SUMMER
October, 1898.
[Illustration: Snow-Goggles.]
It is but slowly that this blackness of the polar night is dissolved
by the whiteness of the coming day. Until the first weeks of September
we felt little of the cheering influence of the rising sun except
for short, spasmodic periods. The human system accommodates itself
sluggishly and poorly to the strange conditions of the polar seasons,
and we, too, are slow in adapting ourselves to the awful despondency
of the long winter night. It is possible to close your eyes and befog
your brain after a time, when all the world is enveloped in prolonged
darkness, but this is not physiological adaptation; it is abnormal
education. We have all felt the effects of the night severely. The
death of Danco, and also the insanity of a sailor, are due to this
withdrawal of light. Now that the light is brightening every day, we
are as backward in recuperating as we were in establishing a balance
of living comfort during the vanishing dawn of the early night.
The present cheering influence of the rising sun invites labour and
frivolity. The soothing light of the long evening twilights invites
repose. The change from day to night and from night to day, so long
absent from our outlook, is now beginning to lighten the burdens of the
weary mind and the aching muscles; elevating the depressed spirits of
hope, augmenting the dwarfed courage, and raising the moral perceptions
to the great life battle of work before us.
We have talked only of the discomforts of the night, and of the
misery. The long unbroken darkness has not totally blinded us to
its few real charms which are strikingly brought out by the awful
contrasts of heat and cold, of light and darkness. As lovers of
Nature, we found many pleasures for the eye and the intellect in the
flashing aurora australis, in the play of intense silvery moonlight
over the mountainous seas of ice, and in the fascinating clearness of
the starlight over the endless expanse of driven snows. There was a
naked fierceness in the scenes, a boisterous wildness in the storms,
a sublimity and silence in the still, cold dayless nights, which were
too impressive to be entirely overshadowed by the soul-despairing
depression. The attractions of the polar night are not to be written in
the language of a people who live in a land of sunshine and of flowers.
They are found in a roughness, ruggedness, and severity, appreciated
only by men who are fated to live in similar regions, on the verge of
another world, where animal sentiments take the place of the finer, but
less realistic human passions.
From May 31, when we were in latitude 71° 36′, a point farthest south,
to September 16, when we were in latitude 69° 51′ 16″, we steadily and
persistently drifted northward. The movement has been extremely slow,
and at times we have been stationary, but we have not gone south with
northerly winds. This we explain by the fact that new ice forms rapidly
in the leads which open behind us, thus closing all the spaces. In a
similar manner, but with many more interruptions, and with a much more
rapid pace, we have drifted eastward during this time from longitude
87° 33′ 30″ to 82° 22′ 45″. The longitudinal drift, however, has
changed with every direction of the wind. From this time until November
19, we drifted southward again, while still continuing our easterly
drift.
October 15.--We are now able to read our thermometers and other
instruments outside without artificial light from 2:30 A.M.
to 9:30 P.M. The five hours of night are made so brilliant
by the twilight during clear weather that we can read ordinary print
all night. We no longer need lamps on board during the day, which is
fortunate, for our stock of candles and petroleum is getting low.
The snow in the night now assumes a noticeable brightness after a
day of sharp sunshine. During the long night, and in the early days
of spring when the sun was feeble, the snow was dull and black. The
present change to a sort of phosphorescence I have ascribed to a kind
of latent retention by the snow of the light of the sun. I have taken
much interest in this phenomenon, and have recently made certain
tests which seem to confirm my theory. For a number of days I have
placed black cloths over certain smooth fields of snow. During the
night I have removed these and invariably there has been a dark spot,
corresponding to the size of the cloth, while the snow everywhere else
was semi-luminous. This, in my estimation, proves that the snow absorbs
and retains for a time certain rays of light.
There is now considerable life, but we must go far to find it. The
leads are several miles from the ship. When we get to them they seem
like huge endless rivers, winding through a white plain. On the banks
are lines of pressure ridges, from two to twenty feet high. In these
spaces of water are some freed icebergs and a few small pans of old
ice; but the low temperature soon covers every bit of open sea with
an even sheet of new ice, through which the whales and seals must
force their blow-holes. Nature favours them by breaks here and there;
but the steady, calm, cold weather of the present is opposed to much
ice-movement, which accounts for the few breaks. All of the seals
which have been seen since the months of April and May are crab-eaters
(_Lobodon Carcinophaga_). They seem to travel in groups of from
two to ten, and they follow the leads southward after every storm. The
whales do the same, and when the new ice forms, and the retreat is
cut off, they seek the regions about the icebergs where the retarding
influence of the bergs in the drift causes enough commotion to keep
spaces of water open. Failing in this, they break through the new
ice by forcing their heads through it. It is a curious fact that,
up to the present, we have seen only finback whales (_Balaenoptera
Sibbaldii_) in the pack, but now we find an occasional bottlenose
(_Megaptera Boops_) in the little lakes and streams. The
convenience, which the whale and seal holes offer, made us think that
perhaps penguins might utilise them as breathing spaces, but this never
happened so far as our experience went. Penguins, being better able to
move over the ice, have a wider range of habitation, and they always
use open leads.
[Illustration: An Old Wind-swept Hummock.]
[Illustration: The Sand-like Drift Snow.]
The weather, the ice, and the general life and surroundings have been
so monotonous for the past month, that I have found little of interest
to tabulate. The general health of the crew is improving. They no
longer have an anxious, dejected aspect, and their spirits are rising.
In clear weather they sing, and dance, and speak in happy, cheerful
tones. The ship is being prepared for sea, which is a matter of
considerable work. Being imprisoned in the grasp of the pack for these
many months has made the locality like a small village. Outhouses,
sledges, sounding machines, and many other things are strewn on the
pack. Aboard, the fixtures have all been more or less disarranged, so
that everything must be restored and refitted for the new voyage. We
have filled the water-tanks with snow. By burning seal blubber and coal
in our condenser, we are able to melt snow and bring the resulting
water to a boiling point very quickly; this is poured over the snow
in the tanks. This method is very satisfactory, for in this way we
are able to make several hundred gallons of water daily. I believe,
however, that a jet of steam directed into the tanks would do the work
much more quickly and with greater economy; but to make the necessary
alterations for this is, with our equipment, quite impossible.
Could there be a more melancholy, a more maddening, or a more hopeless
region than this? We are passing rapidly into the polar summer, the
time when, in other zones, all Nature smiles;--even the sister zone,
the arctic, has striking attractive features at this time. The birds
fill the air with music, new animals make their appearance, and on land
even flowers and mosquitos serve to make life interesting; but here,
in this icy antarctic wilderness, the charm of Nature is dead. We see
the sun so seldom that it is, indeed, a surprise when its unobstructed
rays fall upon the frosted whiteness. Though it sweeps more than half
of the horizon daily, we get only the cold blue light which is filtered
through a constant haze of icy clouds. An occasional sunburst for a
few moments each day and a clear sky once fortnightly is our average.
Storms, tempests, and steady howling winds with snow, are our constant
lot, and these come from all points of the compass. There is no
inspiring solitude, no rest, no cheerful outlook; the sea is imprisoned
under a restless and irregular mass of storm-driven ice. The sky is
always cloudy and dirty; the air is always wet, cold, and agitated;
under such circumstances the human mind assumes a like attitude.
[Illustration: The Tabular Iceberg, the Largest Berg within the
Horizon of the _Belgica’s_ Drift. It is about 200 Feet High,
and a Half-mile Long.]
For two days we have had a fierce gale veering from south-east to
south-west; an excellent direction to send us north at a rapid pace,
which is a pleasant consolation for the ill-effects on the spirits
and on the personal comfort. The storm is, of its kind, the worst I
have ever seen. The wind is strong, but one could hardly call it a
tempest; it brings with it, however, all the elements of misery which
follow a tempest. The air is so loaded with very fine snow-crystals
that its action upon the face is something of the nature of emery
paper. This snow is blown in gusts and constant streams, which scrape
and rasp all projections, and bury every declivity, while the snowy
surface is cut into small ridges which we call _cestrugi_; and
around the _Belgica_ it is deposited to such an extent that
nothing but the masts are visible. A very strange accompaniment is a
perfectly cloudless blue sky at the zenith, while all along the horizon
there is an opaque circle of icy haze, which is tinged with the most
delicate hues of red, blue, and yellow. One can nowhere see more than
100 metres, yet this haze seems far off. It is, of course, the driven
snow which causes this phenomenon, and also a nearly constant parhelia;
but the fact that the sky above is perfectly clear proves that the
obscurity is very low on the ice, perhaps not more than ten metres, for
the topmasts of the ship are visible above it, and now and then the
tops of icebergs also appear. The picturesque effect of this hurling,
seething confusion of icy crystals is far beyond my power to paint
in words. It is a picture at once full of incomprehensible grandeur,
indescribable discomfort, and irresistible attractiveness. But who
will tabulate this with enthusiasm when snow is being driven down your
neck, into your eyes, ears, and almost into the pores of your skin,
while your boots, your mittens, and every opening or fold of clothing
are filled with snow at a temperature of -20° C.? Who will paint the
colours, or sing the joys of Nature, when the wind pipes the notes of
a buzz-saw, and will not permit you to stoop without helping you to a
somersault?
The Commandant gave us a new programme yesterday for the summer
campaign but we do not now regard programmes seriously. We think more
of the many little things which cause life to fall and drift and
settle into our boots, like the snow around us. Indeed, there are but
few things greatly interesting, except the character of our food, the
prosecution of our special work, and the prospect of our release from
the iron grasp of the rigid pack.
I have heard of a deaf man who once said that life was of value to
him only because of “reading, eating, drinking, and the prospect of
death.” This sentiment in a modified form would, I am certain, be the
confession of many, if not most, of our party, during every stormy
period. The modification is, perhaps, only in the last word, and this
we would change to “the prospect of an early return to the inner world
and to renewed social conditions.” The storms are so numerous and close
that a tempest is nearly always on the horizon. If it is not so, as
was the case a week ago, the air about the _Belgica_ rings with
happy voices and musical sounds. But there is always something to make
hilarity short-lived. If it is not the weather it is a frozen batch
of skins, a garment hopelessly torn which needs mending, a watch to
repair, a boot to mend, a camera to alter, or any one of a thousand
discomforts and distractions about the ship which send the soul to the
verge of desperation. To-night I have stockings to darn, to-morrow
pantaloons to mend, and all of next week carpenter-work, mending and
making sledges, sewing sails, dressing skins, and taking photos in a
temperature -22° C.--all of this is far from pleasant, but it contains
a lesson. It teaches us how much of the drudgery of life is done
uncomplainingly by mothers, sisters, wives, and other members of the
family circle. It makes us feel the importance of feminine existence,
causes us to see the ups and downs, the ponds and eddies, the rapids
and cataracts of the humdrum side of life which man ordinarily escapes.
November 16.--The winter night, with its death-dealing blackness,
has passed; the spring, with its awful storms and gray monotony has
followed, and the summer, with its continuous noonday splendour,
commences to-day. At least it ought to, if our estimated position is
correct. We have, however, had no observations in a week, and are not,
in consequence, able to fix our exact position, and the persistent
cloudiness of the sky is such that we cannot determine whether the sun
is above or below the horizon at midnight.
November 25.--Latitude 70° 25′, longitude 83° 27′. For more than a week
the sun has sailed around our heavens without setting, and thus we have
entered upon our summer nightless days. We should have seen its warm
glow at midnight and at midday, but we have not seen it at all, not
even for one hour, during this time. By this I do not mean that it is
dark; in fact, it is quite the contrary. It is too light. The sky has
been constantly lined with thick clouds, and there has been an endless
period of fog and snow; but under all of this opacity the light, by
refraction from the cold mist and by reflection from the dazzling
whiteness of the unbroken snow, has been so great that all who have not
worn goggles have complained of incipient snow-blindness. At night, or
during the sleeping hours, the men are compelled to hang black cloths
over the ports to gain sleep and rest from the diffused, piercing
light. Nearly every one is suffering, more or less, from insomnia, and
the cases which have been mentally deranged before show new signs of
disturbance. Thus, though the light, even during cloudy days, is too
strong for our eyes, and at night too piercing to permit sleep we long,
with an intensity impossible to describe, to see the unobscured face of
the sun, and we hunger for its warm, life-giving rays.
November 26.--At last we have had a little direct sunshine, and what
seems very strange is that this has come to us with continued northerly
winds. Without exception thus far, the wind from this direction has
been warm and humid, bringing clouds, snow, rain and everything to
make life uncomfortable. We can only come to one conclusion, which is
that we have been steadily driven south against the main body of a
closer pack. The pack before us towards the open sea, of which there is
perhaps not less than three hundred miles, has been driven together.
With such a condition of things we might suppose that the wind would
not be so thoroughly charged with pack vapour. But this is a
hypothesis. The fact is that we have fair weather, which is unusual
with wind from any direction but south, and we are feasting our souls
on direct sunny rays, the first in weeks.
[Illustration: On January 1st, 1899, the _Belgica_ was
still Hopelessly Held in a Field of Ice Two Miles in Diameter,
while within Two Thousand Feet there was a Long Open Expanse of
Navigable Water.]
There is a somewhat surprising movement in the individual masses of
the pack, as is seen by the changing position of the various icebergs.
In this movement there is regular order in the direction. It is not a
motion like the entire drift of the main pack, to and fro in response
to the wind. The _Belgica_, firmly held in the body of a floe
whose general diameter has been about four miles, has turned her prow
steadily with but very little interruption from south in May, to west
in August, to north in October, and she is now 22° on her way to
the east. From this we can draw only one conclusion--that there is
a feeble under-current which, acting on the bergs, is the cause of
local disturbance in every pack. Our observations thus far verify this
curious suggestion. The floe in which we are fixed has no icebergs in
its grasp, like many of the floes around us. If such a current existed
it would not be propelled with the same force as the berg-charged
floes, but with a tendency to lag behind an active mass to the one side
would, by friction against its side, cause it to revolve. Such has been
our experience. A group of floes, in which there have been several huge
tabular bergs entangled, has slowly but persistently passed around our
starboard, while we have turned in response to it; and as a final proof
of this movement we have constantly observed the appearance of new
bergs south, and the disappearance of old friends to the north.
The winter effects on the ship have been extremely injurious. Her hull
has been subjected to very little pressure, but she has been unevenly
covered with snow; the stern, buried and forced below her natural
water-line, has made her leak; the bow has been exposed to the many
alternate freezings and thawings; the rigging, for much of the time,
has been loaded with a ponderous weight of accumulated hoar-frost
which, with its continued movement in the never-ceasing storms, has
weakened every fibre of rope, and now the burning sun splits the masts
like sticks of green wood near a fire. The interior has also suffered
great injury. The constant drying effects of the internal heat has
split or cracked nearly every important beam, while the seams are
everywhere wide open. There are two things we seldom have here which
will certainly seem strange to my readers. They are sunshine and
snow-showers. In a region where the sun does not set for a period of
more than two months, one certainly has a right to expect fair and
sunny days, and likewise in an area where the whole face of the earth,
both land and water, is buried under a perennial sheet of snow one
naturally expects to see frequent falls of heavy snow; but in reality,
both sunshine and actual snow-showers are very rare, so much so that
their appearance affords a special delight and a great surprise. To-day
we have had the phenomenal pleasure of having both in one day. Real
sunbeams in the morning, large and slowly falling flakes of snow in
the afternoon. We have had appropriate music to celebrate the occasion
and are happy.
[Illustration: Old Hummocks.]
[Illustration: A Tonite Explosion Used in Efforts to Free the
_Belgica_.]
November 27.--Our winter temperature was very slow in falling, and the
minimum was not reached until after sunrise. Our lowest observation was
recorded on September 8, -43.1° C. In less than ten days after this it
had risen to a fraction above zero, and we were drenched with rain and
melting snow; since then it has occasionally fallen to -20°, but it has
slowly and persistently risen until now the normal temperature is one
or two degrees below zero, falling with a southerly wind to -10° and
rising above zero with a strong northerly wind.
The zoölogist has seen what he persists in calling a new bird. It
resembles the giant petrel in size and colour, but its motion is
entirely different. Anatomical details have not been observed, and,
“The bird,” says the naturalist, “is either shot-proof or it is able
to dodge the lead.” But since Mr. Racovitza had considerable fun from
our mistaken reports of true sea-leopards, we have taken advantage
of this story to restore our fallen reputation. We persist in saying
that unless he produces the bird, or gives us an exact technical
description, anatomical and physiological, we maintain the privilege of
ascribing the sight to a kind of sunny intoxication which at present,
under the influence of the midnight sun, is not uncommon.