SPRING--SUNRISE--TWILIGHT OF DAWN
July 22.--After so much physical, mental, and moral depression, and
after having our anticipations raised to a fever heat by the tempting
increase of dawn at noon, it is needless to say that we are elated at
the expectation of actual daylight once more. In these dreadful wastes
of perennial ice and snow, man feels the force of the superstitions of
past ages, and becomes willingly a worshipper of the eternal luminary.
I am certain that if our preparations for greeting the returning sun
were seen by other people, either civilised or savage, we would be
thought disciples of heliolatry.
Every man on board has long since chosen a favourite elevation from
which to watch the coming sight. Some are in the crow’s nest, others on
the ropes and spars of the rigging; but these are the men who do little
travelling. The adventurous fellows are scattered over the pack upon
icebergs and high hummocks. These positions were taken at about eleven
o’clock. The northern sky at this time was nearly clear and clothed
with the usual haze. A bright lemon glow was just changing into an
even glimmer of rose. At about half-past eleven a few stratus clouds
spread over the rose, and under these there was a play in colours, too
complex for my powers of description. The clouds were at first violet,
but they quickly caught the train of colours which was spread over
the sky beyond. There were spaces of gold, orange, blue, green, and
a hundred harmonious blends, with an occasional strip like a band of
polished silver to set the colours in bold relief. Precisely at twelve
o’clock a fiery cloud separated, disclosing a bit of the upper rim of
the sun.
[Illustration: Distorted Face of the Rising Sun.]
All this time I had been absorbed by the pyrotechnic-like display, but
now I turned about to see my companions and the glory of the new sea of
ice, under the first light of the new day. Looking towards the sun the
fields of snow had a velvety aspect in pink. In the opposite direction
the pack was noticeably flushed with a soft lavender light. The whole
scene changed in colour with every direction taken by the eye, and
everywhere the ice seemed veiled by a gauzy atmosphere in which the
colour appeared to rest. For several minutes my companions did not
speak. Indeed, we could not at that time have found words with which to
express the buoyant feeling of relief, and the emotion of the new life
which was sent coursing through our arteries by the hammer-like beats
of our enfeebled hearts.
[Illustration: Distorted Face of the Rising Sun.]
Lecointe and Amundsen were standing on an iceberg close to me. They
faced the light, and watched the fragment of the sun slide under bergs,
over hummocks, and along the even expanse of the frozen sea, with a
worshipful air. Their eyes beamed with delight, but under this delight
there was noticeable the accumulated suffering of seventy dayless
nights. Their faces were drawn and thin, though the weight of their
bodies was not reduced. The skin had a sickly, jaundiced colour, green,
and yellow, and muddy. Altogether, we accused each other of appearing
as if we had not been washed for months. The uncertainty of our exact
latitude made it impossible to estimate just how much of the sun’s
disk would be visible. Our time, too, was uncertain, for our pocket
timepieces were not reliable, and we were far from the chronometers.
We watched and watched, expecting that the crest of fire would rise
and give us an increased glow of light and some heat, but it only slid
teasingly on the verge of the sea. It seemed as though our world of ice
was not yet worthy of the blessings of the “sun-god.” A few minutes
after twelve the light was extinguished, a smoky veil of violet was
drawn over the dim outline of the ice, and quickly the stars again
twinkled in the gobelin-blue of the sky as they had done, without being
outshone, for nearly seventeen hundred hours.
July 23.--We have just finished breakfast, and at 8 A.M.
are out on deck to welcome the promise of the coming day. It is long
since we have taken such interest in the cold outer world, but we are
now anxious to free ourselves from the darkness of the cabins, and
the tiresome sameness of the daily routine of life. The meteorologist
is reading the barometers and thermometers and recording the sky
phenomena. The captain has just finished a magnetic observation. The
crew are taking their usual hourly exercise by a brisk walk in a path
about the bark. The officers are planning the day’s work for the men
to perform to-morrow. The scientific cranks are all scattered about
the deck, shivering and noting matters of special interest to each. I
took a short _ski_ run out over the hazy purple ice to get away
from the local drift of thought, and then reclined upon a hummock to
study the scene. The temperature was -25° C., there was almost no air
stirring, and aside from the life and muffled noise about the vessel,
a death-like silence reigned over the entire scene. The _Belgica_
was distinctly visible in the brightening twilight; her body was buried
under the heavy weight of the accumulated winter snows, but the masts
stood out in bold relief against a background of gold on the eastern
sky. The masts and ropes and spars were heavily coated with hoar-frost,
and they sparkled in the reflected glimmer of the dawn, as if beset by
millions of diamonds.
[Illustration: Crossing Hummocks and Crevasses.
Edge of the Belgica Field in October.]
At a few minutes past eleven a wave of light spread over the vast
expanse of the cold heavens, and then a gleam of fire burst through
a large purple cloud on the horizon northward. The lonely spread
of lifeless ice assumed a face of rose, and soon after, the entire
northern sky was streaked with warm bands of carmine, but the sun
was still partly under the surface snows at noon, and its face was
twisted and distorted in such a manner that its globular form was not
recognisable. Later in the afternoon we secured two royal penguins.
During the night we saw and studied an aurora of the usual type.
To-night the days of feasting end, and the freedom from routine work
for the men ceases. The music-boxes and the accordion are forced to
grind out music until late. We are playing cards and are having a
joyous time generally in response to the stimulation of the few moments
of noonday splendour.
July 24.--It is another beautifully clear day with a temperature of
-34° C. What a blessing it is to have clear air and a clear sky during
these important days when the sun is edging over the ice beneath which
it has reposed so long. There is a bright blue twilight now at 7 A.
M., and three hours later the light of dawn which shoots over the
horizon makes the scene bright and day-like. Perhaps we shall see the
real sun without refraction to-day; but if our latitude remains about
the same as the last observation indicates we shall not have it over
the horizon until to-morrow. There are many mirages on the horizon,
inverted icebergs, raised ridges of hummocks, and bits of pack-ice,
looking like mountains of some strange land. We played a game of whist
to-night with unusual vigour. We have played a few hours each evening
regularly, for several months, but up to the present we have all lost
and won with about an equal measure of success; in the last few days,
however, the luck has changed. Last night Raco won one hundred and
fifty thousand dollars. To-night I won two hundred and fifty thousand.
We are now satisfied with our success and in the future we shall
decline all offers at whist.
[Illustration: Edge of the Antarctic Pack.]
July 25.--For three days we have had a glimpse of the sun, but it has
appeared a thing of unreality. To-day we have seen the normal face.
The sun at noon sailed along the northern sky above the horizon, a
distance nearly equal to its own diameter. We thus have the actual
sunrise, since heretofore we have only been able to see it when aided
by the high polar refraction by which the sun is apparently lifted
above its actual position, a distance equal to about three quarters
its diameter. What a peculiar effusion of sentiments the welcome face
of the sun draws from our frozen fountains of life! How that great
golden ball of cold fire incites the spirit to expressions of joy and
gratitude! How it sets the tongue to pleasurable utterances, and the
vocal chords to music! The sun is, indeed, the father of everything
terrestrial. We have suddenly found a tonic in the air, an inspiration
in the scenic splendours of the sea of ice, and a cheerfulness in each
other’s companionship which make the death-dealing depression of the
night a thing of the past.
July 28.--An officer came in to-day, smiling and as happy as a child
with a new toy, saying, “I can feel the heat of the sun,” and at once
everybody looked up as if doubting his word. We went out, and we stood
in awe and amazement to drink in the first sensible sunbeams in nearly
three months. To feel the gentle heat and to see the hopeful source
which promised more, was a long wished-for pleasure and one whose
intoxicating influence cannot be described. The men are journeying in
pairs over winding paths on the pack; some drop here and there upon a
convenient slope to sun themselves like snakes in spring; others sniff
the air and run from place to place like bears.
July 31.--We have now so far improved in general health as to long for
an extended outing,--a journey of several days’ duration. This desire
originates from an infusion of new life which revives our thoughts
in response to the returning sun. The point selected for our first
expedition is the great tabular iceberg in the east-north-east. All is
hustle and bustle to prepare for this expedition.
During the last days of July the sky and the snow were flooded by a
rich carmine light, which imparted a delightful warmth and charm to the
cold blues of the pack. Soon after sunrise, however, a smoky mist of
frost gathered over the ice-fields and smothered the new glory of the
sun, absorbing most of the colour, all of the heat, and leaving only
a dull coppery-red misshapen ball. Many of us were now anxious to get
away from the monotone about the ship as quickly as the weather would
permit. We were tired of the “mad-house” promenade about the bark. The
little mountains of tin cans, ashes, and other _debris_, which
decorated our immediate surroundings, were wearisome. The great drifts
of snow, over which we now marched from the deck, though picturesque,
were painful to the eye because for many long weeks we had dug paths
through, and tunnels under, the same snow. We felt that if we could get
away for a few days and pitch our camp upon the bare bosom of the sea
of ice near some iceberg, we might make some studies worthy of record,
and we would certainly come back loving the _Belgica_ and our
companions better.
To this end we have devoted much of our time during the stormy
days. It is found that for serious travelling over the pack almost
all of our equipment needs re-modelling. I have begun with the
clothing. In addition to my furs there are but four skin suits on
the _Belgica_. Sufficient experimental work has been done to
prove that in the cutting winds, and freezing temperatures of the
coming months it will not be safe to venture far without furs. Woolens
sufficiently heavy to be comfortable are too cumbersome. Three of the
suits are made of Siberian wolf skins, after a pattern suggested by
Nansen, but the model is such that we find them worthless, except for
work in the observatories. Nansen has improved the Eskimo pattern in a
manner which makes the suit much warmer, but having omitted the vital
point in the construction of polar garments, that of ventilation, the
costume becomes useless for active work. We have worn it in short
_ski_ runs of thirty minutes, in temperatures of -20° C. (-4.0°
F.) and each time we have come back wet with perspiration. Finding
Nansen’s improvement a failure, we have reduced the suits as nearly
as possible to the aboriginal style. Arctowski has a Yakouts suit
from Siberia, which has undergone a similar transformation. Both the
Nansen and the Siberian outfits are excellent for riding or work which
requires little exercise, but for travelling over the pack the furs
must be less cumbersome and there must be a freer ventilation. The
sailors have been provided with canvas cover garments cut similar to
the Eskimo fur suits. These are excellent wind guards, but are of
little service in confining the bodily heat. We have devised a similar
covering made of blankets which is worn under the canvas, and this
seems to keep the men comfortable for their ordinary outside work. But
the combination is much more troublesome than an Eskimo fur suit and
decidedly inferior for active work.
In view of our prospective work of endeavouring to explore the pack,
and any new land to which the drift might bring us, we deemed it
necessary to devise some kind of tent for shelter. We had but one tent,
and, like many other things intended for polar work, this had been
so improved that it was useless. This was also modelled on Nansen’s
plans, but its improvement consisted of a coating of water-proof
material suggested by a friend not familiar with polar work. This
water-proofing so hardened in the cold that the cloth cracked, and
was torn with the first storm of summer. The difficulties with all
ordinary forms of tents are that they are too heavy, too complicated,
and will not stand the strain of polar storms. We have tried to build
one which would overcome as much as possible the faults of others, and
our result has been gratifying. For several weeks we all studied the
subject, and I dare say that we have among us more ideas bearing upon
the construction of tents than ever before existed among a bunch of
men. It is unfortunate that we have not the time to put all the plans
into execution. The doctor’s tent design was accepted by Amundsen and
at once the cloth was cut for its construction. We worked upon this
for about two weeks, and then, proud of the result of our own skill,
we placed it for exhibition and criticism on the pack. The tent was
made large enough for three occupants. The main points kept in mind
in devising the plans were lightness, durability, stability, and ease
of erection. I will not here describe the faults of other tents nor
the excellence of our own invention. The accompanying photographs
illustrate our model. Suffice it to say, that this which we have styled
the “Antarctic tent” weighs but twelve pounds, will withstand the worst
storms, and can be set up in a strong wind by one man in five minutes.
No extensive sledge journeys had previously been made over the pack
by us, nor, indeed, by any one else so far as history knows. Hence,
everything about this prospective jaunt was experimental. Our specific
destination was to visit a great tabular berg, which we estimated was
about sixteen miles away. The project took its origin from various
discussions as to the possibility of making long journeys over the
pack. Commandant de Gerlache held that it was possible to travel safely
over the pack two or three degrees southward, but nearly everybody
else opposed this view, because of the absence of any station or land
to which one might retreat in case the vessel was lost which, with
the local movement in the pack, might easily happen. There were many
volunteers for this venture, but there was room for only three in the
tent, and altogether this is the most appropriate number for such a
trip. The party was limited to Lecointe, Amundsen, and the writer. We
arranged a sail for one of the American sledges, and loaded it down
with fuel and provisions for ten days. The selection of the food stuffs
had been left to our own judgment, and we were ungenerous and selfish
enough to select only favourite relishes.