and the small white cutter, when the lifeboat from Cape Elizabeth
hove in sight. The very sight of her acted as an additional spur to
them, for they regarded this little matter as particularly their own,
and although they themselves had warned the lifeboatman of the wreck
they felt that it was their duty to effect the rescue. They vowed to
themselves that they would get the men off the rock.
“Now, boys,” cried Captain Fengar, “we want to get those men off
ourselves! Hustle!”
And they hustled. In the twinkling of an eye as it seemed a couple of
boats were lowered and the men were in their places.
“You must not fail,” said Fengar as they pushed off. “God bless you!”
And away they went towards the boiling surf, beneath which they knew
lurked hideous, treacherous rocks. Lieutenant Howland, an old whaler,
had charge of the first boat, and with him went Third Lieutenant Scott
and Cadet Van Cott, who had entreated the captain to allow him to
go. Seamen Haskell and Gross manned the second boat. Like madmen the
Woodbury men pulled, straining every effort to win in the race they
had set themselves, knowing that the Cape Elizabeth lifeboat was
sweeping through the seas towards the rock. As for the lifeboat, its
crew were tired, weary with much fighting of the storm. But they were
game; they realised what the Woodbury men were intent on doing, and
they themselves determined to do their best to beat them in this race
for the lives of six unfortunate men. It was surely one of the queerest
contests ever engaged in, and at the back of it was but one idea--to
win through to the rock and get the stranded mariners to safety.
The first honours went to the Woodbury men; the dory manned by Haskell
and Gross got there ahead of all; they swept through a narrow channel
between the reefs, were wellnigh battered to pieces against the foot
of the Junk of Pork, hailed the men on top--as though they needed
hailing!--and the next instant a man leaped clear of the rock and
tumbled into the dory, which pitched and rolled dangerously at the
impact. Then, realising that they could not stay there any longer,
Haskell and Gross turned their dory about and made for the channel
again; careful steering took her safely through, and then, buffeted
by the waves, they pulled feverishly towards the cutter, where they
eventually got their man safely aboard.
Meanwhile, Howland was keeping his men at it; the race now lay between
him and the lifeboat, and he meant to win. With shouts and heave-ho’s,
Howland urged his men on; and on they went, while across the waters
came the shouts of the lifeboatmen as they bent lustily to their task.
The revenue boat won by a neck! With a thud she hit the breakers just
ahead of the lifeboat, shivered, and then, lifted up by a giant comber,
cleared a submerged reef, delved on the other side, and came up almost
filled with water. Shaking herself as a dog shakes the water from his
coat, she righted, and Lieutenant Scott leaped boldly into the surf;
but as he did so the undertow took the boat and, as he still had hold
of her, dragged him under water. For a moment his comrades thought him
gone, but presently he came up, almost frozen, but still hanging on to
the boat. And the next moment a roller caught the boat and pitched her
on to a slice of rock.
Almost simultaneously the lifeboat plunged at the breakers. For a
second she hesitated. Her men were debating whether they should shoot
clear or land. They saw the revenue men land. Where they could go,
there could the men of Cape Elizabeth; and they put the nose of their
boat at it, heading straight for the rocks. Less fortunate than the
others, the lifeboat banged into a mighty rock, which stove in her bow
and rendered her unmanageable.
Instantly the winners of the strange race saw that the lifeboat was
helpless and in danger; the men on the Junk of Pork could wait; they
were safe! The revenue men plunged into the surf, waded and swam to the
lifeboat, seized hold of her, and dragged her on to the strip of rock.
It was all done as in a flash; hesitation would have meant disaster.
But it was done, and the rivals stood together at the foot of the Junk
of Pork. Then, resting awhile from their herculean labours, they set
about the rescue of the stranded mariners, who were very soon in the
revenue boat, and being rowed across to the Woodbury cutter, which,
when all was done, steamed back to Portland, after forty hours of hard
fighting for the rescue of half a dozen men; forty hours well spent,
too.
A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH POLE
The Thrilling Story of Scott’s Expedition to the Antarctic
The age-old dreams of hundreds of men have been realised; the ends
of the earth have yielded up their secrets--the Poles have been
discovered. Peary to the North, Amundsen and Scott to the South, hardy
adventurers all, with the wanderlust in their souls and science as
their beckoner--these men went forth and wrested from the ice-bound
regions something of what had been refused to the scores of men
preceding them; some of whom had come back, weak, despondent, while
others left their bones as silent witnesses to their noble failure to
achieve what they set out for.
Of all the many expeditions which have set forth to the Polar regions,
none was more tragic than that commanded by Captain Robert F. Scott.
In practically the hour of his triumph he failed, because, no matter
how efficient an organisation, no matter how far-sighted policy and
arrangements may be, there is always the uncertain human element; there
comes the point when human endurance can stand out no longer, when the
struggle against the titan forces of Nature cannot be kept up. And then
there is failure, though often a splendid failure.
Such was that of Captain Scott; he reached the goal he had aimed at for
many years only to find that he had been forestalled by a month, and
then, overtaken by unexpected bad weather, he and the men with him
had to give up the struggle when within eleven miles of just one thing
they stood in need of--fuel with which to cook the hot meals that meant
life. The story is one that makes the blood course through the veins,
makes the heart glow, makes the head bow in honour; because it is a
story of matchless bravery, heroic fortitude and noble effort.
The _Terra Nova_, Scott’s ship, carried a complement of sixty men,
each one of them picked because of his efficiency, each one having his
allotted work. Geologists and grooms, physicist and photographers,
meteorologists and motor-engineer, surgeons and ski-expert and seamen,
men to care for dogs, and men to cook food--a civilised community of
efficient, well-found, keen, and high-idealed men. It was, in fact,
the best-equipped Polar expedition ever sent forth. Scott went out not
merely to discover the South Pole, but also to gather data that should
elucidate many problems of science. He took with him all the apparatus
that would be necessary for this purpose, and when the _Terra Nova_
left New Zealand, on November 26, 1910, there seemed good reason for
the conviction that success must attend the expedition.
The voyage out to the Polar Sea was uneventful, except that early in
December a great storm arose, and called for good seamanship to keep
the vessel going; and even then she was very badly knocked about. She
made a good deal of water, and the seamen had to pump hard and long;
but at last, under steam and sail, the _Terra Nova_ came through
safely, and was able to go forward again, and by December 9 was in the
ice-pack, which was that year much farther north than was expected.
This held them up so that they could not go in the direction they
wanted to, and had to drift where the pack would take them--northwards.
Christmas Day found them still in the pack, and they celebrated the
festivity in the good old English style. By the 30th they were out
of the pack, and set off for Cape Crozier, the end of the Great Ice
Barrier, where they had decided to fix their winter quarters. They
could not get there, however, and they had to proceed to Cape Royds,
passing along an ice-clad coast which showed no likely landing-place.
Cape Royds was also inaccessible owing to the ice, and the ship was
worked to the Skuary Cape, renamed Cape Evans, in the McMurdo Sound.
A landing was effected, and for a week the explorers worked like
niggers getting stores ashore, disembarking ponies and dogs, unloading
sledges, and the hundred and one other things necessary to success.
The hut, which was brought over in pieces, was also taken ashore, a
suitable site for it cleared, and the carpenters began erecting it.
During these early days misfortune fell upon them. One of their three
motor-sledges, upon which great hopes were built, slipped through the
ice and was lost.
By January 14 the station was almost finished, and Captain Scott went
on a sledge trip to Hut Point, some miles to the west. Here Scott
had wintered on his first expedition, which set out from England in
1901. In this his new expedition the hut was to be used for some of
the party, and telephonic communication was installed. In due course
the station was completed; there is no need for us to go into all the
details of the hard work, or the exercising of animals and men, but a
short description of this house on the ice may be of interest. It was
a wooden structure, 50 feet long by 25 feet wide and nine feet to the
eaves. It was divided into officers’ and men’s quarters; there was
a laboratory and dark-room, galley and workshop. Books were there,
pictures on the walls, stove to keep the right temperature. Stables
were built on the north side, and a store-room on the south. In the
hut itself was a pianola and a gramophone to wile away the monotony of
the long winter night. Mr. Ponting, the camera artist, had a lantern
with him, which was to provide vast entertainment in the way of
picture-lectures on all kinds of subjects. Altogether, everything was
as compact and comfortable as could be wished.
Naturally, there were various adventures during these early days;
once the ship just managed to get away from the spot where almost
immediately afterwards a huge berg crashed down, only a little later on
the same day to become stranded. Luckily, by much hard work, the seamen
managed to get her off.
On January 25 the next piece of work was begun--namely, the laying of
a depot some hundred miles towards the south. Both ponies and dogs
were used for this work, which took nearly a month--the Barrier ice
was always dangerous--and both the outward and inward journeys were
beset by bad weather, bad surfaces, hard work, disappointments and
many dangers. Once, a party was lost, and found only after they had
experienced much suffering.
It was not until April 13 that the depot laying party returned to the
hut, minus some of their animals, which had succumbed to the rigours
of the climate and the stiff work demanded of them. A few days later
the long winter night set in, and the men had to confine themselves to
winter quarters to wait until the coming of the sun before the main
object of their voyage could be attempted. The ship had returned to New
Zealand meanwhile.
The long winter months were filled up with scientific studies of the
neighbourhood, and evenings were occasions for lantern lectures and
discussions on all kinds of subjects, including those which concerned
the expedition. There was plenty of work to do; things had to be
prepared, as far as was possible then, for the final dash; the animals
had to be looked after; and they were a source of trouble, because
it was essential that they should be kept fit. A winter party was
organised and sent to Cape Crozier, a journey that took them five weeks
under “the hardest conditions on record.” It was well worth while, for
many were the valuable observations made.
Always the scientific aspect of the expedition was kept in view; and
when the sun returned a spring journey to the west was undertaken,
Scott and his little party being absent thirteen days, 175 miles being
covered in that time.
We now come to the great journey to the Pole--a journey of 800 miles.
On October 24 the two motor-sledges were sent off, after a good deal
of trouble, Evans and Day in charge of one, and Lashly of the other;
they were the forerunners of the expedition to the Pole. On the 26th,
Hut Point rang up to say that the motors were in trouble, and Scott
and seven men went off to see what they could do. They came up with
the motors about three miles from Hut Point, and found that various
little things were causing trouble. Eventually, these difficulties were
overcome, and the sledges started off again, and Scott and his party
went back to Cape Evans to get ready for their own journey south.
“The future is in the lap of the gods; I can think of nothing left
undone to deserve success.”
Thus wrote Captain Scott the night before he set out on his last
great journey, and reading the remarkable journal which he left, one
is forced to the conclusion that he was right; if ever man deserved
success, if ever achievement with glory and safety should have been
vouchsafed, it should have been to Scott; but the lap of the gods is
often a sacrificial altar on which men lay down their lives for the
sake of great ideals.
It was on November 1 that the Southern Party set out. It consisted of
ten men, in charge of ten ponies drawing sledges, and two men leading
the dogs which were to take the ponies’ places when the latter were
done. Everything was favourable for the send-off, and the company
arrived at Hut Point, the first stoppage place, quite safely. From
there they pushed on again in three parties, the slowest starting
first, and the others following at sufficient intervals for all to
arrive at the end of the day’s stage at the same time. The motor party
going on in front were putting up cairns for guidance, and Scott
himself on the journey to One Ton Depot had placed landmarks to guide
them. On the 4th Scott came across the wreck of the sledge worked by
Captain Evans and Day--a cylinder had gone wrong, and the motor had had
to be abandoned, the men going on with the other sledge. This was the
first bit of ill-luck, but the days to come were to bring much more.
The dash to One Ton Depot consisted of hard going over rough surfaces;
there were blizzards, trouble with the ponies; snow walls had to be
built to protect the animals at camp after a long and hard night’s
toil, during which they had journeyed seldom more than ten miles. Night
was chosen because it enabled them to escape the sun, which even in
that latitude was sufficient to make them sweat as they forced their
way over the terrible ground. They reached One Ton Depot at last, and
then picked up the motor party, commanded by Evans, on November 21. The
motorists had been waiting six days, unable to go any farther.
The little band now plunged forward again, meeting the same difficult
surface, having the same trouble with the ponies, one of whom had
to be shot on the 24th, the day on which the first supporting party,
consisting of Day and Hooper, were sent back to the base. Two days
later a depot was laid, Middle Barrier Depot, and on the 28th, when
ninety miles from the Glacier, another pony was shot, and provided food
for the dogs. Ninety miles were still to be covered, and there was
only food for seven marches for the animals. It would be stiff going,
for Scott was relying upon the ponies getting him to the foot of the
Glacier.
Having laid another depot on December 1, thus lightening the load, and
hoping to be able to make good progress, they were furiously opposed
by the elements. On the 3rd, the 4th, and the 5th, blizzards blew down
upon them, impeding them, making the work trebly difficult, and the
last one holding them up for four days, during which food, precious
food, and much-needed fuel were being consumed without any progress
being made. Impatient, bitterly cold, with the animals getting worn
out, Scott and his companions had to keep to their tents, eager to
go on, but realising that to venture forth was to court disaster.
Experienced Polar explorer though he was, Scott was at a loss to
account for the character of the weather at this, the most favourable,
only practicable, time of the year. It was disheartening, especially
when they had to start on the rations that they had reckoned would not
be needed until they reached the summit of the Glacier. But at last the
blizzard blew itself out, and, stiff and cold, the party set out again,
each day finding their ponies becoming weaker, until on the 9th, at
Camp 31, named the Shambles, all these were shot.
Then it was a case of the dogs pulling the sledges, and on the 10th
the explorers began the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier, the summit
of which was thousands of feet above them. Meares and Atkinson left
for the base on the 11th, and the reduced party trudged forward and
upwards, now having to go down again to avoid some dangerous part,
toiling manfully up the Glacier, in danger of falling into crevasses,
sinking into soft snow, which made the surface so difficult that after
trudging for hours and hours only four miles were covered when they had
hoped to do ten or more. By the 22nd, when the next supporting party
left, they had climbed 7,100 feet (the day before they had been up
8,000 feet) and then a heavy mist enshrouded them, and hung them up for
some hours--when every minute was precious.
When they started on the 22nd there were but eight men, and these
toiled on day after day, meeting all sorts of trouble, running all
kinds of risks, but never stopping unless compelled, dropping a depot
on the last day of the year, and sending back three men on the 4th.
This left only Scott, Captain Oates, Petty Officer Evans, Dr. Wilson
and Lieutenant Bowers to make the final dash to the Pole. They had over
a month’s rations, which was considered ample to do the 150 miles that
separated them from their goal.
The party now had the small ten-foot sledges, which were neat and
compact, and much lighter than the twelve-foot sledges which were sent
back. The dogs had now gone back, and all the pulling was done by the
men. The difficulty of the surface made them leave their skis behind
on the 7th, but later on that day the surface become so much easier
that it was decided to go back for the skis, which delayed them nearly
an hour and a half. They were now on the summit, and were held up by
a blizzard which, though it delayed them, gave them the opportunity
for a rest which they sadly needed, especially Evans, who had hurt his
hand badly while attending to the sledges. On the 9th they were able
to start again, now swinging out across the great Polar plateau. They
cached more stores on the 10th, and found the lightening of the load
very helpful. But even then, so hard was the pulling, that on the 11th,
when only seventy-four miles from the Pole, Scott asked himself whether
they could keep up the struggle for another seven days. Never had men
worked so hard before at so monotonous a task; winds blew upon them,
clouds worried them because they knew not what might come in their
wake; snow was falling and covering the track behind them, sufficient
to cause them some anxiety, for they wanted that track to lead them
home again via their depots upon which safety depended.
The weather! Day by day the weather worried them; only that could
baulk them in their purpose, and never men prayed so much for fine
days as did these. The 16th found them still forcing their way onward,
with lightened loads again, having left a depot on the previous day,
consisting of four days’ food; and they knew that they were now only
two good marches from the Pole. Considering they carried with them nine
days’ rations, while just behind lay another four days’, they felt that
all would be well if the weather would but keep clear for them.
The thing that now troubled these men who toiled so manfully against
great odds was the thought that lurked in their minds that when they
reached the Pole they might find that they had been forestalled. For
they knew, everyone of them, that the Norwegian, Amundsen, was bent
on achieving what they were hoping to do: on being first at the Pole.
They knew, too, that things had been more favourable for him from the
very outset; that he had been able to set out from a much better spot
than they had. What if they attained the goal, only to find a foreign
flag flying bravely in the breeze? The thought was maddening; but the
Britishers were sportsmen. And when months before Scott had heard that
Amundsen was in the South, instead of trying for the North Pole, as he
had given out when he started, the gallant captain had made up his mind
to act just as if he had no competitor.
Next day, the 16th, all their hopes were dashed to the ground. Away
out across the white expanse there loomed a tiny black speck, and
immediately Scott’s thoughts flew to Amundsen. Some of his companions
said it was one thing, others another. As they pulled hard at their
loads the five men debated amongst themselves, trying to cheer each
other up, seeking to cast aside the horrible thought that would force
its way into their minds.
And then, the black spot was reached. It was a black flag, tied to a
sledge bearer. It was the sign that the Norwegians had won in the race.
All around were signs of a camp, which to the filmed eyes of the
explorers were the tokens of their failure to be first.
“It is a terrible disappointment,” wrote Scott in his diary, “and I
am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much
discussion have we had. To-morrow we must march on to the Pole, and
then hasten home with the utmost speed we can compass. All the day
dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return.”
And the next day the Pole was reached, and from out its solitude and
austerity the great explorer cried:
“Great God! This is an awful place, and terrible enough for us to have
laboured to it without the reward of priority....”
The great goal had been won; but the joy of achievement was dimmed;
Amundsen’s records and tent were found there, the Norwegian flag
had been hoisted and flaunted bravely in the wind. They had been
forestalled by over a month.
Having fixed up their “poor slighted Union Jack,” as Scott called it,
the explorers turned northwards again, and began to retrace their
footsteps over the Polar plateau, which had cost them so much labour
to cross, then down the great Glacier with ever worsening weather. The
men themselves, who had been so fit coming out, were now beginning to
show signs of their gigantic labours; perhaps now, when the day dreams
were over, and hopes long deferred had been fulfilled and dashed to
pieces at one moment, they were disheartened; there was not the spur
of achievement before them. Evans and Oates began to show signs of
weariness--those two strong men of the party. Evans had his nose and
fingers frostbitten and suffered much agony. Then, while descending the
Glacier, he tumbled on the Glacier, fell among rough ice which injured
his head, and gave him a touch of concussion of the brain. Dr. Wilson
injured his leg, and snow-blindness was causing him much trouble. All
these things impeded the party, to whom time was everything; food
depended on picking up the depots on the right days--perhaps hours; and
when, as often happened, the track was not easily found, the anxiety of
the explorers was considerably increased.
Then Evans grew worse; from being self-reliant, and the man on whom the
party had been able to look for help in any circumstances, he became
weak and wellnigh helpless; he lagged behind, and the party had to wait
for him to catch up. On February 17 at the foot of the Glacier, after
a terribly hard day’s work, Evans--poor man!--was so far behind when
the party camped, that his comrades became anxious and went back for
him. They found him. The limit of human endurance had been reached.
“He was on his knees, with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and
frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.” They got him to the tent
with great difficulty, and he died that night. Scott mourned his loss;
and his journal is full of his praises of the petty officer who had
been so indefatigable a worker and so adaptable a man, doing everything
his inventive genius could think of to lighten the work for the
explorers.