exercise of
one hour sends the pulse up to 130, but we have all learned to like
and crave penguin meat. To sleep is our most difficult task, and to
avoid work is the mission of everybody. Arctowski says, “We are in a
mad-house,” and our humour points that way.
July 17.--If we had not fresh meat to eat and an abundance of fuel to
give heat, I am sure we would have an alarming mortality in less than a
month. Several lives have certainly been saved by eating penguins, and
we shall always owe them a debt of gratitude. And now the sun though
invisible is rising higher and higher under the horizon, giving us a
long dawn from nine until three o’clock. Everybody is advancing in
cheerfulness with the rising sun, but physically we are in a deplorable
condition. Alcohol, even in small quantities, has now a deleterious
effect upon us. We have been accustomed to take light wines at meals,
but the wine has a bad effect upon the heart and kidney functions, so
much so that we have stopped its use altogether.
July 19.--The health of the sailors is at its minimum. All are anæmic,
but their general appearance is as good as at any previous time. They
look strong and rugged, and have not lost weight; but their complexion
is somewhat pale and yellowish. When they work outside for an hour the
pulse runs up to from 120 to 150. In the cabin we are improving, but
the Commandant, Arctowski, and Amundsen are making a slow recovery.
On our excursions we now see many seal and penguin tracks, and the
northern sky gives every promise of soon sending forth the sun. The
shades of dawn are first green, then orange-red, followed by a bright
yellow, so bright that one almost imagines a sight of the upper rim
of the sun. The ice for days has been intensely purple. We have had
a few feeble auroras during the past two nights, beginning at about
three o’clock and lasting for only a short time. The sky is losing its
bright, cheerful and restful blueness, which it has exhibited during
the past fortnight of cold and comparative calm. A thin veil of gray is
gathering over us, which presages another spell of warm, stormy, and
dirty weather. The barometer is very high, the temperature is falling,
and to-night there is a wind from the north. All of this, as usual, is
an introduction to a wind from a warmer and more humid region,--the
north and west.
July 21.--Yesterday the temperature was but one degree below zero, and
for two days the weather has been warm and stormy. To-day it is again
-24° C. A beautiful, clear and cloudless day-- with a cheerful glow
of reflected splendour radiating over the northern horizon. At eight
o’clock the sky above the sun was a joyous golden; at noon it was
crimson. We have not had an observation in twelve days, and are thus
unable to determine our exact position; hence it will be impossible to
calculate with precision the day of the rising of the sun, after its
long and wandering debauch. We saw two white petrels, the first except
one which we saw two weeks ago, since the first days of the night.
There are no open leads or bands of water-sky.
Three days have been declared as official holidays. It is the time for
the Belgian national feasts, and we are making, during this period,
hard efforts to boom up the failing spirits of the men. Special foods
have been prepared to please the palates; wines are sparingly served
to infuse an air of good cheer, and we try to steer the topics of
conversation in such a manner that a new interest may be created, but
it seems to me that all of our good intentions in this direction are
wasted. Arctowski and Dobrowolski are in a bad way. Knudsen, Johansen
and Melaerts are in the baking treatment, and altogether we are in a
deplorable condition. If it now became necessary to throw suddenly a
difficult physical task upon the men there would be few able to endure
it. If we were compelled to make a prolonged march over the cheerless
pack we should fail miserably. In the cabin we know this helpless
condition perfectly well, but we try to push it to the background and
talk of the usual home sentiments of the feast, the coming sun, and
the brighter prospects of a coming summer campaign of exploration.
The sailors, always anxious for a holiday, though their work is never
severe, are assembled in groups, some in the forecastle playing cards,
others scattered over the pack on snowshoes drinking in the glory of
the coming day.
[Illustration: A Hunter Taking a Sun Bath.]
[Illustration: The Last to Enter the Three-Man Sleeping Bag.]
The night is clear and sharp, with a brightness in the sky and a
blueness on the ice which we have not seen since the first few days
after sunset. An aurora of unusual brightness is arched across the
southern sky. The transformation in its figure is rapid, and the wavy
movement is strikingly noticeable. We are all out looking at the
aurora, some by way of curiosity, but others are seriously studying
the phenomenon. Arctowski, bundled in a wealth of Siberian furs, is
walking up and down the deck, ascending to the bridge and passing
in and out of the laboratory, as if some great event were about to
transpire. Racovitza, with a pencil in his bare hand, in torn trousers,
and without a coat or a hat, comes out every few minutes and, with a
shiver, returns to make serious sketches of the aurora and humorous
drafts of the unfortunate workers in the “cold, lady-less south.”
These daily touches of humour by “Raco” are bitterly sarcastic but
extremely amusing. Lecointe, lost in a Nansen suit of furs, has been
out on the pack in his observatory, which he calls the “Hotel,” and is
particularly elated because he has succeeded in getting an observation.
“Now,” says he, “we will know when this bloody sun will rise.” Our
position is latitude 70° 36′ 19″, longitude 86° 34′ 19″. We are
drifting northward and eastward; this we have already learned by the
naturalist’s drag-nets, but it is comforting to know the exact rate of
drift. If we continue to drift northerly a little, if the temperature
remains low enough to give a great refraction, and if the weather
remains clear, the captain promises us a peep of the sun for a few
moments to-morrow. This is the happiest bit of news which has come to
us, and it sends a thrill of joy from the cabin to the forecastle.
[Illustration:
H. Arctowski. G. Lecointe.
The Four O’Clock Tea Discussions.]