OUR FIRST WINTER (1872) IN THE ICE.
1. In the beginning of November we were already environed by a deep
twilight; but our dreary waste had become of magical beauty; the rigging,
white with frost, stood out, spectre-like, against the grey-blue of
the heavens; the ice, broken into a thousand forms and overspread with
a covering of snow, had now assumed the cold pure aspect of alabaster
shaded with the tender hues of arragonite. Southward at noon we saw veils
of frosty vapour rise into the carmine-coloured sky out of the fissures
and “ice-holes,” in which the water seemed to boil.
2. All our preparations for wintering had now been completed. Lieutenant
Weyprecht struck the top-masts to diminish pressure from the wind; some
sails were still kept set, in order that the ship, in the event of her
being set free, might at once get under weigh. The fore-part of the ship
only could be covered in as a tent, for the preparations to abandon her
in case of need compelled us to leave her after-part uncovered. There,
in perfect order, lay all the materials we meant to take with us, our
provisions, ammunition, tents, sledges, &c. The ship was surrounded with
a wall of snow and ice, which we constantly restored, whenever it was
injured by pressure from without, and her deck was gradually overspread
with a mantle of snow, which contributed, however, to maintain an equable
warmth in the ship. Our distance from land rendered it impossible to
cover the deck with a layer of sand, which would have prevented the
melting of the snow from the warmth of the ship.
[Illustration: THE TWILIGHT IN NOVEMBER, 1872.]
3. The temperature of November rose once only—about the middle of the
month—considerably; but, except on that occasion, the thermometer stood
with tolerable regularity below -13° F., and on the 20th of the month
it reached its minimum at -33° F. Winds, from whatever quarter they
might blow, constantly raised the temperature, because the colder air
was thus modified by the warmer which lay above the open spaces of
sea-water; calms were accompanied by a rapid intensification of cold.
Wind, increased drifting, pressure, and the formation of fissures—all
these are naturally connected. New openings were quickly covered with
young ice, which presented a smooth surface when formed by less intense
cold, but when the temperature fell lower its saline contents were exuded
in a moist, tough layer, which lay on its surface about an inch thick. In
this state of the ice, sledge-travelling was rendered more difficult,
and even walking was far from easy; for it is only under a temperature
ranging from -4° F. to -13° F. that this layer is frozen. The incessant
rending of the ice-sheet, by exposing the warmer surface of the sea,
tends to mitigate the cold, while, on the other hand, the freezing of
these fissures augments the quantity of ice.
[Illustration: SUMBU CHASED FOR A FOX.]
4. In the beginning of the month our nights were dark, and it was only
occasionally that the light of the aurora and meteors visited us with
their fleeting splendours. Although in clear weather day was still
distinguishable from night, yet the darkness, even at noon, was so
great, that mists could not be seen, but felt only, and it was no longer
possible, without the light of a lantern, to make even the slightest
sketch, or to take aim with the rifle. Hence, when we met with bears we
could not be certain of our aim, if they were at any distance from us,
and, on one occasion, Sumbu was mistaken for a fox, chased, and but for
my coming up would have been shot.
[Illustration: WANDERINGS ON THE ICE IN OUR FIRST WINTER.]
5. The first days of November passed away without any new disturbance
from the movement of the masses of ice, and our feeling of security grew
apace, and with it our hopes revived, never again to leave us entirely,
not even when the pressures returned, as they did too soon. Once more
the fields of ice, firmly pressed together, were rent asunder; fissures
opened out, and shone in the moonlight like rivers of silver. The night
of Nov. 20 was one of extreme anxiety. A mountain formed of piles of
broken ice bore down on us amid a fearful din, threatening to bury the
ship. Silent, and conscious of our utter helplessness, we watched this
gigantic heap of crashing ice-tables drifting nearer and nearer, crushing
as it advanced the heaviest pieces of ice with a noise which echoed
through our ship. Escape seemed impossible: and Providence alone arrested
its career. This night the crew received each an extra glass of grog to
obliterate the impression of this terrible crisis.
6. With the exception of books, we had no other amusement than short
expeditions, never extending beyond a mile from the ship, in which we
were accompanied by all the dogs. We generally set out with two small
sledges, and, when the moon was not shining, with our rifles ready to
fire, for the darkness and the utter absence of open spaces on the ice
imposed the utmost caution against bears. At a very short distance
we could see nothing of the ship, and only by our footsteps on the
snow could we make out where we were and find the way back. In these
expeditions we were exposed to another danger—the risk of being cut off
from the ship by the breaking-up of one of the drifting floes. Even the
dogs felt the insecurity of recently-formed ice, and put their feet on it
with fear and hesitation, and only by compulsion. There seemed to be a
cunning agreement among them to shirk the work altogether; for they often
rushed away into the coal-house, and threw the harness of the sledges
into inextricable confusion.
7. December came, but it brought no change in our situation. Our life
became more and more monotonous; one day differed in no respect from
another, it was but a mere succession of dates, and time was reckoned
merely by the hours for eating and sleeping. The ice, however, did not
share in the universal repose. It was never weary of threatening; no day
elapsed without movement on its part. My journal records December 1, 8,
9, 19, 20, 21, 24, 26, 28, 29, 30, and 31, as days of special disturbance
and agitation. On the 20th, as we were talking in the coal-house of the
approaching festival of Christmas, a sudden violent movement of the ice
surprised us, and rushing out we found that the floe on which the house
stood was breaking up. With all haste we endeavoured to save as much as
possible of the coal and materials, and moved them close to the ship. The
minimum temperature of December was -26° F.; the mean of the whole month
amounted to -22° F.; and the extreme of cold, -33° F., was reached on the
26th. A few days before Christmas the temperature rose to a little below
-13° F. It may be observed that the lower temperatures were registered
during the prevalence of winds from the south-east, and the higher during
winds from the north.
8. When the moon returned in the middle of December, our sledge
expeditions were extended to a distance of 1½ miles from the ship, over
snow and hummocks, to recently frozen ice-holes, the lonely beauty of
which, edged with dark masses of ice, in the distance, and lying under
the clear silver light of the moon, filled us with feelings of profound
melancholy. On returning from one of these expeditions to our vessel,
after we had unharnessed the dogs, we heard loud barks from Sumbu, and
looking round saw a bear close beside him, which Orel managed to shoot
dead when he was not above five paces from the rope-ladder on the port
side of the vessel. He was at once cut up, the dogs meanwhile looking
on with profound attention; and in reward for his watchfulness, Sumbu
was indulged with an extra good feast—the heart and tongue of the bear,
which, as yet, we ourselves had not learnt to eat and enjoy. On the
18th, however, he encountered our heavy displeasure for the offence of
frightening off a fox, which had ventured to come very near the vessel.
[Illustration: ENCOUNTER WITH A POLAR BEAR.]
9. When there was no moon it was perfectly dark, even during the day; but
on December 14, in a very clear forenoon, we saw in the south a tender
orange segment of light, three or four degrees above the horizon, edged
with green, sharply defined against the dark sky, and when the moon,
high in the heavens, faced this arch of light, a peculiar faint twilight
was observable. But generally there was no difference between the light
of midday and the light of midnight. The heavens were usually overcast,
and the light of the aurora, during the few minutes of its greatest
intensity, seldom exceeded that of the moon in its first quarter. But
how deep would be the night of the Polar regions, if the land, instead
of being white with snow, were covered with forests! On December 20 we
were unable, even at noon, to read anything but the titles of books of
the largest type; a man’s eyes were invisible at the distance of a few
paces, and at fifty even the stoutest ropes of the ship were scarcely
discernible. The effect of the long Polar night—when the range of the
light of a lamp is the whole world for man—is most oppressive to the
feelings; nor can habit ever reconcile those who have lived under the
influences of civilization to its gloom and solitude. It can be a
home only to men who spend their existence in eating and drinking and
sleeping, without any disturbing recollection of a better existence. The
depression was made more intense by the consciousness that we had been
driven into an utterly unknown region and with our eyes bound. Work,
incessant work, was the only resource in these circumstances.
[Illustration: ICE-HOLE COVERED WITH YOUNG ICE.]
10. Again from my journal I reproduce some passages which express the
feelings which passed through our minds—through mine at least—during this
season of the _Tegetthoff’s_ first winter in the ice:—“_December 21_—The
middle of the long night. It is noon, and, though nothing can be lighter
than the colour of all that surrounds us—of the snow—yet it is as dark
as midnight. Nothing but a pale yellow sheen hovers over the south. The
sun has sunk below the horizon 11° 40′, and we should have to ascend
a mountain eighteen and a half (German) miles high in order to behold
it. Nothing is to be seen, neither bears nor men, and we only hear the
steps of those who are near us. We see but the confused outline even of
the ship, as she drifts hither and thither with the floe, a prisoner in
the fetters of the ice, the sport of winds and currents, carrying her
further and further into the still and silent realm of death. A definite
object, with hope to inspire them, raises men above toils and troubles
of every kind; but exile like ours, when the sacrifice seems useless,
is hard to be borne. An inexorable ‘No’ lays its ban on every hope, and
daily struggle for self-preservation is our lot. If we attempt to fathom
destiny, our utmost hopes are liberation from our icy captivity some
time next summer, and the reaching the coast of Siberia. Siberia a hope!
And yet how changeable are the feelings when the reign of monotony is
interrupted! The moon is up—darkness exists no more. In the North the
moon is an event—it is life, everything almost; it is the only link which
connects us with the far-distant home. As its beams fall on the meanest
forms, diamonds blaze forth in its light from the snow and the frost,
and the soul feels the beauty of the transformation. She looks down on
us like a returning friend that watches over us, and unfolds bewitching
forms and magic images to cheer us. Two weeks ago she rose above the
horizon, first as a blood-red disk, then paled as she climbed higher and
higher, till she stands out the clear, silver-bright, full moon.”
11. Christmas had come; the season when in the forests of our
far-distant home the branches of the pine-trees are heavy laden with
snow, and which ever comes back with the memories of the days of our
youth, and with the remembrances of our families and absent friends.
Only for a short time, about noon, we were made uneasy by a movement and
pressure of the ice. But the alarm passed away, and we gathered together
for a choice and gorgeous feast, both on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day,
and each of the cabin-mess had a bottle of good wine to himself. Carlsen
and Lusina were our guests. Each of the crew received half a bottle of
wine, together with a quarter of a bottle of “artificial wine,”[17] and
in addition an allowance of grog, so weak, however, that even a baby
might have drunk it without harm. Dried fish, roast bear well kept and
seasoned, nuts and the like, contributed in their way to heighten the
joyous feelings which, this day at least, animate even the most miserable
of men. The dogs, at other times so insatiable, had for once enough and
to spare, and carried off the fragments to bury them in the snow. The
contents of a chest full of presents, which we had brought with us, were
distributed by lot, and great was the delight of those who won a bottle
of rum or a few cigars.
12. The last day of the year 1872 afforded us no very happy thoughts
as we looked back on its events; it had been to us a year of
disappointments. The comparison drawn between our actual condition
and the expectations we had so ardently cherished seemed full of the
bitterest irony. This day also, about noon, a pressure from the ice,
which lasted but a short time, alarmed us all, and we rushed on deck to
make our usual preparations. The enemy, however, passed away without
further disturbance, and cheerfully and socially we awaited the first
hour of the new year. With a bottle of champagne, one of the two still
left, we meant to greet its coming in with that hopefulness of mind
which seems inextinguishable in all the changes and chances of life.
But the champagne, alas! proved a delusion. Klotz, the Tyrolese, in one
of his brown studies exposed this precious bottle for four hours to a
temperature of -19° F., and when he produced it the bottle had burst and
the wine was thoroughly frozen. At midnight the crew serenaded us, and
we afterwards marched forth in a body with torches, and walked round
the ship, whose rigging glowed in the light of the tarred torches. The
frosted fur garments of the men seemed edged with shining light, and a
red glare fell on the masses of ice.
[Illustration: CARLSEN MAKES THE ENTRY IN THE LOG.]
13. To-day, too, we allowed the dogs to descend into our cabin,—the
constant object of their longings. The poor animals were so dazzled by
looking at our lamp, that they almost took it for the sun itself; but
by and by their attention was directed exclusively to the rich remains
of our dinner, the sight of which appeared completely to satisfy their
notions of the wonders of the cabin. After behaving themselves with great
propriety, they again quietly withdrew, all except Jubinal, who appeared
to be indignant at the deceitfulness of our conduct, inasmuch as we had
allowed him to starve so long on dried horse-flesh and on crushed bear’s
head, while we revelled in luxury. He accordingly made his way into
Lieutenant Brosch’s cabin, where, discovering a mountain of macaroni, he
immediately attacked it, and warned us off from every attempt to rescue
it, by growling fiercely till he had finished it all. Sumbu, however,
with much levity, suffered himself to be made drunk by the sailors with
rum, and everything which he had scraped together for weeks and buried in
the snow and so carefully watched, was stolen from him by the other dogs
in one night.
14. Another year had now glided away. Looking anxiously into the future,
we shortsighted mortals saw the fulfilment of our highest wishes in being
liberated from the floe. In the pious manner of the whalers of the Arctic
Ocean, Carlsen wrote this day in the log: “Önsker at Gud maa vere med os
i det nye aar, da kan intet vare imod os—_May God be with us in the new
year and nothing can be against us_.” In this new year, with its happier
issues, was verified again the eternal truth, that Providence acts in
ways not to be fathomed, and that it is folly in man to mark out his own
path beforehand according to his own mind. The sun of this new year,
whose beams were to light us to new lands and discoveries, was still low
beneath the horizon.