South

THE STORY OF SHACKLETON’S LAST EXPEDITION 1914–1917

by Sir Ernest Shackleton C.V.O.

[Illustration: IN THE PRIDE OF HER YOUTH.
Colour Photograph by F. Hurley]


TO

MY COMRADES

WHO FELL IN THE WHITE WARFARE
OF THE SOUTH AND ON THE
RED FIELDS OF FRANCE
AND FLANDERS


Contents

 PREFACE
 I. INTO THE WEDDELL SEA
 II. NEW LAND
 III. WINTER MONTHS
 IV. LOSS OF THE _ENDURANCE_
 V. OCEAN CAMP
 VI. THE MARCH BETWEEN
 VII. PATIENCE CAMP
 VIII. ESCAPE FROM THE ICE
 IX. THE BOAT JOURNEY
 X. ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA
 XI. THE RESCUE
 XII. ELEPHANT ISLAND
 XIII. THE ROSS SEA PARTY
 XIV. WINTERING IN McMURDO SOUND
 XV. LAYING THE DEPOTS
 XVI. THE _AURORA’S_ DRIFT
 XVII. THE LAST RELIEF
 XVIII. THE FINAL PHASE

 APPENDIX  I:
 SCIENTIFIC WORK
 SEA-ICE NOMENCLATURE
 METEOROLOGY
 PHYSICS
 SOUTH ATLANTIC WHALES AND WHALING

 APPENDIX  II:
 THE EXPEDITION HUTS AT McMURDO SOUND

 INDEX




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 IN THE PRIDE OF HER YOUTH. Colour Photograph by F. Hurley
 The Leader
 The Weddell Sea Party
 Young Emperor Penguins
 A Huge Floe of Consolidated Pack
 Samson
 Ice-Flowers
 Midnight off the New Land
 New Land: Caird Coast
 Close Under the Barrier
 Trying to cut a way for the Ship through the Ice to a Lead ahead (February 14, 1915)
 The Night Watchman’s Story
 The Dying Sun: The _Endurance_ firmly frozen in
 The Rampart Berg
 A Bi-Weekly Performance: Scrubbing out the “Ritz”
 Pylon Avenue
 The Long, Long Night
 The Pups
 Ice-Pressure Approaching the Ship
 Ice-Rafting
 The Returning Sun
 Wild and Shackleton in the Heavy Pressure
 Exercising the Dogs
 Crab-eater Seals
 The Beginning of the End
 “Within a few Seconds she heeled over until she had a List of Thirty Degrees to Port”
 Almost Overwhelmed
 [Attack of the floes]
 “The Driving Floe, moving laterally across the Stern, split the Rudder and tore out the Rudder-Post and Stern-Post”
 The End
 A Week Later
 “The Wreckage lies around in Dismal Confusion”
 The First Attempt to reach the Land 346 Miles Away
 Ocean Camp
 The Look-out at Ocean Camp
 The Emergency Sledges being packed in case of a sudden break up of the Ice
 The Sledges packed and ready
 Relaying the _James Caird_
 Potash and Perlmutter
 “Loneliness”: Patience Camp
 The Kitchen at Patience Camp
 The Stove at Patience Camp constructed out of old Oil-drums
 Worsley taking Observations of the Sun to determine our Position
 “We cut Steps in this Twenty-five Foot Slab and it makes a fine Look-out”
 “There was no Sleep for us that Night, so we lit the Blubber Stove”
 Hauling up the Boats for the Night
 The Reeling Berg
 Sailing South Again
 The First Landing ever made on Elephant Island, April 15, 1916
 “We Pulled the Three Boats a little Higher on the Beach”
 Rough sketch map of landing place and first camp at C. Valentine, Elephant Island
 The First Drink and Hot Food for Three-and-a-Half Days
 Mount Frank Houlder, Elephant Island
 Launching the _James Caird_
 The _Stancomb Wills_
 In Sight of our Goal: Nearing South Georgia
 Landing on South Georgia
 [Cave Cove on South Georgia]
 [Surroundings of King Haakon Bay]
 [Plan of Sleeping Berths in Cave]
 Sea Elephants on South Georgia
 The Cliffs we descended whilst crossing the Island
 One of the Glaciers we Crossed
 A Typical View in South Georgia
 [Rough Memory Map of Route Across South Georgia]
 Panorama of South Georgia
 The _Yelcho_
 Arrival at Punta Arenas with the Rescued Men
 Frank Wild, Second in Command of the Expedition
 Our Dugout
 The Hut on Elephant Island
 View of Interior of Hut on Elephant Island
 Marooned on Elephant Island
 Elephant Island
 The Rescue Ship Sighted
 “All Safe! All Well!”
 View through a Cave on Elephant Island
 The Aurora
 Ice Stalactites at the Entrance to a Cave on Elephant Island
 A Newly-frozen Lead
 The Ross Sea Party
 Mackintosh and Spencer-Smith being dragged on the sledge
 “The Rudder was bent over to Starboard and Smashed”
 “Next Morning the Jury-Rudder was Shipped”
 Ice Nomenclature: 1. Young Ice (Bay Ice of Scoresby) in the Middle Distance
 2. Light Pack
 3. Heavy Hummocked Pack
 4. Hummocky Pack and Frozen Lead of Young-Ice
 5. Close Pack
 6. Open Pack
 7. Very Open Pack, approximating to Drift-ice
 8. Drift-Ice
 “The Rookery”
 The Anemometer covered with Rime
 Map: The Voyage of the _Endurance_




PREFACE


After the conquest of the South Pole by Amundsen, who, by a narrow
margin of days only, was in advance of the British Expedition under
Scott, there remained but one great main object of Antarctic
journeyings—the crossing of the South Polar continent from sea to sea.

When I returned from the _Nimrod_ Expedition on which we had to turn
back from our attempt to plant the British flag on the South Pole,
being beaten by stress of circumstances within ninety-seven miles of
our goal, my mind turned to the crossing of the continent, for I was
morally certain that either Amundsen or Scott would reach the Pole on
our own route or a parallel one. After hearing of the Norwegian success
I began to make preparations to start a last great journey—so that the
first crossing of the last continent should be achieved by a British
Expedition.

We failed in this object, but the story of our attempt is the subject
for the following pages, and I think that though failure in the actual
accomplishment must be recorded, there are chapters in this book of
high adventure, strenuous days, lonely nights, unique experiences, and,
above all, records of unflinching determination, supreme loyalty, and
generous self-sacrifice on the part of my men which, even in these days
that have witnessed the sacrifices of nations and regardlessness of
self on the part of individuals, still will be of interest to readers
who now turn gladly from the red horror of war and the strain of the
last five years to read, perhaps with more understanding minds, the
tale of the White Warfare of the South. The struggles, the
disappointments, and the endurance of this small party of Britishers,
hidden away for nearly two years in the fastnesses of the Polar ice,
striving to carry out the ordained task and ignorant of the crises
through which the world was passing, make a story which is unique in
the history of Antarctic exploration.

Owing to the loss of the _Endurance_ and the disaster to the _Aurora_,
certain documents relating mainly to the organization and preparation
of the Expedition have been lost; but, anyhow, I had no intention of
presenting a detailed account of the scheme of preparation, storing,
and other necessary but, to the general reader, unimportant affairs, as
since the beginning of this century, every book on Antarctic
exploration has dealt fully with this matter. I therefore briefly place
before you the inception and organization of the Expedition, and insert
here the copy of the programme which I prepared in order to arouse the
interest of the general public in the Expedition.

“_The Trans-continental Party._

“The first crossing of the Antarctic continent, from sea to sea via the
Pole, apart from its historic value, will be a journey of great
scientific importance.

“The distance will be roughly 1800 miles, and the first half of this,
from the Weddell Sea to the Pole, will be over unknown ground. Every
step will be an advance in geographical science. It will be learned
whether the great Victoria chain of mountains, which has been traced
from the Ross Sea to the Pole, extends across the continent and thus
links up (except for the ocean break) with the Andes of South America,
and whether the great plateau around the Pole dips gradually towards
the Weddell Sea.

“Continuous magnetic observations will be taken on the journey. The
route will lead towards the Magnetic Pole, and the determination of the
dip of the magnetic needle will be of importance in practical
magnetism. The meteorological conditions will be carefully noted, and
this should help to solve many of our weather problems.

“The glaciologist and geologist will study ice formations and the
nature of the mountains, and this report will prove of great scientific
interest.

“_Scientific Work by Other Parties._

“While the Trans-continental party is carrying out, for the British
Flag, the greatest Polar journey ever attempted, the other parties will
be engaged in important scientific work.

“Two sledging parties will operate from the base on the Weddell Sea.
One will travel westwards towards Graham Land, making observations,
collecting geological specimens, and proving whether there are
mountains in that region linked up with those found on the other side
of the Pole.

“Another party will travel eastward toward Enderby Land, carrying out a
similar programme, and a third, remaining at the base, will study the
fauna of the land and sea, and the meteorological conditions.

“From the Ross Sea base, on the other side of the Pole, another party
will push southward and will probably await the arrival of the
Trans-continental party at the top of the Beardmore Glacier, near Mount
Buckley, where the first seams of coal were discovered in the
Antarctic. This region is of great importance to the geologist, who
will be enabled to read much of the history of the Antarctic in the
rocks.

“Both the ships of the Expedition will be equipped for dredging,
sounding, and every variety of hydrographical work. The Weddell Sea
ship will endeavour to trace the unknown coast-line of Graham Land, and
from both the vessels, with their scientific staffs, important results
may be expected.

“The several shore parties and the two ships will thus carry out
geographical and scientific work on a scale and over an area never
before attempted by any one Polar expedition.

“This will be the first use of the Weddell Sea as a base for
exploration, and all the parties will open up vast stretches of unknown
land. It is appropriate that this work should be carried out under the
British Flag, since the whole of the area southward to the Pole is
British territory. In July 1908, Letters Patent were issued under the
Great Seal declaring that the Governor of the Falkland Islands should
be the Governor of Graham Land (which forms the western side of the
Weddell Sea), and another section of the same proclamation defines the
area of British territory as ‘situated in the South Atlantic Ocean to
the south of the 50th parallel of south latitude, and lying between 20
degrees and 80 degrees west longitude.’ Reference to a map will show
that this includes the area in which the present Expedition will work.

“_How the Continent will be crossed._

“The Weddell Sea ship, with all the members of the Expedition operating
from that base, will leave Buenos Ayres in October 1914, and endeavour
to land in November in latitude 78 degrees south.

“Should this be done, the Trans-continental party will set out on their
1800-mile journey at once, in the hope of accomplishing the march
across the Pole and reaching the Ross Sea base in five months. Should
the landing be made too late in the season, the party will go into
winter quarters, lay out depots during the autumn and the following
spring, and as early as possible in 1915 set out on the journey.

“The Trans-continental party will be led by Sir Ernest Shackleton, and
will consist of six men. It will take 100 dogs with sledges, and two
motor-sledges with aerial propellers. The equipment will embody
everything that the experience of the leader and his expert advisers
can suggest. When this party has reached the area of the Pole, after
covering 800 miles of unknown ground, it will strike due north towards
the head of the Beardmore Glacier, and there it is hoped to meet the
outcoming party from the Ross Sea. Both will join up and make for the
Ross Sea base, where the previous Expedition had its winter quarters.

“In all, fourteen men will be landed by the _Endurance_ on the Weddell
Sea. Six will set out on the Trans-continental journey, three will go
westward, three eastward, and two remain at the base carrying on the
work already outlined.

“The _Aurora_ will land six men at the Ross Sea base. They will lay
down depots on the route of the Trans-continental party, and make a
march south to assist that party, and to make geological and other
observations as already described.

“Should the Trans-continental party succeed, as is hoped, in crossing
during the first season, its return to civilization may be expected
about April 1915. The other sections in April 1916.

“_The Ships of the Expedition._

“The two ships for the Expedition have now been selected.

“The _Endurance_, the ship which will take the Trans-continental party
to the Weddell Sea, and will afterwards explore along an unknown
coast-line, is a new vessel, specially constructed for Polar work under
the supervision of a committee of Polar explorers. She was built by
Christensen, the famous Norwegian constructor of sealing vessels, at
Sandefjord. She is barquentine rigged, and has triple-expansion engines
giving her a speed under steam of nine to ten knots. To enable her to
stay longer at sea, she will carry oil fuel as well as coal. She is of
about 350 tons, and built of selected pine, oak, and greenheart. This
fine vessel, equipped, has cost the Expedition £14,000.

“The _Aurora_, the ship which will take out the Ross Sea party, has
been bought from Dr. Mawson. She is similar in all respects to the
_Terra Nova_, of Captain Scott’s last Expedition. She had extensive
alterations made by the Government authorities in Australia to fit her
for Dr. Mawson’s Expedition, and is now at Hobart, Tasmania, where the
Ross Sea party will join her in October next.”

I started the preparations in the middle of 1913, but no public
announcement was made until January 13, 1914. For the last six months
of 1913 I was engaged in the necessary preliminaries, solid mule work,
showing nothing particular to interest the public, but essential for an
Expedition that had to have a ship on each side of the Continent, with
a land journey of eighteen hundred miles to be made, the first nine
hundred miles to be across an absolutely unknown land mass.

On January 1, 1914, having received a promised financial support
sufficient to warrant the announcement of the Expedition, I made it
public.

The first result of this was a flood of applications from all classes
of the community to join the adventure. I received nearly five thousand
applications, and out of these were picked fifty-six men.

In March, to my great disappointment and anxiety, the promised
financial help did not materialize, and I was now faced with the fact
that I had contracted for a ship and stores, and had engaged the staff,
and I was not in possession of funds to meet these liabilities. I
immediately set about appealing for help, and met with generous
response from all sides. I cannot here give the names of all who
supported my application, but whilst taking this opportunity of
thanking every one for their support, which came from parts as far
apart as the interior of China, Japan, New Zealand, and Australia, I
must particularly refer to the munificent donation of £24,000 from the
late Sir James Caird, and to one of £10,000 from the British
Government. I must also thank Mr. Dudley Docker, who enabled me to
complete the purchase of the _Endurance_, and Miss Elizabeth Dawson
Lambton, who since 1901 has always been a firm friend to Antarctic
exploration, and who again, on this occasion, assisted largely. The
Royal Geographical Society made a grant of £1000; and last, but by no
means least, I take this opportunity of tendering my grateful thanks to
Dame Janet Stancomb Wills, whose generosity enabled me to equip the
_Endurance_ efficiently, especially as regards boats (which boats were
the means of our ultimate safety), and who not only, at the inception
of the Expedition, gave financial help, but also continued it through
the dark days when we were overdue, and funds were required to meet the
need of the dependents of the Expedition.

The only return and privilege an explorer has in the way of
acknowledgment for the help accorded him is to record on the discovered
lands the names of those to whom the Expedition owes its being.

Owing to the exigencies of the war the publication of this book has
been long delayed, and the detailed maps must come with the scientific
monographs. I have the honour to place on the new land the names of the
above and other generous donors to the Expedition. The two hundred
miles of new coast-line I have called Caird Coast. Also, as a more
personal note, I named the three ship’s boats, in which we ultimately
escaped from the grip of the ice, after the three principal donors to
the Expedition—the _James Caird_, the _Stancomb Wills_ and the _Dudley
Docker_. The two last-named are still on the desolate sandy spit of
Elephant Island, where under their shelter twenty-two of my comrades
eked out a bare existence for four and a half months.

The _James Caird_ is now in Liverpool, having been brought home from
South Georgia after her adventurous voyage across the sub-Antarctic
ocean.

Most of the Public Schools of England and Scotland helped the
Expedition to purchase the dog teams, and I named a dog after each
school that helped. But apart from these particular donations I again
thank the many people who assisted us.

So the equipment and organization went on. I purchased the _Aurora_
from Sir Douglas Mawson, and arranged for Mackintosh to go to Australia
and take charge of her, there sending sledges, equipment and most of
the stores from this side, but depending somewhat on the sympathy and
help of Australia and New Zealand for coal and certain other
necessities, knowing that previously these two countries had always
generously supported the exploration of what one might call their
hinterland.

Towards the end of July all was ready, when suddenly the war clouds
darkened over Europe.

It had been arranged for the _Endurance_ to proceed to Cowes, to be
inspected by His Majesty on the Monday of Cowes week. But on Friday I
received a message to say that the King would not be able to go to
Cowes. My readers will remember how suddenly came the menace of war.
Naturally, both my comrades and I were greatly exercised as to the
probable outcome of the danger threatening the peace of the world.

We sailed from London on Friday, August 1, 1914, and anchored off
Southend all Saturday. On Sunday afternoon I took the ship off Margate,
growing hourly more anxious as the ever-increasing rumours spread; and
on Monday morning I went ashore and read in the morning paper the order
for general mobilization.

I immediately went on board and mustered all hands and told them that I
proposed to send a telegram to the Admiralty offering the ships,
stores, and, if they agreed, our own services to the country in the
event of war breaking out. All hands immediately agreed, and I sent off
a telegram in which everything was placed at the disposal of the
Admiralty. We only asked that, in the event of the declaration of war,
the Expedition might be considered as a single unit, so as to preserve
its homogeneity. There were enough trained and experienced men amongst
us to man a destroyer. Within an hour I received a laconic wire from
the Admiralty saying “Proceed.” Within two hours a longer wire came
from Mr. Winston Churchill, in which we were thanked for our offer, and
saying that the authorities desired that the Expedition, which had the
full sanction and support of the Scientific and Geographical Societies,
should go on.

So, according to these definite instructions, the _Endurance_ sailed to
Plymouth. On Tuesday the King sent for me and handed me the Union Jack
to carry on the Expedition. That night, at midnight, war broke out. On
the following Saturday, August 8, the _Endurance_ sailed from Plymouth,
obeying the direct order of the Admiralty. I make particular reference
to this phase of the Expedition as I am aware that there was a certain
amount of criticism of the Expedition having left the country, and
regarding this I wish further to add that the preparation of the
Expedition had been proceeding for over a year, and large sums of money
had been spent. We offered to give the Expedition up without even
consulting the donors of this money, and but few thought that the war
would last through these five years and involve the whole world. The
Expedition was not going on a peaceful cruise to the South Sea Islands,
but to a most dangerous, difficult, and strenuous work that has nearly
always involved a certain percentage of loss of life. Finally, when the
Expedition did return, practically the whole of those members who had
come unscathed through the dangers of the Antarctic took their places
in the wider field of battle, and the percentage of casualties amongst
the members of this Expedition is high.

The voyage out to Buenos Ayres was uneventful, and on October 26 we
sailed from that port for South Georgia, the most southerly outpost of
the British Empire. Here, for a month, we were engaged in final
preparation. The last we heard of the war was when we left Buenos
Ayres. Then the Russian Steam-Roller was advancing. According to many
the war would be over within six months. And so we left, not without
regret that we could not take our place there, but secure in the
knowledge that we were taking part in a strenuous campaign for the
credit of our country.

Apart from private individuals and societies I here acknowledge most
gratefully the assistance rendered by the Dominion Government of New
Zealand and the Commonwealth Government of Australia at the start of
the Ross Sea section of the Expedition; and to the people of New
Zealand and the Dominion Government I tender my most grateful thanks
for their continued help, which was invaluable during the dark days
before the relief of the Ross Sea Party.

Mr. James Allen (acting Premier), the late Mr. McNab (Minister of
Marine), Mr. Leonard Tripp, Mr. Mabin, and Mr. Toogood, and many others
have laid me under a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

This is also the opportunity for me to thank the Uruguayan Government
for their generous assistance in placing the government trawler,
_Instituto de Pesca_, for the second attempt at the relief of my men on
Elephant Island.

Finally, it was the Chilian Government that was directly responsible
for the rescue of my comrades. This southern Republic was unwearied in
its efforts to make a successful rescue, and the gratitude of our whole
party is due to them. I especially mention the sympathetic attitude of
Admiral Muñoz Hurtado, head of the Chilian Navy, and Captain Luis
Pardo, who commanded the _Yelcho_ on our last and successful venture.

Sir Daniel Gooch came with us as far as South Georgia. I owe him my
special thanks for his help with the dogs, and we all regretted losing
his cheery presence, when we sailed for the South.




CHAPTER I
INTO THE WEDDELL SEA


I decided to leave South Georgia about December 5, and in the intervals
of final preparation scanned again the plans for the voyage to winter
quarters. What welcome was the Weddell Sea preparing for us? The
whaling captains at South Georgia were generously ready to share with
me their knowledge of the waters in which they pursued their trade,
and, while confirming earlier information as to the extreme severity of
the ice conditions in this sector of the Antarctic, they were able to
give advice that was worth attention.

It will be convenient to state here briefly some of the considerations
that weighed with me at that time and in the weeks that followed. I
knew that the ice had come far north that season and, after listening
to the suggestions of the whaling captains, had decided to steer to the
South Sandwich Group, round Ultima Thule, and work as far to the
eastward as the fifteenth meridian west longitude before pushing south.
The whalers emphasized the difficulty of getting through the ice in the
neighbourhood of the South Sandwich Group. They told me they had often
seen the floes come right up to the group in the summer-time, and they
thought the Expedition would have to push through heavy pack in order
to reach the Weddell Sea. Probably the best time to get into the
Weddell Sea would be the end of February or the beginning of March. The
whalers had gone right round the South Sandwich Group and they were
familiar with the conditions. The predictions they made induced me to
take the deck-load of coal, for if we had to fight our way through to
Coats’ Land we would need every ton of fuel the ship could carry.

I hoped that by first moving to the east as far as the fifteenth
meridian west we would be able to go south through looser ice, pick up
Coats’ Land and finally reach Vahsel Bay, where Filchner made his
attempt at landing in 1912. Two considerations were occupying my mind
at this juncture. I was anxious for certain reasons to winter the
_Endurance_ in the Weddell Sea, but the difficulty of finding a safe
harbour might be very great. If no safe harbour could be found, the
ship must winter at South Georgia. It seemed to me hopeless now to
think of making the journey across the continent in the first summer,
as the season was far advanced and the ice conditions were likely to
prove unfavourable. In view of the possibility of wintering the ship in
the ice, we took extra clothing from the stores at the various stations
in South Georgia.

The other question that was giving me anxious thought was the size of
the shore party. If the ship had to go out during the winter, or if she
broke away from winter quarters, it would be preferable to have only a
small, carefully selected party of men ashore after the hut had been
built and the stores landed. These men could proceed to lay out depots
by man-haulage and make short journeys with the dogs, training them for
the long early march in the following spring. The majority of the
scientific men would live aboard the ship, where they could do their
work under good conditions. They would be able to make short journeys
if required, using the _Endurance_ as a base. All these plans were
based on an expectation that the finding of winter quarters was likely
to be difficult. If a really safe base could be established on the
continent, I would adhere to the original programme of sending one
party to the south, one to the west round the head of the Weddell Sea
towards Graham Land, and one to the east towards Enderby Land.

We had worked out details of distances, courses, stores required, and
so forth. Our sledging ration, the result of experience as well as
close study, was perfect. The dogs gave promise, after training, of
being able to cover fifteen to twenty miles a day with loaded sledges.
The trans-continental journey, at this rate, should be completed in 120
days unless some unforeseen obstacle intervened. We longed keenly for
the day when we could begin this march, the last great adventure in the
history of South Polar exploration, but a knowledge of the obstacles
that lay between us and our starting-point served as a curb on
impatience. Everything depended upon the landing. If we could land at
Filchner’s base there was no reason why a band of experienced men
should not winter there in safety. But the Weddell Sea was notoriously
inhospitable and already we knew that its sternest face was turned
toward us. All the conditions in the Weddell Sea are unfavourable from
the navigator’s point of view. The winds are comparatively light, and
consequently new ice can form even in the summer-time. The absence of
strong winds has the additional effect of allowing the ice to
accumulate in masses, undisturbed. Then great quantities of ice sweep
along the coast from the east under the influence of the prevailing
current, and fill up the bight of the Weddell Sea as they move north in
a great semicircle. Some of this ice doubtless describes almost a
complete circle, and is held up eventually, in bad seasons, against the
South Sandwich Islands. The strong currents, pressing the ice masses
against the coasts, create heavier pressure than is found in any other
part of the Antarctic. This pressure must be at least as severe as the
pressure experienced in the congested North Polar basin, and I am
inclined to think that a comparison would be to the advantage of the
Arctic. All these considerations naturally had a bearing upon our
immediate problem, the penetration of the pack and the finding of a
safe harbour on the continental coast.

The day of departure arrived. I gave the order to heave anchor at 8.45
a.m. on December 5, 1914, and the clanking of the windlass broke for us
the last link with civilization. The morning was dull and overcast,
with occasional gusts of snow and sleet, but hearts were light aboard
the _Endurance_. The long days of preparation were over and the
adventure lay ahead.

We had hoped that some steamer from the north would bring news of war
and perhaps letters from home before our departure. A ship did arrive
on the evening of the 4th, but she carried no letters, and nothing
useful in the way of information could be gleaned from her. The captain
and crew were all stoutly pro-German, and the “news” they had to give
took the unsatisfying form of accounts of British and French reverses.
We would have been glad to have had the latest tidings from a
friendlier source. A year and a half later we were to learn that the
_Harpoon_, the steamer which tends the Grytviken station, had arrived
with mail for us not more than two hours after the _Endurance_ had
proceeded down the coast.

The bows of the _Endurance_ were turned to the south, and the good ship
dipped to the south-westerly swell. Misty rain fell during the
forenoon, but the weather cleared later in the day, and we had a good
view of the coast of South Georgia as we moved under steam and sail to
the south-east. The course was laid to carry us clear of the island and
then south of South Thule, Sandwich Group. The wind freshened during
the day, and all square sail was set, with the foresail reefed in order
to give the look-out a clear view ahead; for we did not wish to risk
contact with a “growler,” one of those treacherous fragments of ice
that float with surface awash. The ship was very steady in the
quarterly sea, but certainly did not look as neat and trim as she had
done when leaving the shores of England four months earlier. We had
filled up with coal at Grytviken, and this extra fuel was stored on
deck, where it impeded movement considerably. The carpenter had built a
false deck, extending from the poop-deck to the chart-room. We had also
taken aboard a ton of whale-meat for the dogs. The big chunks of meat
were hung up in the rigging, out of reach but not out of sight of the
dogs, and as the _Endurance_ rolled and pitched, they watched with
wolfish eyes for a windfall.

I was greatly pleased with the dogs, which were tethered about the ship
in the most comfortable positions we could find for them. They were in
excellent condition, and I felt that the Expedition had the right
tractive-power. They were big, sturdy animals, chosen for endurance and
strength, and if they were as keen to pull our sledges as they were now
to fight one another all would be well. The men in charge of the dogs
were doing their work enthusiastically, and the eagerness they showed
to study the natures and habits of their charges gave promise of
efficient handling and good work later on.


[Illustration: The Leader]


[Illustration: The Weddell Sea Party]


During December 6 the _Endurance_ made good progress on a
south-easterly course. The northerly breeze had freshened during the
night and had brought up a high following sea. The weather was hazy,
and we passed two bergs, several growlers, and numerous lumps of ice.
Staff and crew were settling down to the routine. Bird life was
plentiful, and we noticed Cape pigeons, whale-birds, terns, mollymauks,
nellies, sooty, and wandering albatrosses in the neighbourhood of the
ship. The course was laid for the passage between Sanders Island and
Candlemas Volcano. December 7 brought the first check. At six o’clock
that morning the sea, which had been green in colour all the previous
day, changed suddenly to a deep indigo. The ship was behaving well in a
rough sea, and some members of the scientific staff were transferring
to the bunkers the coal we had stowed on deck. Sanders Island and
Candlemas were sighted early in the afternoon, and the _Endurance_
passed between them at 6 p.m. Worsley’s observations indicated that
Sanders Island was, roughly, three miles east and five miles north of
the charted position. Large numbers of bergs, mostly tabular in form,
lay to the west of the islands, and we noticed that many of them were
yellow with _diatoms_. One berg had large patches of red-brown soil
down its sides. The presence of so many bergs was ominous, and
immediately after passing between the islands we encountered
stream-ice. All sail was taken in and we proceeded slowly under steam.
Two hours later, fifteen miles north-east of Sanders Island, the
_Endurance_ was confronted by a belt of heavy pack-ice, half a mile
broad and extending north and south. There was clear water beyond, but
the heavy south-westerly swell made the pack impenetrable in our
neighbourhood. This was disconcerting. The noon latitude had been 57°
26´ S., and I had not expected to find pack-ice nearly so far north,
though the whalers had reported pack-ice right up to South Thule.

The situation became dangerous that night. We pushed into the pack in
the hope of reaching open water beyond, and found ourselves after dark
in a pool which was growing smaller and smaller. The ice was grinding
around the ship in the heavy swell, and I watched with some anxiety for
any indication of a change of wind to the east, since a breeze from
that quarter would have driven us towards the land. Worsley and I were
on deck all night, dodging the pack. At 3 a.m. we ran south, taking
advantage of some openings that had appeared, but met heavy rafted
pack-ice, evidently old; some of it had been subjected to severe
pressure. Then we steamed north-west and saw open water to the
north-east. I put the _Endurance’s_ head for the opening, and, steaming
at full speed, we got clear. Then we went east in the hope of getting
better ice, and five hours later, after some dodging, we rounded the
pack and were able to set sail once more. This initial tussle with the
pack had been exciting at times. Pieces of ice and bergs of all sizes
were heaving and jostling against each other in the heavy
south-westerly swell. In spite of all our care the _Endurance_ struck
large lumps stem on, but the engines were stopped in time and no harm
was done. The scene and sounds throughout the day were very fine. The
swell was dashing against the sides of huge bergs and leaping right to
the top of their icy cliffs. Sanders Island lay to the south, with a
few rocky faces peering through the misty, swirling clouds that swathed
it most of the time, the booming of the sea running into ice-caverns,
the swishing break of the swell on the loose pack, and the graceful
bowing and undulating of the inner pack to the steeply rolling swell,
which here was robbed of its break by the masses of ice to windward.

We skirted the northern edge of the pack in clear weather with a light
south-westerly breeze and an overcast sky. The bergs were numerous.
During the morning of December 9 an easterly breeze brought hazy
weather with snow, and at 4.30 p.m. we encountered the edge of pack-ice
in lat. 58° 27´ S., long. 22° 08´ W. It was one-year-old ice
interspersed with older pack, all heavily snow-covered and lying
west-south-west to east-north-east. We entered the pack at 5 p.m., but
could not make progress, and cleared it again at 7.40 p.m. Then we
steered east-north-east and spent the rest of the night rounding the
pack. During the day we had seen adelie and ringed penguins, also
several humpback and finner whales. An ice-blink to the westward
indicated the presence of pack in that direction. After rounding the
pack we steered S. 40° E., and at noon on the 10th had reached lat. 58°
28´ S., long. 20° 28´ W. Observations showed the compass variation to
be 1½° less than the chart recorded. I kept the _Endurance_ on the
course till midnight, when we entered loose open ice about ninety miles
south-east of our noon position. This ice proved to fringe the pack,
and progress became slow. There was a long easterly swell with a light
northerly breeze, and the weather was clear and fine. Numerous bergs
lay outside the pack.

The _Endurance_ steamed through loose open ice till 8 a.m. on the 11th,
when we entered the pack in lat. 59° 46´ S., long. 18° 22´ W. We could
have gone farther east, but the pack extended far in that direction,
and an effort to circle it might have involved a lot of northing. I did
not wish to lose the benefit of the original southing. The extra miles
would not have mattered to a ship with larger coal capacity than the
_Endurance_ possessed, but we could not afford to sacrifice miles
unnecessarily. The pack was loose and did not present great
difficulties at this stage. The foresail was set in order to take
advantage of the northerly breeze. The ship was in contact with the ice
occasionally and received some heavy blows. Once or twice she was
brought up all standing against solid pieces, but no harm was done. The
chief concern was to protect the propeller and rudder. If a collision
seemed to be inevitable the officer in charge would order “slow” or
“half speed” with the engines, and put the helm over so as to strike
floe a glancing blow. Then the helm would be put over towards the ice
with the object of throwing the propeller clear of it, and the ship
would forge ahead again. Worsley, Wild, and I, with three officers,
kept three watches while we were working through the pack, so that we
had two officers on deck all the time. The carpenter had rigged a
six-foot wooden semaphore on the bridge to enable the navigating
officer to give the seamen or scientists at the wheel the direction and
the exact amount of helm required. This device saved time, as well as
the effort of shouting. We were pushing through this loose pack all
day, and the view from the crow’s-nest gave no promise of improved
conditions ahead. A Weddell seal and a crab-eater seal were noticed on
the floes, but we did not pause to secure fresh meat. It was important
that we should make progress towards our goal as rapidly as possible,
and there was reason to fear that we should have plenty of time to
spare later on if the ice conditions continued to increase in severity.

On the morning of December 12 we were working through loose pack which
later became thick in places. The sky was overcast and light snow was
falling. I had all square sail set at 7 a.m. in order to take advantage
of the northerly breeze, but it had to come in again five hours later
when the wind hauled round to the west. The noon position was lat. 60°
26´ S., long. 17° 58´ W., and the run for the twenty-four hours had
been only 33 miles. The ice was still badly congested, and we were
pushing through narrow leads and occasional openings with the floes
often close abeam on either side. Antarctic, snow and stormy petrels,
fulmars, white-rumped terns, and adelies were around us. The quaint
little penguins found the ship a cause of much apparent excitement and
provided a lot of amusement aboard. One of the standing jokes was that
all the adelies on the floe seemed to know Clark, and when he was at
the wheel rushed along as fast as their legs could carry them, yelling
out “Clark! Clark!” and apparently very indignant and perturbed that he
never waited for them or even answered them.

We found several good leads to the south in the evening, and continued
to work southward throughout the night and the following day. The pack
extended in all directions as far as the eye could reach. The noon
observation showed the run for the twenty-four hours to be 54 miles, a
satisfactory result under the conditions. Wild shot a young Ross seal
on the floe, and we manœuvred the ship alongside. Hudson jumped down,
bent a line on to the seal, and the pair of them were hauled up. The
seal was 4 ft. 9 in. long and weighed about ninety pounds. He was a
young male and proved very good eating, but when dressed and minus the
blubber made little more than a square meal for our twenty-eight men,
with a few scraps for our breakfast and tea. The stomach contained only
_amphipods_ about an inch long, allied to those found in the whales at
Grytviken.


[Illustration: Young Emperor Penguins]


[Illustration: A Huge Floe of Consolidated Pack]


The conditions became harder on December 14. There was a misty haze,
and occasional falls of snow. A few bergs were in sight. The pack was
denser than it had been on the previous days. Older ice was
intermingled with the young ice, and our progress became slower. The
propeller received several blows in the early morning, but no damage
was done. A platform was rigged under the jib-boom in order that Hurley
might secure some kinematograph pictures of the ship breaking through
the ice. The young ice did not present difficulties to the _Endurance_,
which was able to smash a way through, but the lumps of older ice were
more formidable obstacles, and conning the ship was a task requiring
close attention. The most careful navigation could not prevent an
occasional bump against ice too thick to be broken or pushed aside. The
southerly breeze strengthened to a moderate south-westerly gale during
the afternoon, and at 8 p.m. we hove to, stem against a floe, it being
impossible to proceed without serious risk of damage to rudder or
propeller. I was interested to notice that, although we had been
steaming through the pack for three days, the north-westerly swell
still held with us. It added to the difficulties of navigation in the
lanes, since the ice was constantly in movement.

The _Endurance_ remained against the floe for the next twenty-four
hours, when the gale moderated. The pack extended to the horizon in all
directions and was broken by innumerable narrow lanes. Many bergs were
in sight, and they appeared to be travelling through the pack in a
south-westerly direction under the current influence. Probably the pack
itself was moving north-east with the gale. Clark put down a net in
search of specimens, and at two fathoms it was carried south-west by
the current and fouled the propeller. He lost the net, two leads, and a
line. Ten bergs drove to the south through the pack during the
twenty-four hours. The noon position was 61° 31´ S., long. 18° 12´ W.
The gale had moderated at 8 p.m., and we made five miles to the south
before midnight and then we stopped at the end of a long lead, waiting
till the weather cleared. It was during this short run that the
captain, with semaphore hard-a-port, shouted to the scientist at the
wheel: “Why in Paradise don’t you port!” The answer came in indignant
tones: “I am blowing my nose.”

The _Endurance_ made some progress on the following day. Long leads of
open water ran towards the south-west, and the ship smashed at full
speed through occasional areas of young ice till brought up with a
heavy thud against a section of older floe. Worsley was out on the
jib-boom end for a few minutes while Wild was conning the ship, and he
came back with a glowing account of a novel sensation. The boom was
swinging high and low and from side to side, while the massive bows of
the ship smashed through the ice, splitting it across, piling it mass
on mass and then shouldering it aside. The air temperature was 37°
Fahr., pleasantly warm, and the water temperature 29° Fahr. We
continued to advance through fine long leads till 4 a.m. on December
17, when the ice became difficult again. Very large floes of
six-months-old ice lay close together. Some of these floes presented a
square mile of unbroken surface, and among them were patches of thin
ice and several floes of heavy old ice. Many bergs were in sight, and
the course became devious. The ship was blocked at one point by a
wedge-shaped piece of floe, but we put the ice-anchor through it, towed
it astern, and proceeded through the gap. Steering under these
conditions required muscle as well as nerve. There was a clatter aft
during the afternoon, and Hussey, who was at the wheel, explained that
“The wheel spun round and threw me over the top of it!” The noon
position was lat. 62° 13´ S., long. 18° 53´ W., and the run for the
preceding twenty-four hours had been 32 miles in a south-westerly
direction. We saw three blue whales during the day and one emperor
penguin, a 58-lb. bird, which was added to the larder.

The morning of December 18 found the _Endurance_ proceeding amongst
large floes with thin ice between them. The leads were few. There was a
northerly breeze with occasional snow-flurries. We secured three
crab-eater seals—two cows and a bull. The bull was a fine specimen,
nearly white all over and 9 ft. 3 in. long; he weighed 600 lbs. Shortly
before noon further progress was barred by heavy pack, and we put an
ice-anchor on the floe and banked the fires. I had been prepared for
evil conditions in the Weddell Sea, but had hoped that in December and
January, at any rate, the pack would be loose, even if no open water
was to be found. What we were actually encountering was fairly dense
pack of a very obstinate character. Pack-ice might be described as a
gigantic and interminable jigsaw-puzzle devised by nature. The parts of
the puzzle in loose pack have floated slightly apart and become
disarranged; at numerous places they have pressed together again; as
the pack gets closer the congested areas grow larger and the parts are
jammed harder till finally it becomes “close pack,” when the whole of
the jigsaw-puzzle becomes jammed to such an extent that with care and
labour it can be traversed in every direction on foot. Where the parts
do not fit closely there is, of course, open water, which freezes over,
in a few hours after giving off volumes of “frost-smoke.” In obedience
to renewed pressure this young ice “rafts,” so forming double
thicknesses of a toffee-like consistency. Again the opposing edges of
heavy floes rear up in slow and almost silent conflict, till high
“hedgerows” are formed round each part of the puzzle. At the junction
of several floes chaotic areas of piled-up blocks and masses of ice are
formed. Sometimes 5-ft. to 6-ft. piles of evenly shaped blocks of ice
are seen so neatly laid that it seems impossible for them to be
Nature’s work. Again, a winding canyon may be traversed between icy
walls 6 ft. to 10 ft. high, or a dome may be formed that under renewed
pressure bursts upward like a volcano. All the winter the drifting pack
changes—grows by freezing, thickens by rafting, and corrugates by
pressure. If, finally, in its drift it impinges on a coast, such as the
western shore of the Weddell Sea, terrific pressure is set up and an
inferno of ice-blocks, ridges, and hedgerows results, extending
possibly for 150 or 200 miles off shore. Sections of pressure ice may
drift away subsequently and become embedded in new ice.

I have given this brief explanation here in order that the reader may
understand the nature of the ice through which we pushed our way for
many hundreds of miles. Another point that may require to be explained
was the delay caused by wind while we were in the pack. When a strong
breeze or moderate gale was blowing the ship could not safely work
through any except young ice, up to about two feet in thickness. As ice
of that nature never extended for more than a mile or so, it followed
that in a gale in the pack we had always to lie to. The ship was 3 ft.
3 in. down by the stern, and while this saved the propeller and rudder
a good deal, it made the _Endurance_ practically unmanageable in close
pack when the wind attained a force of six miles an hour from ahead,
since the air currents had such a big surface forward to act upon. The
pressure of wind on bows and the yards of the foremast would cause the
bows to fall away, and in these conditions the ship could not be
steered into the narrow lanes and leads through which we had to thread
our way. The falling away of the bows, moreover, would tend to bring
the stern against the ice, compelling us to stop the engines in order
to save the propeller. Then the ship would become unmanageable and
drift away, with the possibility of getting excessive sternway on her
and so damaging rudder or propeller, the Achilles’ heel of a ship in
pack-ice.

While we were waiting for the weather to moderate and the ice to open,
I had the Lucas sounding-machine rigged over the rudder-trunk and found
the depth to be 2810 fathoms. The bottom sample was lost owing to the
line parting 60 fathoms from the end. During the afternoon three adelie
penguins approached the ship across the floe while Hussey was
discoursing sweet music on the banjo. The solemn-looking little birds
appeared to appreciate “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” but they fled in
horror when Hussey treated them to a little of the music that comes
from Scotland. The shouts of laughter from the ship added to their
dismay, and they made off as fast as their short legs would carry them.
The pack opened slightly at 6.15 p.m., and we proceeded through lanes
for three hours before being forced to anchor to a floe for the night.
We fired a Hjort mark harpoon, No. 171, into a blue whale on this day.
The conditions did not improve during December 19. A fresh to strong
northerly breeze brought haze and snow, and after proceeding for two
hours the _Endurance_ was stopped again by heavy floes. It was
impossible to manœuvre the ship in the ice owing to the strong wind,
which kept the floes in movement and caused lanes to open and close
with dangerous rapidity. The noon observation showed that we had made
six miles to the south-east in the previous twenty-four hours. All
hands were engaged during the day in rubbing shoots off our potatoes,
which were found to be sprouting freely. We remained moored to a floe
over the following day, the wind not having moderated; indeed, it
freshened to a gale in the afternoon, and the members of the staff and
crew took advantage of the pause to enjoy a vigorously contested game
of football on the level surface of the floe alongside the ship. Twelve
bergs were in sight at this time. The noon position was lat. 62° 42´
S., long. 17° 54´ W., showing that we had drifted about six miles in a
north-easterly direction.


[Illustration: Samson]


[Illustration: Ice-Flowers]


Monday, December 21, was beautifully fine, with a gentle
west-north-westerly breeze. We made a start at 3 a.m. and proceeded
through the pack in a south-westerly direction. At noon we had gained
seven miles almost due east, the northerly drift of the pack having
continued while the ship was apparently moving to the south. Petrels of
several species, penguins, and seals were plentiful, and we saw four
small blue whales. At noon we entered a long lead to the southward and
passed around and between nine splendid bergs. One mighty specimen was
shaped like the Rock of Gibraltar but with steeper cliffs, and another
had a natural dock that would have contained the _Aquitania_. A spur of
ice closed the entrance to the huge blue pool. Hurley brought out his
kinematograph-camera, in order to make a record of these bergs. Fine
long leads running east and south-east among bergs were found during
the afternoon, but at midnight the ship was stopped by small, heavy
ice-floes, tightly packed against an unbroken plain of ice. The outlook
from the mast-head was not encouraging. The big floe was at least 15
miles long and 10 miles wide. The edge could not be seen at the widest
part, and the area of the floe must have been not less than 150 square
miles. It appeared to be formed of year-old ice, not very thick and
with very few hummocks or ridges in it. We thought it must have been
formed at sea in very calm weather and drifted up from the south-east.
I had never seen such a large area of unbroken ice in the Ross Sea.

We waited with banked fires for the strong easterly breeze to moderate
or the pack to open. At 6.30 p.m. on December 22 some lanes opened and
we were able to move towards the south again. The following morning
found us working slowly through the pack, and the noon observation gave
us a gain of 19 miles S. 41° W. for the seventeen and a half hours
under steam. Many year-old adelies, three crab-eaters, six
sea-leopards, one Weddell and two blue whales were seen. The air
temperature, which had been down to 25° Fahr. on December 21, had risen
to 34° Fahr. While we were working along leads to the southward in the
afternoon, we counted fifteen bergs. Three of these were table-topped,
and one was about 70 ft high and 5 miles long. Evidently it had come
from a barrier-edge. The ice became heavier but slightly more open, and
we had a calm night with fine long leads of open water. The water was
so still that new ice was forming on the leads. We had a run of 70
miles to our credit at noon on December 24, the position being lat. 64°
32´ S., long. 17° 17´ W. All the dogs except eight had been named. I do
not know who had been responsible for some of the names, which seemed
to represent a variety of tastes. They were as follows Rugby, Upton
Bristol, Millhill, Songster, Sandy, Mack, Mercury, Wolf, Amundsen,
Hercules, Hackenschmidt, Samson, Sammy, Skipper, Caruso, Sub, Ulysses,
Spotty, Bosun, Slobbers, Sadie, Sue, Sally, Jasper, Tim, Sweep, Martin,
Splitlip, Luke, Saint, Satan, Chips, Stumps, Snapper, Painful, Bob,
Snowball, Jerry, Judge, Sooty, Rufus, Sidelights, Simeon, Swanker,
Chirgwin, Steamer, Peter, Fluffy, Steward, Slippery, Elliott, Roy,
Noel, Shakespeare, Jamie, Bummer, Smuts, Lupoid, Spider, and Sailor.
Some of the names, it will be noticed, had a descriptive flavour.

Heavy floes held up the ship from midnight till 6 a.m. on December 25,
Christmas Day. Then they opened a little and we made progress till
11.30 a.m., when the leads closed again. We had encountered good leads
and workable ice during the early part of the night, and the noon
observation showed that our run for the twenty-four hours was the best
since we entered the pack a fortnight earlier. We had made 71 miles S.
4° W. The ice held us up till the evening, and then we were able to
follow some leads for a couple of hours before the tightly packed floes
and the increasing wind compelled a stop. The celebration of Christmas
was not forgotten. Grog was served at midnight to all on deck. There
was grog again at breakfast, for the benefit of those who had been in
their bunks at midnight. Lees had decorated the wardroom with flags and
had a little Christmas present for each of us. Some of us had presents
from home to open. Later there was a really splendid dinner, consisting
of turtle soup, whitebait, jugged hare, Christmas pudding, mince-pies,
dates, figs and crystallized fruits, with rum and stout as drinks. In
the evening everybody joined in a “sing-song.” Hussey had made a
one-stringed violin, on which, in the words of Worsley, he “discoursed
quite painlessly.” The wind was increasing to a moderate south-easterly
gale and no advance could be made, so we were able to settle down to
the enjoyments of the evening.

The weather was still bad on December 26 and 27, and the _Endurance_
remained anchored to a floe. The noon position on the 26th was lat. 65°
43´ S., long. 17° 36´ W. We made another sounding on this day with the
Lucas machine and found bottom at 2819 fathoms. The specimen brought up
was a terrigenous blue mud (glacial deposit) with some _radiolaria_.
Every one took turns at the work of heaving in, two men working
together in ten-minute spells.

Sunday, December 27, was a quiet day aboard. The southerly gale was
blowing the snow in clouds off the floe and the temperature had fallen
to 23° Fahr. The dogs were having an uncomfortable time in their deck
quarters. The wind had moderated by the following morning, but it was
squally with snow-flurries, and I did not order a start till 11 p.m.
The pack was still close, but the ice was softer and more easily
broken. During the pause the carpenter had rigged a small stage over
the stern. A man was stationed there to watch the propeller and prevent
it striking heavy ice, and the arrangement proved very valuable. It
saved the rudder as well as the propeller from many blows.

The high winds that had prevailed for four and a half days gave way to
a gentle southerly breeze in the evening of December 29. Owing to the
drift we were actually eleven miles farther north than we had been on
December 25. But we made fairly good progress on the 30th in fine,
clear weather. The ship followed a long lead to the south-east during
the afternoon and evening, and at 11 p.m. we crossed the Antarctic
Circle. An examination of the horizon disclosed considerable breaks in
the vast circle of pack-ice, interspersed with bergs of different
sizes. Leads could be traced in various directions, but I looked in
vain for an indication of open water. The sun did not set that night,
and as it was concealed behind a bank of clouds we had a glow of
crimson and gold to the southward, with delicate pale green reflections
in the water of the lanes to the south-east.

The ship had a serious encounter with the ice on the morning of
December 31. We were stopped first by floes closing around us, and then
about noon the _Endurance_ got jammed between two floes heading
east-north-east. The pressure heeled the ship over six degrees while we
were getting an ice-anchor on to the floe in order to heave astern and
thus assist the engines, which were running at full speed. The effort
was successful. Immediately afterwards, at the spot where the
_Endurance_ had been held, slabs of ice 50 ft. by 15 ft. and 4 ft.
thick were forced ten or twelve feet up on the lee floe at an angle of
45°. The pressure was severe, and we were not sorry to have the ship
out of its reach. The noon position was lat. 66° 47´ S., long. 15° 52´
W., and the run for the preceding twenty-four hours was 51 miles S. 29°
E.

“Since noon the character of the pack has improved,” wrote Worsley on
this day. “Though the leads are short, the floes are rotten and easily
broken through if a good place is selected with care and judgment. In
many cases we find large sheets of young ice through which the ship
cuts for a mile or two miles at a stretch. I have been conning and
working the ship from the crow’s-nest and find it much the best place,
as from there one can see ahead and work out the course beforehand, and
can also guard the rudder and propeller, the most vulnerable parts of a
ship in the ice. At midnight, as I was sitting in the ‘tub’ I heard a
clamorous noise down on the deck, with ringing of bells, and realized
that it was the New Year.” Worsley came down from his lofty seat and
met Wild, Hudson, and myself on the bridge, where we shook hands and
wished one another a happy and successful New Year. Since entering the
pack on December 11 we had come 480 miles, through loose and close
pack-ice. We had pushed and fought the little ship through, and she had
stood the test well, though the propeller had received some shrewd
blows against hard ice and the vessel had been driven against the floe
until she had fairly mounted up on it and slid back rolling heavily
from side to side. The rolling had been more frequently caused by the
operation of cracking through thickish young ice, where the crack had
taken a sinuous course. The ship, in attempting to follow it, struck
first one bilge and then the other, causing her to roll six or seven
degrees. Our advance through the pack had been in a S. 10° E.
direction, and I estimated that the total steaming distance had
exceeded 700 miles. The first 100 miles had been through loose pack,
but the greatest hindrances had been three moderate south-westerly
gales, two lasting for three days each and one for four and a half
days. The last 250 miles had been through close pack alternating with
fine long leads and stretches of open water.

During the weeks we spent manœuvring to the south through the tortuous
mazes of the pack it was necessary often to split floes by driving the
ship against them. This form of attack was effective against ice up to
three feet in thickness, and the process is interesting enough to be
worth describing briefly. When the way was barred by a floe of moderate
thickness we would drive the ship at half speed against it, stopping
the engines just before the impact. At the first blow the _Endurance_
would cut a V-shaped nick in the face of the floe, the slope of her
cutwater often causing her bows to rise till nearly clear of the water,
when she would slide backwards, rolling slightly. Watching carefully
that loose lumps of ice did not damage the propeller, we would reverse
the engines and back the ship off 200 to 300 yds. She would then be
driven full speed into the V, taking care to hit the centre accurately.
The operation would be repeated until a short dock was cut, into which
the ship, acting as a large wedge, was driven. At about the fourth
attempt, if it was to succeed at all, the floe would yield. A black,
sinuous line, as though pen-drawn on white paper, would appear ahead,
broadening as the eye traced it back to the ship. Presently it would be
broad enough to receive her, and we would forge ahead. Under the bows
and alongside, great slabs of ice were being turned over and slid back
on the floe, or driven down and under the ice or ship. In this way the
_Endurance_ would split a 2-ft. to 3-ft. floe a square mile in extent.
Occasionally the floe, although cracked across, would be so held by
other floes that it would refuse to open wide, and so gradually would
bring the ship to a standstill. We would then go astern for some
distance and again drive her full speed into the crack, till finally
the floe would yield to the repeated onslaughts.




CHAPTER II
NEW LAND


The first day of the New Year (January 1, 1915) was cloudy, with a
gentle northerly breeze and occasional snow-squalls. The condition of
the pack improved in the evening, and after 8 p.m. we forged ahead
rapidly through brittle young ice, easily broken by the ship. A few
hours later a moderate gale came up from the east, with continuous
snow. After 4 a.m. on the 2nd we got into thick old pack-ice, showing
signs of heavy pressure. It was much hummocked, but large areas of open
water and long leads to the south-west continued until noon. The
position then was lat. 69° 49´ S., long. 15° 42´ W., and the run for
the twenty-four hours had been 124 miles S. 3° W. This was cheering.

The heavy pack blocked the way south after midday. It would have been
almost impossible to have pushed the ship into the ice, and in any case
the gale would have made such a proceeding highly dangerous. So we
dodged along to the west and north, looking for a suitable opening
towards the south. The good run had given me hope of sighting the land
on the following day, and the delay was annoying. I was growing anxious
to reach land on account of the dogs, which had not been able to get
exercise for four weeks, and were becoming run down. We passed at least
two hundred bergs during the day, and we noticed also large masses of
hummocky bay-ice and ice-foot. One floe of bay-ice had black earth upon
it, apparently basaltic in origin, and there was a large berg with a
broad band of yellowish brown right through it. The stain may have been
volcanic dust. Many of the bergs had quaint shapes. There was one that
exactly resembled a large two-funnel liner, complete in silhouette
except for smoke. Later in the day we found an opening in the pack and
made 9 miles to the south-west, but at 2 a.m. on January 3 the lead
ended in hummocky ice, impossible to penetrate. A moderate easterly
gale had come up with snow-squalls, and we could not get a clear view
in any direction. The hummocky ice did not offer a suitable anchorage
for the ship, and we were compelled to dodge up and down for ten hours
before we were able to make fast to a small floe under the lee of a
berg 120 ft. high. The berg broke the wind and saved us drifting fast
to leeward. The position was lat. 69° 59´ S., long. 17° 31´ W. We made
a move again at 7 p.m., when we took in the ice-anchor and proceeded
south, and at 10 p.m. we passed a small berg that the ship had nearly
touched twelve hours previously. Obviously we were not making much
headway. Several of the bergs passed during this day were of solid blue
ice, indicating true glacier origin.

By midnight of the 3rd we had made 11 miles to the south, and then came
to a full stop in weather so thick with snow that we could not learn if
the leads and lanes were worth entering. The ice was hummocky, but,
fortunately, the gale was decreasing, and after we had scanned all the
leads and pools within our reach we turned back to the north-east. Two
sperm and two large blue whales were sighted, the first we had seen for
260 miles. We saw also petrels, numerous adelies, emperors,
crab-eaters, and sea-leopards. The clearer weather of the morning
showed us that the pack was solid and impassable from the south-east to
the south-west, and at 10 a.m. on the 4th we again passed within five
yards of the small berg that we had passed twice on the previous day.
We had been steaming and dodging about over an area of twenty square
miles for fifty hours, trying to find an opening to the south,
south-east, or south-west, but all the leads ran north, north-east, or
north-west. It was as though the spirits of the Antarctic were pointing
us to the backward track—the track we were determined not to follow.
Our desire was to make easting as well as southing so as to reach the
land, if possible, east of Ross’s farthest South and well east of
Coats’ Land. This was more important as the prevailing winds appeared
to be to easterly, and every mile of easting would count. In the
afternoon we went west in some open water, and by 4 p.m. we were making
west-south-west with more water opening up ahead. The sun was shining
brightly, over three degrees high at midnight, and we were able to
maintain this direction in fine weather till the following noon. The
position then was lat. 70° 28´ S., long. 20° 16´ W., and the run had
been 62 miles S. 62° W. At 8 a.m. there had been open water from north
round by west to south-west, but impenetrable pack to the south and
east. At 3 p.m. the way to the south-west and west-north-west was
absolutely blocked, and as we experienced a set to the west, I did not
feel justified in burning more of the reduced stock of coal to go west
or north. I took the ship back over our course for four miles, to a
point where some looser pack gave faint promise of a way through; but,
after battling for three hours with very heavy hummocked ice and making
four miles to the south, we were brought up by huge blocks and floes of
very old pack. Further effort seemed useless at that time, and I gave
the order to bank fires after we had moored the _Endurance_ to a solid
floe. The weather was clear, and some enthusiastic football-players had
a game on the floe until, about midnight, Worsley dropped through a
hole in rotten ice while retrieving the ball. He had to be retrieved
himself.

Solid pack still barred the way to the south on the following morning
(January 6). There was some open water north of the floe, but as the
day was calm and I did not wish to use coal in a possibly vain search
for an opening to the southward, I kept the ship moored to the floe.
This pause in good weather gave an opportunity to exercise the dogs,
which were taken on to the floe by the men in charge of them. The
excitement of the animals was intense. Several managed to get into the
water, and the muzzles they were wearing did not prevent some hot
fights. Two dogs which had contrived to slip their muzzles fought
themselves into an icy pool and were hauled out still locked in a
grapple. However, men and dogs enjoyed the exercise. A sounding gave a
depth of 2400 fathoms, with a blue mud bottom. The wind freshened from
the west early the next morning, and we started to skirt the northern
edge of the solid pack in an easterly direction under sail. We had
cleared the close pack by noon, but the outlook to the south gave small
promise of useful progress, and I was anxious now to make easting. We
went north-east under sail, and after making thirty-nine miles passed a
peculiar berg that we had been abreast of sixty hours earlier.
Killer-whales were becoming active around us, and I had to exercise
caution in allowing any one to leave the ship. These beasts have a
habit of locating a resting seal by looking over the edge of a floe and
then striking through the ice from below in search of a meal; they
would not distinguish between seal and man.

The noon position on January 8 was lat. 70° 0´ S., long. 19° 09´ W. We
had made 66 miles in a north-easterly direction during the preceding
twenty-four hours. The course during the afternoon was east-south-east
through loose pack and open water, with deep hummocky floes to the
south. Several leads to the south came in view, but we held on the
easterly course. The floes were becoming looser, and there were
indications of open water ahead. The ship passed not fewer than five
hundred bergs that day, some of them very large. A dark water-sky
extended from east to south-south-east on the following morning, and
the _Endurance_, working through loose pack at half speed, reached open
water just before noon. A rampart berg 150 ft. high and a quarter of a
mile long lay at the edge of the loose pack, and we sailed over a
projecting foot of this berg into rolling ocean, stretching to the
horizon. The sea extended from a little to the west of south, round by
east to north-north-east, and its welcome promise was supported by a
deep water-sky to the south. I laid a course south by east in an
endeavour to get south and east of Ross’s farthest south (lat. 71° 30´
S.).

We kept the open water for a hundred miles, passing many bergs but
encountering no pack. Two very large whales, probably blue whales, came
up close to the ship, and we saw spouts in all directions. Open water
inside the pack in that latitude might have the appeal of sanctuary to
the whales, which are harried by man farther north. The run southward
in blue water, with a path clear ahead and the miles falling away
behind us, was a joyful experience after the long struggle through the
ice-lanes. But, like other good things, our spell of free movement had
to end. The _Endurance_ encountered the ice again at 1 a.m. on the
10th. Loose pack stretched to east and south, with open water to the
west and a good watersky. It consisted partly of heavy hummocky ice
showing evidence of great pressure, but contained also many thick, flat
floes evidently formed in some sheltered bay and never subjected to
pressure or to much motion. The swirl of the ship’s wash brought
diatomaceous scum from the sides of this ice. The water became thick
with _diatoms_ at 9 a.m., and I ordered a cast to be made. No bottom
was found at 210 fathoms. The _Endurance_ continued to advance
southward through loose pack that morning. We saw the spouts of
numerous whales and noticed some hundreds of crab-eaters lying on the
floes. White-rumped terns, Antarctic petrels and snow petrels were
numerous, and there was a colony of adelies on a low berg. A few
killer-whales, with their characteristic high dorsal fin, also came in
view. The noon position was lat. 72° 02´ S., long. 16° 07´ W., and the
run for the twenty-four hours had been 136 miles S. 6° E.

We were now in the vicinity of the land discovered by Dr. W. S. Bruce,
leader of the _Scotia_ Expedition, in 1904, and named by him Coats’
Land. Dr. Bruce encountered an ice-barrier in lat. 72° 18´ S., long.
10° W., stretching from north-east to south-west. He followed the
barrier-edge to the south-west for 150 miles and reached lat. 74° 1´
S., long. 22° W. He saw no naked rock, but his description of rising
slopes of snow and ice, with shoaling water off the barrier-wall,
indicated clearly the presence of land. It was up those slopes, at a
point as far south as possible, that I planned to begin the march
across the Antarctic continent. All hands were watching now for the
coast described by Dr. Bruce, and at 5 p.m. the look-out reported an
appearance of land to the south-south-east. We could see a gentle
snow-slope rising to a height of about one thousand feet. It seemed to
be an island or a peninsula with a sound on its south side, and the
position of its most northerly point was about 72° 34´ S., 16° 40´ W.
The _Endurance_ was passing through heavy loose pack, and shortly
before midnight she broke into a lead of open sea along a barrier-edge.
A sounding within one cable’s length of the barrier-edge gave no bottom
with 210 fathoms of line. The barrier was 70 ft. high, with cliffs of
about 40 ft. The _Scotia_ must have passed this point when pushing to
Bruce’s farthest south on March 6, 1904, and I knew from the narrative
of that voyage, as well as from our own observation, that the coast
trended away to the south-west. The lead of open water continued along
the barrier-edge, and we pushed forward without delay.

An easterly breeze brought cloud and falls of snow during the morning
of January 11. The barrier trended south-west by south, and we skirted
it for fifty miles until 11 am. The cliffs in the morning were 20 ft.
high, and by noon they had increased to 110 and 115 ft. The brow
apparently rose 20 to 30 ft. higher. We were forced away from the
barrier once for three hours by a line of very heavy pack-ice.
Otherwise there was open water along the edge, with high loose pack to
the west and north-west. We noticed a seal bobbing up and down in an
apparent effort to swallow a long silvery fish that projected at least
eighteen inches from its mouth. The noon position was lat. 73° 13´ S.,
long. 20° 43´ W., and a sounding then gave 155 fathoms at a distance of
a mile from the barrier. The bottom consisted of large igneous pebbles.
The weather then became thick, and I held away to the westward, where
the sky had given indications of open water, until 7 p.m., when we laid
the ship alongside a floe in loose pack. Heavy snow was falling, and I
was anxious lest the westerly wind should bring the pack hard against
the coast and jam the ship. The _Nimrod_ had a narrow escape from a
misadventure of this kind in the Ross Sea early in 1908.

We made a start again at 5 a.m. the next morning (January 12) in
overcast weather with mist and snow-showers, and four hours later broke
through loose pack-ice into open water. The view was obscured, but we
proceeded to the south-east and had gained 24 miles by noon, when three
soundings in lat. 74° 4´ S., long. 22° 48´ W. gave 95, 128, and 103
fathoms, with a bottom of sand, pebbles, and mud. Clark got a good haul
of biological specimens in the dredge. The _Endurance_ was now close to
what appeared to be the barrier, with a heavy pack-ice foot containing
numerous bergs frozen in and possibly aground. The solid ice turned
away towards the north-west, and we followed the edge for 48 miles N.
60° W. to clear it.


[Illustration: Midnight off the New Land]


[Illustration: New Land: Caird Coast]


Now we were beyond the point reached by the _Scotia_, and the land
underlying the ice-sheet we were skirting was new. The northerly trend
was unexpected, and I began to suspect that we were really rounding a
huge ice-tongue attached to the true barrier-edge and extending
northward. Events confirmed this suspicion. We skirted the pack all
night, steering north-west; then went west by north till 4 a.m. and
round to south-west. The course at 8 a.m. on the 13th was
south-south-west. The barrier at midnight was low and distant, and at 8
a.m. there was merely a narrow ice-foot about two hundred yards across
separating it from the open water. By noon there was only an occasional
shelf of ice-foot. The barrier in one place came with an easy sweep to
the sea. We could have landed stores there without difficulty. We made
a sounding 400 ft. off the barrier but got no bottom at 676 fathoms. At
4 p.m., still following the barrier to the south-west, we reached a
corner and found it receding abruptly to the south-east. Our way was
blocked by very heavy pack, and after spending two hours in a vain
search for an opening, we moored the _Endurance_ to a floe and banked
fires. During that day we passed two schools of seals, swimming fast to
the north-west and north-north-east. The animals swam in close order,
rising and blowing like porpoises, and we wondered if there was any
significance in their journey northward at that time of the year.
Several young emperor penguins had been captured and brought aboard on
the previous day. Two of them were still alive when the _Endurance_ was
brought alongside the floe. They promptly hopped on to the ice, turned
round, bowed gracefully three times, and retired to the far side of the
floe. There is something curiously human about the manners and
movements of these birds. I was concerned about the dogs. They were
losing condition and some of them appeared to be ailing. One dog had to
be shot on the 12th. We did not move the ship on the 14th. A breeze
came from the east in the evening, and under its influence the pack
began to work off shore. Before midnight the close ice that had barred
our way had opened and left a lane along the foot of the barrier. I
decided to wait for the morning, not wishing to risk getting caught
between the barrier and the pack in the event of the wind changing. A
sounding gave 1357 fathoms, with a bottom of glacial mud. The noon
observation showed the position to be lat. 74° 09´ S., long. 27° 16´ W.
We cast off at 6 a.m. on the 15th in hazy weather with a north-easterly
breeze, and proceeded along the barrier in open water. The course was
south-east for sixteen miles, then south-south-east. We now had solid
pack to windward, and at 3 p.m. we passed a bight probably ten miles
deep and running to the north-east. A similar bight appeared at 6 p.m.
These deep cuts strengthened the impression we had already formed that
for several days we had been rounding a great mass of ice, at least
fifty miles across, stretching out from the coast and possibly destined
to float away at some time in the future. The soundings—roughly, 200
fathoms at the landward side and 1300 fathoms at the seaward
side—suggested that this mighty projection was afloat. Seals were
plentiful. We saw large numbers on the pack and several on low parts of
the barrier, where the slope was easy. The ship passed through large
schools of seals swimming from the barrier to the pack off shore. The
animals were splashing and blowing around the _Endurance_, and Hurley
made a record of this unusual sight with the kinematograph-camera.

The barrier now stretched to the south-west again. Sail was set to a
fresh easterly breeze, but at 7 p.m. it had to be furled, the
_Endurance_ being held up by pack-ice against the barrier for an hour.
We took advantage of the pause to sound and got 268 fathoms with
glacial mud and pebbles. Then a small lane appeared ahead. We pushed
through at full speed, and by 8.30 p.m. the _Endurance_ was moving
southward with sails set in a fine expanse of open water. We continued
to skirt the barrier in clear weather. I was watching for possible
landing-places, though as a matter of fact I had no intention of
landing north of Vahsel Bay, in Luitpold Land, except under pressure of
necessity. Every mile gained towards the south meant a mile less
sledging when the time came for the overland journey.

Shortly before midnight on the 15th we came abreast of the northern
edge of a great glacier or overflow from the inland ice, projecting
beyond the barrier into the sea. It was 400 or 500 ft. high, and at its
edge was a large mass of thick bay-ice. The bay formed by the northern
edge of this glacier would have made an excellent landing-place. A flat
ice-foot nearly three feet above sea-level looked like a natural quay.
From this ice-foot a snow-slope rose to the top of the barrier. The bay
was protected from the south-easterly wind and was open only to the
northerly wind, which is rare in those latitudes. A sounding gave 80
fathoms, indicating that the glacier was aground. I named the place
Glacier Bay, and had reason later to remember it with regret.

The _Endurance_ steamed along the front of this ice-flow for about
seventeen miles. The glacier showed huge crevasses and high pressure
ridges, and appeared to run back to ice-covered slopes or hills 1000 or
2000 ft. high. Some bays in its front were filled with smooth ice,
dotted with seals and penguins. At 4 a.m. on the 16th we reached the
edge of another huge glacial overflow from the ice-sheet. The ice
appeared to be coming over low hills and was heavily broken. The
cliff-face was 250 to 350 ft. high, and the ice surface two miles
inland was probably 2000 ft. high. The cliff-front showed a tide-mark
of about 6 ft., proving that it was not afloat. We steamed along the
front of this tremendous glacier for 40 miles and then, at 8.30 a.m.,
we were held up by solid pack-ice, which appeared to be held by
stranded bergs. The depth, two cables off the barrier-cliff, was 134
fathoms. No further advance was possible that day, but the noon
observation, which gave the position as lat. 76° 27´ S. long. 28° 51´
W., showed that we had gained 124 miles to the south-west during the
preceding twenty-four hours. The afternoon was not without incident.
The bergs in the neighbourhood were very large, several being over 200
ft. high, and some of them were firmly aground, showing tidemarks. A
barrier-berg bearing north-west appeared to be about 25 miles long. We
pushed the ship against a small banded berg, from which Wordie secured
several large lumps of biotite granite. While the _Endurance_ was being
held slow ahead against the berg a loud crack was heard, and the
geologist had to scramble aboard at once. The bands on this berg were
particularly well defined; they were due to morainic action in the
parent glacier. Later in the day the easterly wind increased to a gale.
Fragments of floe drifted past at about two knots, and the pack to
leeward began to break up fast. A low berg of shallow draught drove
down into the grinding pack and, smashing against two larger stranded
bergs, pushed them off the bank. The three went away together
pell-mell. We took shelter under the lee of a large stranded berg.

A blizzard from the east-north-east prevented us leaving the shelter of
the berg on the following day (Sunday, January 17). The weather was
clear, but the gale drove dense clouds of snow off the land and
obscured the coast-line most of the time. “The land, seen when the air
is clear, appears higher than we thought it yesterday; probably it
rises to 3000 ft. above the head of the glacier. Caird Coast, as I have
named it, connects Coats’ Land, discovered by Bruce in 1904, with
Luitpold Land, discovered by Filchner in 1912. The northern part is
similar in character to Coats’ Land. It is fronted by an undulating
barrier, the van of a mighty ice-sheet that is being forced outward
from the high interior of the Antarctic Continent and apparently is
sweeping over low hills, plains, and shallow seas as the great Arctic
ice-sheet once pressed over Northern Europe. The barrier surface, seen
from the sea, is of a faint golden brown colour. It terminates usually
in cliffs ranging from 10 to 300 ft. in height, but in a very few
places sweeps down level with the sea. The cliffs are of dazzling
whiteness, with wonderful blue shadows. Far inland higher slopes can be
seen, appearing like dim blue or faint golden fleecy clouds. These
distant slopes have increased in nearness and clearness as we have come
to the south-west, while the barrier cliffs here are higher and
apparently firmer. We are now close to the junction with Luitpold Land.
At this southern end of the Caird Coast the ice-sheet, undulating over
the hidden and imprisoned land, is bursting down a steep slope in
tremendous glaciers, bristling with ridges and spikes of ice and seamed
by thousands of crevasses. Along the whole length of the coast we have
seen no bare land or rock. Not as much as a solitary nunatak has
appeared to relieve the surface of ice and snow. But the upward sweep
of the ice-slopes towards the horizon and the ridges, terraces, and
crevasses that appear as the ice approaches the sea tell of the hills
and valleys that lie below.”


[Illustration: Close Under the Barrier]


[Illustration: Trying to cut a way for the Ship through the Ice to a
Lead ahead (February 14, 1915)]


The _Endurance_ lay under the lee of the stranded berg until 7 a.m. on
January 18. The gale had moderated by that time, and we proceeded under
sail to the south-west through a lane that had opened along the
glacier-front. We skirted the glacier till 9.30 a.m., when it ended in
two bays, open to the north-west but sheltered by stranded bergs to the
west. The coast beyond trended south-south-west with a gentle
land-slope.

“The pack now forces us to go west 14 miles, when we break through a
long line of heavy brash mixed with large lumps and ‘growlers.’ We do
this under the fore-topsail only, the engines being stopped to protect
the propeller. This takes us into open water, where we make S. 50° W.
for 24 miles. Then we again encounter pack which forces us to the
north-west for 10 miles, when we are brought up by heavy snow-lumps,
brash, and large, loose floes. The character of the pack shows change.
The floes are very thick and are covered by deep snow. The brash
between the floes is so thick and heavy that we cannot push through
without a great expenditure of power, and then for a short distance
only. We therefore lie to for a while to see if the pack opens at all
when this north-east wind ceases.”

Our position on the morning of the 19th was lat. 76° 34´ S., long. 31°
30´ W. The weather was good, but no advance could be made. The ice had
closed around the ship during the night, and no water could be seen in
any direction from the deck. A few lanes were in sight from the
mast-head. We sounded in 312 fathoms, finding mud, sand, and pebbles.
The land showed faintly to the east. We waited for the conditions to
improve, and the scientists took the opportunity to dredge for
biological and geological specimens. During the night a moderate
north-easterly gale sprang up, and a survey of the position on the 20th
showed that the ship was firmly beset. The ice was packed heavily and
firmly all round the _Endurance_ in every direction as far as the eye
could reach from the masthead. There was nothing to be done till the
conditions changed, and we waited through that day and the succeeding
days with increasing anxiety. The east-north-easterly gale that had
forced us to take shelter behind the stranded berg on the 16th had
veered later to the north-east, and it continued with varying intensity
until the 22nd. Apparently this wind had crowded the ice into the bight
of the Weddell Sea, and the ship was now drifting south-west with the
floes which had enclosed it. A slight movement of the ice round the
ship caused the rudder to become dangerously jammed on the 21st, and we
had to cut away the ice with ice-chisels, heavy pieces of iron with
6-ft. wooden hafts. We kept steam up in readiness for a move if the
opportunity offered, and the engines running full speed ahead helped to
clear the rudder. Land was in sight to the east and south about sixteen
miles distant on the 22nd. The land-ice seemed to be faced with
ice-cliffs at most points, but here and there slopes ran down to
sea-level. Large crevassed areas in terraces parallel with the coast
showed where the ice was moving down over foot-hills. The inland ice
appeared for the most part to be undulating, smooth, and easy to march
over, but many crevasses might have been concealed from us by the
surface snow or by the absence of shadows. I thought that the land
probably rose to a height of 5000 ft. forty or fifty miles inland. The
accurate estimation of heights and distances in the Antarctic is always
difficult, owing to the clear air, the confusing monotony of colouring,
and the deceptive effect of mirage and refraction. The land appeared to
increase in height to the southward, where we saw a line of land or
barrier that must have been seventy miles, and possibly was even more
distant.

Sunday, January 24, was a clear sunny day, with gentle easterly and
southerly breezes. No open water could be seen from the mast-head, but
there was a slight water-sky to the west and north-west. “This is the
first time for ten days that the wind has varied from north-east and
east, and on five of these days it has risen to a gale. Evidently the
ice has become firmly packed in this quarter, and we must wait
patiently till a southerly gale occurs or currents open the ice. We are
drifting slowly. The position to-day was 76° 49´ S., 33° 51´ W. Worsley
and James, working on the floe with a Kew magnetometer, found the
variation to be six degrees west.” Just before midnight a crack
developed in the ice five yards wide and a mile long, fifty yards ahead
of the ship. The crack had widened to a quarter of a mile by 10 a.m. on
the 25th, and for three hours we tried to force the ship into this
opening with engines at full speed ahead and all sails set. The sole
effect was to wash some ice away astern and clear the rudder, and after
convincing myself that the ship was firmly held I abandoned the
attempt. Later in the day Crean and two other men were over the side on
a stage chipping at a large piece of ice that had got under the ship
and appeared to be impeding her movement. The ice broke away suddenly,
shot upward and overturned, pinning Crean between the stage and the
haft of the heavy 11-ft. iron pincher. He was in danger for a few
moments, but we got him clear, suffering merely from a few bad bruises.
The thick iron bar had been bent against him to an angle of 45 degrees.

The days that followed were uneventful. Moderate breezes from the east
and south-west had no apparent effect upon the ice, and the ship
remained firmly held. On the 27th, the tenth day of inactivity, I
decided to let the fires out. We had been burning half a ton of coal a
day to keep steam in the boilers, and as the bunkers now contained only
67 tons, representing thirty-three days’ steaming, we could not afford
to continue this expenditure of fuel. Land still showed to the east and
south when the horizon was clear. The biologist was securing some
interesting specimens with the hand-dredge at various depths. A
sounding on the 26th gave 360 fathoms, and another on the 29th 449
fathoms. The drift was to the west, and an observation on the 31st
(Sunday) showed that the ship had made eight miles during the week.
James and Hudson rigged the wireless in the hope of hearing the monthly
message from the Falkland Islands. This message would be due about 3.20
a.m. on the following morning, but James was doubtful about hearing
anything with our small apparatus at a distance of 1630 miles from the
dispatching station. We heard nothing, as a matter of fact, and later
efforts were similarly unsuccessful. The conditions would have been
difficult even for a station of high power.

We were accumulating gradually a stock of seal meat during these days
of waiting. Fresh meat for the dogs was needed, and seal-steaks and
liver made a very welcome change from the ship’s rations aboard the
_Endurance_. Four crab-eaters and three Weddells, over a ton of meat
for dog and man, fell to our guns on February 2, and all hands were
occupied most of the day getting the carcasses back to the ship over
the rough ice. We rigged three sledges for man-haulage and brought the
seals about two miles, the sledging parties being guided among the
ridges and pools by semaphore from the crow’s-nest. Two more seals were
sighted on the far side of a big pool, but I did not allow them to be
pursued. Some of the ice was in a treacherous condition, with thin
films hiding cracks and pools, and I did not wish to risk an accident.

A crack about four miles long opened in the floe to the stern of the
ship on the 3rd. The narrow lane in front was still open, but the
prevailing light breezes did not seem likely to produce any useful
movement in the ice. Early on the morning of the 5th a north-easterly
gale sprang up, bringing overcast skies and thick snow. Soon the pack
was opening and closing without much loosening effect. At noon the ship
gave a sudden start and heeled over three degrees. Immediately
afterwards a crack ran from the bows to the lead ahead and another to
the lead astern. I thought it might be possible to reeve the ship
through one of these leads towards open water, but we could see no
water through the thick snow; and before steam was raised, and while
the view was still obscured, the pack closed again. The northerly gale
had given place to light westerly breezes on the 6th. The pack seemed
to be more solid than ever. It stretched almost unbroken to the horizon
in every direction, and the situation was made worse by very low
temperatures in succeeding days. The temperature was down to zero on
the night of the 7th and was two degrees below zero on the 8th. This
cold spell in midsummer was most unfortunate from our point of view,
since it cemented the pack and tightened the grip of the ice upon the
ship. The slow drift to the south-west continued, and we caught
occasional glimpses of distant uplands on the eastern horizon. The
position on the 7th was lat. 76° 57´ S., long. 35° 7´ W. Soundings on
the 6th and 8th found glacial mud at 630 and 529 fathoms.

The _Endurance_ was lying in a pool covered by young ice on the 9th.
The solid floes had loosened their grip on the ship itself, but they
were packed tightly all around. The weather was foggy. We felt a slight
northerly swell coming through the pack, and the movement gave rise to
hope that there was open water near to us. At 11 a.m. a long crack
developed in the pack, running east and west as far as we could see
through the fog, and I ordered steam to be raised in the hope of being
able to break away into this lead. The effort failed. We could break
the young ice in the pool, but the pack defied us. The attempt was
renewed on the 11th, a fine clear day with blue sky. The temperature
was still low, –2° Fahr. at midnight. After breaking through some young
ice the _Endurance_ became jammed against soft floe. The engines
running full speed astern produced no effect until all hands joined in
“sallying” ship. The dog-kennels amidships made it necessary for the
people to gather aft, where they rushed from side to side in a mass in
the confined space around the wheel. This was a ludicrous affair, the
men falling over one another amid shouts of laughter without producing
much effect on the ship. She remained fast, while all hands jumped at
the word of command, but finally slid off when the men were stamping
hard at the double. We were now in a position to take advantage of any
opening that might appear. The ice was firm around us, and as there
seemed small chance of making a move that day, I had the motor crawler
and warper put out on the floe for a trial run. The motor worked most
successfully, running at about six miles an hour over slabs and ridges
of ice hidden by a foot or two of soft snow. The surface was worse than
we would expect to face on land or barrier-ice. The motor warped itself
back on a 500-fathom steel wire and was taken aboard again. “From the
mast-head the mirage is continually giving us false alarms. Everything
wears an aspect of unreality. Icebergs hang upside down in the sky; the
land appears as layers of silvery or golden cloud. Cloud-banks look
like land, icebergs masquerade as islands or nunataks, and the distant
barrier to the south is thrown into view, although it really is outside
our range of vision. Worst of all is the deceptive appearance of open
water, caused by the refraction of distant water, or by the sun shining
at an angle on a field of smooth snow or the face of ice-cliffs below
the horizon.”

The second half of February produced no important change in our
situation. Early in the morning of the 14th I ordered a good head of
steam on the engines and sent all hands on to the floe with
ice-chisels, prickers, saws, and picks. We worked all day and
throughout most of the next day in a strenuous effort to get the ship
into the lead ahead. The men cut away the young ice before the bows and
pulled it aside with great energy. After twenty-four hours’ labour we
had got the ship a third of the way to the lead. But about 400 yards of
heavy ice, including old rafted pack, still separated the _Endurance_
from the water, and reluctantly I had to admit that further effort was
useless. Every opening we made froze up again quickly owing to the
unseasonably low temperature. The young ice was elastic and prevented
the ship delivering a strong, splitting blow to the floe, while at the
same time it held the older ice against any movement. The abandonment
of the attack was a great disappointment to all hands. The men had
worked long hours without thought of rest, and they deserved success.
But the task was beyond our powers. I had not abandoned hope of getting
clear, but was counting now on the possibility of having to spend a
winter in the inhospitable arms of the pack. The sun, which had been
above the horizon for two months, set at midnight on the 17th, and,
although it would not disappear until April, its slanting rays warned
us of the approach of winter. Pools and leads appeared occasionally,
but they froze over very quickly.

We continued to accumulate a supply of seal meat and blubber, and the
excursions across the floes to shoot and bring in the seals provided
welcome exercise for all hands. Three crab-eater cows shot on the 21st
were not accompanied by a bull, and blood was to be seen about the hole
from which they had crawled. We surmised that the bull had become the
prey of one of the killer-whales. These aggressive creatures were to be
seen often in the lanes and pools, and we were always distrustful of
their ability or willingness to discriminate between seal and man. A
lizard-like head would show while the killer gazed along the floe with
wicked eyes. Then the brute would dive, to come up a few moments later,
perhaps, under some unfortunate seal reposing on the ice. Worsley
examined a spot where a killer had smashed a hole 8 ft. by 12 ft. in
12½ in. of hard ice, covered by 2½ in. of snow. Big blocks of ice had
been tossed on to the floe surface. Wordie, engaged in measuring the
thickness of young ice, went through to his waist one day just as a
killer rose to blow in the adjacent lead. His companions pulled him out
hurriedly.

On the 22nd the _Endurance_ reached the farthest south point of her
drift, touching the 77th parallel of latitude in long. 35° W. The
summer had gone; indeed the summer had scarcely been with us at all.
The temperatures were low day and night, and the pack was freezing
solidly around the ship. The thermometer recorded 10° below zero Fahr.
at 2 a.m. on the 22nd. Some hours earlier we had watched a wonderful
golden mist to the southward, where the rays of the declining sun shone
through vapour rising from the ice. All normal standards of perspective
vanish under such conditions, and the low ridges of the pack, with mist
lying between them, gave the illusion of a wilderness of mountain-peaks
like the Bernese Oberland. I could not doubt now that the _Endurance_
was confined for the winter. Gentle breezes from the east, south, and
south-west did not disturb the hardening floes. The seals were
disappearing and the birds were leaving us. The land showed still in
fair weather on the distant horizon, but it was beyond our reach now,
and regrets for havens that lay behind us were vain.

“We must wait for the spring, which may bring us better fortune. If I
had guessed a month ago that the ice would grip us here, I would have
established our base at one of the landing-places at the great glacier.
But there seemed no reason to anticipate then that the fates would
prove unkind. This calm weather with intense cold in a summer month is
surely exceptional. My chief anxiety is the drift. Where will the
vagrant winds and currents carry the ship during the long winter months
that are ahead of us? We will go west, no doubt, but how far? And will
it be possible to break out of the pack early in the spring and reach
Vahsel Bay or some other suitable landing-place? These are momentous
questions for us.”

On February 24 we ceased to observe ship routine, and the _Endurance_
became a winter station. All hands were on duty during the day and
slept at night, except a watchman who looked after the dogs and watched
for any sign of movement in the ice. We cleared a space of 10 ft. by 20
ft. round the rudder and propeller, sawing through ice 2 ft. thick, and
lifting the blocks with a pair of tongs made by the carpenter. Crean
used the blocks to make an ice-house for the dog Sally, which had added
a little litter of pups to the strength of the expedition. Seals
appeared occasionally, and we killed all that came within our reach.
They represented fuel as well as food for men and dogs. Orders were
given for the after-hold to be cleared and the stores checked, so that
we might know exactly how we stood for a siege by an Antarctic winter.
The dogs went off the ship on the following day. Their kennels were
placed on the floe along the length of a wire rope to which the leashes
were fastened. The dogs seemed heartily glad to leave the ship, and
yelped loudly and joyously as they were moved to their new quarters. We
had begun the training of teams, and already there was keen rivalry
between the drivers. The flat floes and frozen leads in the
neighbourhood of the ship made excellent training grounds. Hockey and
football on the floe were our chief recreations, and all hands joined
in many a strenuous game.


[Illustration: The Night Watchman’s Story]


[Illustration: The Dying Sun: The _Endurance_ firmly frozen in]


Worsley took a party to the floe on the 26th and started building a
line of igloos and “dogloos” round the ship. These little buildings
were constructed, Esquimaux fashion, of big blocks of ice, with thin
sheets for the roofs. Boards or frozen sealskins were placed over all,
snow was piled on top and pressed into the joints, and then water was
thrown over the structures to make everything firm. The ice was packed
down flat inside and covered with snow for the dogs, which preferred,
however, to sleep outside except when the weather was extraordinarily
severe. The tethering of the dogs was a simple matter. The end of a
chain was buried about eight inches in the snow, some fragments of ice
were pressed around it, and a little water poured over all. The icy
breath of the Antarctic cemented it in a few moments. Four dogs which
had been ailing were shot. Some of the dogs were suffering badly from
worms, and the remedies at our disposal, unfortunately, were not
effective. All the fit dogs were being exercised in the sledges, and
they took to the work with enthusiasm. Sometimes their eagerness to be
off and away produced laughable results, but the drivers learned to be
alert. The wireless apparatus was still rigged, but we listened in vain
for the Saturday-night time signals from New Year Island, ordered for
our benefit by the Argentine Government. On Sunday the 28th, Hudson
waited at 2 a.m. for the Port Stanley monthly signals, but could hear
nothing. Evidently the distances were too great for our small plant.




CHAPTER III
WINTER MONTHS


The month of March opened with a severe north-easterly gale. Five
Weddells and two crab-eaters were shot on the floe during the morning
of March 1, and the wind, with fine drifting snow, sprang up while the
carcasses were being brought in by sledging parties. The men were
compelled to abandon some of the blubber and meat, and they had a
struggle to get back to the ship over the rough ice in the teeth of the
storm. This gale continued until the 3rd, and all hands were employed
clearing out the ’tween decks, which was to be converted into a living-
and dining-room for officers and scientists. The carpenter erected in
this room the stove that had been intended for use in the shore hut,
and the quarters were made very snug. The dogs appeared indifferent to
the blizzard. They emerged occasionally from the drift to shake
themselves and bark, but were content most of the time to lie, curled
into tight balls, under the snow. One of the old dogs, Saint, died on
the night of the 2nd, and the doctors reported that the cause of death
was appendicitis.

When the gale cleared we found that the pack had been driven in from
the north-east and was now more firmly consolidated than before. A new
berg, probably fifteen miles in length, had appeared on the northern
horizon. The bergs within our circle of vision had all become familiar
objects, and we had names for some of them. Apparently they were all
drifting with the pack. The sighting of a new berg was of more than
passing interest, since in that comparatively shallow sea it would be
possible for a big berg to become stranded. Then the island of ice
would be a centre of tremendous pressure and disturbance amid the
drifting pack. We had seen something already of the smashing effect of
a contest between berg and floe, and had no wish to have the helpless
_Endurance_ involved in such a battle of giants. During the 3rd the
seal meat and blubber was re-stowed on hummocks around the ship. The
frozen masses had been sinking into the floe. Ice, though hard and
solid to the touch, is never firm against heavy weights. An article
left on the floe for any length of time is likely to sink into the
surface-ice. Then the salt water will percolate through and the article
will become frozen into the body of the floe.

Clear weather followed the gale, and we had a series of mock suns and
parhelia. Minus temperatures were the rule, 21° below zero Fahr. being
recorded on the 6th. We made mattresses for the dogs by stuffing sacks
with straw and rubbish, and most of the animals were glad to receive
this furnishing in their kennels. Some of them had suffered through the
snow melting with the heat of their bodies and then freezing solid. The
scientific members of the expedition were all busy by this time. The
meteorologist had got his recording station, containing anemometer,
barograph, and thermograph, rigged over the stern. The geologist was
making the best of what to him was an unhappy situation; but was not
altogether without material. The pebbles found in the penguins were
often of considerable interest, and some fragments of rock were brought
up from the sea floor with the sounding-lead and the drag-net. On the
7th Wordie and Worsley found some small pebbles, a piece of moss, a
perfect bivalve shell, and some dust on a berg fragment, and brought
their treasure-trove proudly to the ship. Clark was using the drag-net
frequently in the leads and secured good hauls of _plankton_, with
occasional specimens of greater scientific interest. Seals were not
plentiful, but our store of meat and blubber grew gradually. All hands
ate seal meat with relish and would not have cared to become dependent
on the ship’s tinned meat. We preferred the crab-eater to the Weddell,
which is a very sluggish beast. The crab-eater seemed cleaner and
healthier. The killer-whales were still with us. On the 8th we examined
a spot where the floe-ice had been smashed up by a blow from beneath,
delivered presumably by a large whale in search of a breathing-place.
The force that had been exercised was astonishing. Slabs of ice 3 ft.
thick, and weighing tons, had been tented upwards over a circular area
with a diameter of about 25 ft., and cracks radiated outwards for more
than 20 ft.

The quarters in the ’tween decks were completed by the 10th, and the
men took possession of the cubicles that had been built. The largest
cubicle contained Macklin, McIlroy, Hurley, and Hussey and it was named
“The Billabong.” Clark and Wordie lived opposite in a room called “Auld
Reekie.” Next came the abode of “The Nuts” or engineers, followed by
“The Sailors’ Rest,” inhabited by Cheetham and McNeish. “The Anchorage”
and “The Fumarole” were on the other side. The new quarters became
known as “The Ritz,” and meals were served there instead of in the ward
room. Breakfast was at 9 a.m., lunch at 1 p.m., tea at 4 p.m., and
dinner at 6 p.m. Wild, Marston, Crean, and Worsley established
themselves in cubicles in the wardroom, and by the middle of the month
all hands had settled down to the winter routine. I lived alone aft.

Worsley, Hurley, and Wordie made a journey to a big berg, called by us
the Rampart Berg, on the 11th. The distance out was 7½ miles, and the
party covered a total distance of about 17 miles. Hurley took some
photographs and Wordie came back rejoicing with a little dust and some
moss.

“Within a radius of one mile round the berg there is thin young ice,
strong enough to march over with care,” wrote Worsley. “The area of
dangerous pressure, as regards a ship, does not seem to extend for more
than a quarter of a mile from the berg. Here there are cracks and
constant slight movement, which becomes exciting to the traveller when
he feels a piece of ice gradually upending beneath his feet. Close to
the berg the pressure makes all sorts of quaint noises. We heard
tapping as from a hammer, grunts, groans and squeaks, electric trams
running, birds singing, kettles boiling noisily, and an occasional
swish as a large piece of ice, released from pressure, suddenly jumped
or turned over. We noticed all sorts of quaint effects, such as huge
bubbles or domes of ice, 40 ft. across and 4 or 5 ft. high. Large
sinuous pancake-sheets were spread over the floe in places, and in one
spot we counted five such sheets, each about 2½ in. thick, imbricated
under one another. They look as though made of barley-sugar and are
very slippery.”

The noon position on the 14th was lat. 76° 54´ S., long. 36° 10´ W. The
land was visible faintly to the south-east, distant about 36 miles. A
few small leads could be seen from the ship, but the ice was firm in
our neighbourhood. The drift of the _Endurance_ was still towards the
north-west.


[Illustration: The Rampart Berg]


[Illustration: A Bi-Weekly Performance: Scrubbing out the “Ritz”]


I had the boilers blown down on the 15th, and the consumption of 2 cwt.
of coal per day to keep the boilers from freezing then ceased. The
bunkers still contained 52 tons of coal, and the daily consumption in
the stoves was about 2½ cwt. There would not be much coal left for
steaming purposes in the spring, but I anticipated eking out the supply
with blubber. A moderate gale from the north-east on the 17th brought
fine, penetrating snow. The weather cleared in the evening, and a
beautiful crimson sunset held our eyes. At the same time the ice-cliffs
of the land were thrown up in the sky by mirage, with an apparent
reflection in open water, though the land itself could not be seen
definitely. The effect was repeated in an exaggerated form on the
following day, when the ice-cliffs were thrown up above the horizon in
double and treble parallel lines, some inverted. The mirage was due
probably to lanes of open water near the land. The water would be about
30° warmer than the air and would cause warmed strata to ascend. A
sounding gave 606 fathoms, with a bottom of glacial mud. Six days
later, on the 24th, the depth was 419 fathoms. We were drifting
steadily, and the constant movement, coupled with the appearance of
lanes near the land, convinced me that we must stay by the ship till
she got clear. I had considered the possibility of making a landing
across the ice in the spring, but the hazards of such an undertaking
would be too great.

The training of the dogs in sledge teams was making progress. The
orders used by the drivers were “Mush” (Go on), “Gee” (Right), “Haw”
(Left), and “Whoa” (Stop). These are the words that the Canadian
drivers long ago adopted, borrowing them originally from England. There
were many fights at first, until the dogs learned their positions and
their duties, but as days passed drivers and teams became efficient.
Each team had its leader, and efficiency depended largely on the
willingness and ability of this dog to punish skulking and
disobedience. We learned not to interfere unless the disciplinary
measures threatened to have a fatal termination. The drivers could sit
on the sledge and jog along at ease if they chose. But the prevailing
minus temperatures made riding unpopular, and the men preferred usually
to run or walk alongside the teams. We were still losing dogs through
sickness, due to stomach and intestinal worms.

Dredging for specimens at various depths was one of the duties during
these days. The dredge and several hundred fathoms of wire line made a
heavy load, far beyond the unaided strength of the scientists. On the
23rd, for example, we put down a 2 ft. dredge and 650 fathoms of wire.
The dredge was hove in four hours later and brought much glacial mud,
several pebbles and rock fragments, three sponges, some worms,
_brachiapods_, and _foraminiferæ_. The mud was troublesome. It was
heavy to lift, and as it froze rapidly when brought to the surface, the
recovery of the specimens embedded in it was difficult. A haul made on
the 26th brought a prize for the geologist in the form of a lump of
sandstone weighing 75 lbs., a piece of fossiliferous limestone, a
fragment of striated shale, sandstone-grit, and some pebbles. Hauling
in the dredge by hand was severe work, and on the 24th we used the
Girling tractor-motor, which brought in 500 fathoms of line in thirty
minutes, including stops. One stop was due to water having run over the
friction gear and frozen. It was a day or two later that we heard a
great yell from the floe and found Clark dancing about and shouting
Scottish war-cries. He had secured his first complete specimen of an
Antarctic fish, apparently a new species.

Mirages were frequent. Barrier-cliffs appeared all around us on the
29th, even in places where we knew there was deep water.

“Bergs and pack are thrown up in the sky and distorted into the most
fantastic shapes. They climb, trembling, upwards, spreading out into
long lines at different levels, then contract and fall down, leaving
nothing but an uncertain, wavering smudge which comes and goes.
Presently the smudge swells and grows, taking shape until it presents
the perfect inverted reflection of a berg on the horizon, the shadow
hovering over the substance. More smudges appear at different points on
the horizon. These spread out into long lines till they meet, and we
are girdled by lines of shining snow-cliffs, laved at their bases by
waters of illusion in which they appear to be faithfully reflected. So
the shadows come and go silently, melting away finally as the sun
declines to the west. We seem to be drifting helplessly in a strange
world of unreality. It is reassuring to feel the ship beneath one’s
feet and to look down at the familiar line of kennels and igloos on the
solid floe.”

The floe was not so solid as it appeared. We had reminders occasionally
that the greedy sea was very close, and that the floe was but a
treacherous friend, which might open suddenly beneath us. Towards the
end of the month I had our store of seal meat and blubber brought
aboard. The depth as recorded by a sounding on the last day of March
was 256 fathoms. The continuous shoaling from 606 fathoms in a drift of
39 miles N. 26° W. in thirty days was interesting. The sea shoaled as
we went north, either to east or to west, and the fact suggested that
the contour-lines ran east and west, roughly. Our total drift between
January 19, when the ship was frozen in, and March 31, a period of
seventy-one days, had been 95 miles in a N. 80° W. direction. The
icebergs around us had not changed their relative positions.

The sun sank lower in the sky, the temperatures became lower, and the
_Endurance_ felt the grip of the icy hand of winter. Two north-easterly
gales in the early part of April assisted to consolidate the pack. The
young ice was thickening rapidly, and though leads were visible
occasionally from the ship, no opening of a considerable size appeared
in our neighbourhood. In the early morning of April 1 we listened again
for the wireless signals from Port Stanley. The crew had lashed three
20-ft. rickers to the mast-heads in order to increase the spread of our
aerials, but still we failed to hear anything. The rickers had to come
down subsequently, since we found that the gear could not carry the
accumulating weight of rime. Soundings proved that the sea continued to
shoal as the _Endurance_ drifted to the north-west. The depth on April
2 was 262 fathoms, with a bottom of glacial mud. Four weeks later a
sounding gave 172 fathoms. The presence of grit in the bottom samples
towards the end of the month suggested that we were approaching land
again.

The month was not uneventful. During the night of the 3rd we heard the
ice grinding to the eastward, and in the morning we saw that young ice
was rafted 8 to 10 ft. high in places. This was the first murmur of the
danger that was to reach menacing proportions in later months. The ice
was heard grinding and creaking during the 4th and the ship vibrated
slightly. The movement of the floe was sufficiently pronounced to
interfere with the magnetic work. I gave orders that accumulations of
snow, ice, and rubbish alongside the _Endurance_ should be shovelled
away, so that in case of pressure there would be no weight against the
topsides to check the ship rising above the ice. All hands were busy
with pick and shovel during the day, and moved many tons of material.
Again, on the 9th, there were signs of pressure. Young ice was piled up
to a height of 11 ft. astern of the ship, and the old floe was cracked
in places. The movement was not serious, but I realized that it might
be the beginning of trouble for the Expedition. We brought certain
stores aboard and provided space on deck for the dogs in case they had
to be removed from the floe at short notice. We had run a 500-fathom
steel wire round the ship, snow-huts, and kennels, with a loop out to
the lead ahead, where the dredge was used. This wire was supported on
ice-pillars, and it served as a guide in bad weather when the view was
obscured by driving snow and a man might have lost himself altogether.
I had this wire cut in five places, since otherwise it might have been
dragged across our section of the floe with damaging effect in the
event of the ice splitting suddenly.

The dogs had been divided into six teams of nine dogs each. Wild,
Crean, Macklin, McIlroy, Marston, and Hurley each had charge of a team,
and were fully responsible for the exercising, training, and feeding of
their own dogs. They called in one of the surgeons when an animal was
sick. We were still losing some dogs through worms, and it was
unfortunate that the doctors had not the proper remedies. Worm-powders
were to have been provided by the expert Canadian dog-driver I had
engaged before sailing for the south, and when this man did not join
the Expedition the matter was overlooked. We had fifty-four dogs and
eight pups early in April, but several were ailing, and the number of
mature dogs was reduced to fifty by the end of the month. Our store of
seal meat amounted now to about 5000 lbs., and I calculated that we had
enough meat and blubber to feed the dogs for ninety days without
trenching upon the sledging rations. The teams were working well, often
with heavy loads. The biggest dog was Hercules, who tipped the beam at
86 lbs. Samson was 11 lbs. lighter, but he justified his name one day
by starting off at a smart pace with a sledge carrying 200 lbs. of
blubber and a driver.


[Illustration: Pylon Avenue]


[Illustration: The Long, Long Night]


A new berg that was going to give us some cause for anxiety made its
appearance on the 14th. It was a big berg, and we noticed as it lay on
the north-west horizon that it had a hummocky, crevassed appearance at
the east end. During the day this berg increased its apparent altitude
and changed its bearing slightly. Evidently it was aground and was
holding its position against the drifting pack. A sounding at 11 a.m.
gave 197 fathoms, with a hard stony or rocky bottom. During the next
twenty-four hours the _Endurance_ moved steadily towards the crevassed
berg, which doubled its altitude in that time. We could see from the
mast-head that the pack was piling and rafting against the mass of ice,
and it was easy to imagine what would be the fate of the ship if she
entered the area of disturbance. She would be crushed like an egg-shell
amid the shattering masses.

Worsley was in the crow’s-nest on the evening of the 15th, watching for
signs of land to the westward, and he reported an interesting
phenomenon. The sun set amid a glow of prismatic colours on a line of
clouds just above the horizon. A minute later Worsley saw a golden
glow, which expanded as he watched it, and presently the sun appeared
again and rose a semi-diameter clear above the western horizon. He
hailed Crean, who from a position on the floe 90 ft. below the
crow’s-nest also saw the re-born sun. A quarter of an hour later from
the deck Worsley saw the sun set a second time. This strange phenomenon
was due to mirage or refraction. We attributed it to an ice-crack to
the westward, where the band of open water had heated a stratum of air.

The drift of the pack was not constant, and during the succeeding days
the crevassed berg alternately advanced and receded as the _Endurance_
moved with the floe. On Sunday, April 18, it was only seven miles
distant from the ship.

“It is a large berg, about three-quarters of a mile long on the side
presented to us and probably well over 200 ft. high. It is heavily
crevassed, as though it once formed the serac portion of a glacier. Two
specially wide and deep chasms across it from south-east to north-west
give it the appearance of having broken its back on the shoal-ground.
Huge masses of pressure-ice are piled against its cliffs to a height of
about 60 ft., showing the stupendous force that is being brought to
bear upon it by the drifting pack. The berg must be very firmly
aground. We swing the arrow on the current-meter frequently and watch
with keen attention to see where it will come to rest. Will it point
straight for the berg, showing that our drift is in that direction? It
swings slowly round. It points to the north-east end of the berg, then
shifts slowly to the centre and seems to stop; but it moves again and
swings 20 degrees clear of our enemy to the south-west.... We notice
that two familiar bergs, the Rampart Berg and the Peak Berg, have moved
away from the ship. Probably they also have grounded or dragged on the
shoal.”

A strong drift to the westward during the night of the 18th relieved
our anxiety by carrying the _Endurance_ to the lee of the crevassed
berg, which passed out of our range of vision before the end of the
month.

We said good-bye to the sun on May 1 and entered the period of twilight
that would be followed by the darkness of midwinter. The sun by the aid
of refraction just cleared the horizon at noon and set shortly before 2
p.m. A fine aurora in the evening was dimmed by the full moon, which
had risen on April 27 and would not set again until May 6. The
disappearance of the sun is apt to be a depressing event in the polar
regions, where the long months of darkness involve mental as well as
physical strain. But the _Endurance’s_ company refused to abandon their
customary cheerfulness, and a concert in the evening made the Ritz a
scene of noisy merriment, in strange contrast with the cold, silent
world that lay outside. “One feels our helplessness as the long winter
night closes upon us. By this time, if fortune had smiled upon the
Expedition, we would have been comfortably and securely established in
a shore base, with depots laid to the south and plans made for the long
march in the spring and summer. Where will we make a landing now? It is
not easy to forecast the future. The ice may open in the spring, but by
that time we will be far to the north-west. I do not think we shall be
able to work back to Vahsel Bay. There are possible landing-places on
the western coast of the Weddell Sea, but can we reach any suitable
spot early enough to attempt the overland journey next year? Time alone
will tell. I do not think any member of the Expedition is disheartened
by our disappointment. All hands are cheery and busy, and will do their
best when the time for action comes. In the meantime we must wait.”

The ship’s position on Sunday, May 2, was lat. 75° 23´ S., long. 42°
14´ W. The temperature at noon was 5° below zero Fahr., and the sky was
overcast. A seal was sighted from the mast-head at lunch-time, and five
men, with two dog teams, set off after the prize. They had an
uncomfortable journey outward in the dim, diffused light, which cast no
shadows and so gave no warning of irregularities in the white surface.
It is a strange sensation to be running along on apparently smooth snow
and to fall suddenly into an unseen hollow, or bump against a ridge.

“After going out three miles to the eastward,” wrote Worsley in
describing this seal-hunt, “we range up and down but find nothing,
until from a hummock I fancy I see something apparently a mile away,
but probably little more than half that distance. I ran for it, found
the seal, and with a shout brought up the others at the double. The
seal was a big Weddell, over 10 ft. long and weighing more than 800
lbs. But Soldier, one of the team leaders, went for its throat without
a moment’s hesitation, and we had to beat off the dogs before we could
shoot the seal. We caught five or six gallons of blood in a tin for the
dogs, and let the teams have a drink of fresh blood from the seal. The
light was worse than ever on our return, and we arrived back in the
dark. Sir Ernest met us with a lantern and guided us into the lead
astern and thence to the ship.”

This was the first seal we had secured since March 19, and the meat and
blubber made a welcome addition to the stores.

Three emperor penguins made their appearance in a lead west of the ship
on May 3. They pushed their heads through the young ice while two of
the men were standing by the lead. The men imitated the emperor’s call
and walked slowly, penguin fashion, away from the lead. The birds in
succession made a magnificent leap 3 ft. clear from the water on to the
young ice. Thence they tobogganed to the bank and followed the men away
from the lead. Their retreat was soon cut off by a line of men.

“We walk up to them, talking loudly and assuming a threatening aspect.
Notwithstanding our bad manners, the three birds turn towards us,
bowing ceremoniously. Then, after a closer inspection, they conclude
that we are undesirable acquaintances and make off across the floe. We
head them off and finally shepherd them close to the ship, where the
frenzied barking of the dogs so frightens them that they make a
determined effort to break through the line. We seize them. One bird of
philosophic mien goes quietly, led by one flipper. The others show
fight, but all are imprisoned in an igloo for the night.... In the
afternoon we see five emperors in the western lead and capture one.
Kerr and Cheetham fight a valiant action with two large birds. Kerr
rushes at one, seizes it, and is promptly knocked down by the angered
penguin, which jumps on his chest before retiring. Cheetham comes to
Kerr’s assistance; and between them they seize another penguin, bind
his bill and lead him, muttering muffled protests, to the ship like an
inebriated old man between two policemen. He weighs 85 lbs., or 5 lbs.
less than the heaviest emperor captured previously. Kerr and Cheetham
insist that he is nothing to the big fellow who escaped them.”

This penguin’s stomach proved to be filled with freshly caught fish up
to 10 in. long. Some of the fish were of a coastal or littoral variety.
Two more emperors were captured on the following day, and, while Wordie
was leading one of them towards the ship, Wild came along with his
team. The dogs, uncontrollable in a moment, made a frantic rush for the
bird, and were almost upon him when their harness caught upon an
ice-pylon, which they had tried to pass on both sides at once. The
result was a seething tangle of dogs, traces, and men, and an
overturned sled, while the penguin, three yards away, nonchalantly and
indifferently surveyed the disturbance. He had never seen anything of
the kind before and had no idea at all that the strange disorder might
concern him. Several cracks had opened in the neighbourhood of the
ship, and the emperor penguins, fat and glossy of plumage, were
appearing in considerable numbers. We secured nine of them on May 6, an
important addition to our supply of fresh food.

The sun, which had made “positively his last appearance” seven days
earlier, surprised us by lifting more than half its disk above the
horizon on May 8. A glow on the northern horizon resolved itself into
the sun at 11 a.m. that day. A quarter of an hour later the
unseasonable visitor disappeared again, only to rise again at 11.40
a.m., set at 1 p.m., rise at 1.10 p.m., and set lingeringly at 1.20
p.m. These curious phenomena were due to refraction, which amounted to
2° 37´ at 1.20 p.m. The temperature was 15° below zero Fahr. and we
calculated that the refraction was 2° above normal. In other words, the
sun was visible 120 miles farther south than the refraction tables gave
it any right to be. The navigating officer naturally was aggrieved. He
had informed all hands on May 1 that they would not see the sun again
for seventy days, and now had to endure the jeers of friends who
affected to believe that his observations were inaccurate by a few
degrees.

The _Endurance_ was drifting north-north-east under the influence of a
succession of westerly and south-westerly breezes. The ship’s head, at
the same time, swung gradually to the left, indicating that the floe in
which she was held was turning. During the night of the 14th a very
pronounced swing occurred, and when daylight came at noon on the 15th
we observed a large lead running from the north-west horizon towards
the ship till it struck the western lead, circling ahead of the ship,
then continuing to the south-south-east. A lead astern connected with
this new lead on either side of the _Endurance_, thus separating our
floe completely from the main body of the pack. A blizzard from the
south-east swept down during the 16th. At 1 p.m. the blizzard lulled
for five minutes; then the wind jumped round to the opposite quarter
and the barometer rose suddenly. The centre of a cyclonic movement had
passed over us, and the compass recorded an extraordinarily rapid swing
of the floe. I could see nothing through the mist and snow, and I
thought it possible that a magnetic storm or a patch of local magnetic
attraction had caused the compass, and not the floe, to swing, Our floe
was now about 2½ miles long north and south and 3 miles wide east and
west.

The month of May passed with few incidents of importance. Hurley, our
handy man, installed our small electric-lighting plant and placed
lights for occasional use in the observatory, the meteorological
station, and various other points. We could not afford to use the
electric lamps freely. Hurley also rigged two powerful lights on poles
projecting from the ship to port and starboard. These lamps would
illuminate the “dogloos” brilliantly on the darkest winter’s day and
would be invaluable in the event of the floe breaking during the dark
days of winter. We could imagine what it would mean to get fifty dogs
aboard without lights while the floe was breaking and rafting under our
feet. May 24, Empire Day, was celebrated with the singing of patriotic
songs in the Ritz, where all hands joined in wishing a speedy victory
for the British arms. We could not know how the war was progressing,
but we hoped that the Germans had already been driven from France and
that the Russian armies had put the seal on the Allies’ success. The
war was a constant subject of discussion aboard the _Endurance_, and
many campaigns were fought on the map during the long months of
drifting. The moon in the latter part of May was sweeping continuously
through our starlit sky in great high circles. The weather generally
was good, with constant minus temperatures. The log on May 27 recorded:

“Brilliantly fine clear weather with bright moonlight throughout. The
moon’s rays are wonderfully strong, making midnight seem as light as an
ordinary overcast midday in temperate climes. The great clearness of
the atmosphere probably accounts for our having eight hours of twilight
with a beautiful soft golden glow to the northward. A little rime and
glazed frost are found aloft. The temperature is –20° Fahr. A few wisps
of cirrus-cloud are seen and a little frost-smoke shows in one or two
directions, but the cracks and leads near the ship appear to have
frozen over again.”


[Illustration: The Pups]


[Illustration: Ice-Pressure Approaching the Ship]


Crean had started to take the pups out for runs, and it was very
amusing to see them with their rolling canter just managing to keep
abreast by the sledge and occasionally cocking an eye with an appealing
look in the hope of being taken aboard for a ride. As an addition to
their foster-father, Crean, the pups had adopted Amundsen. They
tyrannized over him most unmercifully. It was a common sight to see
him, the biggest dog in the pack, sitting out in the cold with an air
of philosophic resignation while a corpulent pup occupied the entrance
to his “dogloo.” The intruder was generally the pup Nelson, who just
showed his forepaws and face, and one was fairly sure to find Nelly,
Roger, and Toby coiled up comfortably behind him. At hoosh-time Crean
had to stand by Amundsen’s food, since otherwise the pups would eat the
big dog’s ration while he stood back to give them fair play. Sometimes
their consciences would smite them and they would drag round a seal’s
head, half a penguin, or a large lump of frozen meat or blubber to
Amundsen’s kennel for rent. It was interesting to watch the big dog
play with them, seizing them by throat or neck in what appeared to be a
fierce fashion, while really quite gentle with them, and all the time
teaching them how to hold their own in the world and putting them up to
all the tricks of dog life.

The drift of the _Endurance_ in the grip of the pack continued without
incident of importance through June. Pressure was reported
occasionally, but the ice in the immediate vicinity of the ship
remained firm. The light was now very bad except in the period when the
friendly moon was above the horizon. A faint twilight round about noon
of each day reminded us of the sun, and assisted us in the important
work of exercising the dogs. The care of the teams was our heaviest
responsibility in those days. The movement of the floes was beyond all
human control, and there was nothing to be gained by allowing one’s
mind to struggle with the problems of the future, though it was hard to
avoid anxiety at times. The conditioning and training of the dogs
seemed essential, whatever fate might be in store for us, and the teams
were taken out by their drivers whenever the weather permitted.
Rivalries arose, as might have been expected, and on the 15th of the
month a great race, the “Antarctic Derby,” took place. It was a notable
event. The betting had been heavy, and every man aboard the ship stood
to win or lose on the result of the contest. Some money had been
staked, but the wagers that thrilled were those involving stores of
chocolate and cigarettes. The course had been laid off from Khyber
Pass, at the eastern end of the old lead ahead of the ship, to a point
clear of the jib-boom, a distance of about 700 yds. Five teams went out
in the dim noon twilight, with a zero temperature and an aurora
flickering faintly to the southward. The starting signal was to be
given by the flashing of a light on the meteorological station. I was
appointed starter, Worsley was judge, and James was timekeeper. The
bos’n, with a straw hat added to his usual Antarctic attire, stood on a
box near the winning-post, and was assisted by a couple of shady
characters to shout the odds, which were displayed on a board hung
around his neck—6 to 4 on Wild, “evens” on Crean, 2 to 1 against
Hurley, 6 to 1 against Macklin, and 8 to 1 against McIlroy. Canvas
handkerchiefs fluttered from an improvised grand stand, and the pups,
which had never seen such strange happenings before, sat round and
howled with excitement. The spectators could not see far in the dim
light, but they heard the shouts of the drivers as the teams approached
and greeted the victory of the favourite with a roar of cheering that
must have sounded strange indeed to any seals or penguins that happened
to be in our neighbourhood. Wild’s time was 2 min. 16 sec., or at the
rate of 10½ miles per hour for the course.

We celebrated Midwinter’s Day on the 22nd. The twilight extended over a
period of about six hours that day, and there was a good light at noon
from the moon, and also a northern glow with wisps of beautiful pink
cloud along the horizon. A sounding gave 262 fathoms with a mud bottom.
No land was in sight from the mast-head, although our range of vision
extended probably a full degree to the westward. The day was observed
as a holiday, necessary work only being undertaken, and, after the best
dinner the cook could provide, all hands gathered in the Ritz, where
speeches, songs, and toasts occupied the evening. After supper at
midnight we sang “God Save the King” and wished each other all success
in the days of sunshine and effort that lay ahead. At this time the
_Endurance_ was making an unusually rapid drift to the north under the
influence of a fresh southerly to south-westerly breeze. We travelled
39 miles to the north in five days before a breeze that only once
attained the force of a gale and then for no more than an hour. The
absence of strong winds, in comparison with the almost unceasing winter
blizzards of the Ross Sea, was a feature of the Weddell Sea that
impressed itself upon me during the winter months.

Another race took place a few days after the “Derby.” The two crack
teams, driven by Hurley and Wild, met in a race from Khyber Pass.
Wild’s team, pulling 910 lbs., or 130 lbs. per dog, covered the 700
yds. in 2 min. 9 sec., or at the rate of 11.1 miles per hour. Hurley’s
team, with the same load, did the run in 2 min. 16 sec. The race was
awarded by the judge to Hurley owing to Wild failing to “weigh in”
correctly. I happened to be a part of the load on his sledge, and a
skid over some new drift within fifty yards of the winning post
resulted in my being left on the snow. It should be said in justice to
the dogs that this accident, while justifying the disqualification,
could not have made any material difference in the time.

The approach of the returning sun was indicated by beautiful sunrise
glows on the horizon in the early days of July. We had nine hours’
twilight on the 10th, and the northern sky, low to the horizon, was
tinted with gold for about seven hours. Numerous cracks and leads
extended in all directions to within 300 yds. of the ship. Thin
wavering black lines close to the northern horizon were probably
distant leads refracted into the sky. Sounds of moderate pressure came
to our ears occasionally, but the ship was not involved. At midnight on
the 11th a crack in the lead ahead of the _Endurance_ opened out
rapidly, and by 2 a.m. was over 200 yds. wide in places with an area of
open water to the south-west. Sounds of pressure were heard along this
lead, which soon closed to a width of about 30 yds. and then froze
over. The temperature at that time was –23° Fahr.

The most severe blizzard we had experienced in the Weddell Sea swept
down upon the _Endurance_ on the evening of the 13th, and by
breakfast-time on the following morning the kennels to the windward, or
southern side of the ship were buried under 5 ft. of drift. I gave
orders that no man should venture beyond the kennels. The ship was
invisible at a distance of fifty yards, and it was impossible to
preserve one’s sense of direction in the raging wind and suffocating
drift. To walk against the gale was out of the question. Face and eyes
became snowed up within two minutes, and serious frost-bites would have
been the penalty of perseverance. The dogs stayed in their kennels for
the most part, the “old stagers” putting out a paw occasionally in
order to keep open a breathing-hole. By evening the gale had attained a
force of 60 or 70 miles an hour, and the ship was trembling under the
attack. But we were snug enough in our quarters aboard until the
morning of the 14th, when all hands turned out to shovel the snow from
deck and kennels. The wind was still keen and searching, with a
temperature of something like –30° Fahr., and it was necessary for us
to be on guard against frost-bite. At least 100 tons of snow were piled
against the bows and port side, where the weight of the drift had
forced the floe downward. The lead ahead had opened out during the
night, cracked the pack from north to south and frozen over again,
adding 300 yds. to the distance between the ship and “Khyber Pass.” The
breakdown gang had completed its work by lunch-time. The gale was then
decreasing and the three-days-old moon showed as a red crescent on the
northern horizon. The temperature during the blizzard had ranged from
–21° to –33.5° Fahr. It is usual for the temperature to rise during a
blizzard, and the failure to produce any Föhn effect of this nature
suggested an absence of high land for at least 200 miles to the south
and south-west. The weather did not clear until the 16th. We saw then
that the appearance of the surrounding pack had been altered completely
by the blizzard. The “island” floe containing the _Endurance_ still
stood fast, but cracks and masses of ice thrown up by pressure could be
seen in all directions. An area of open water was visible on the
horizon to the north, with a water indication in the northern sky.

The ice-pressure, which was indicated by distant rumblings and the
appearance of formidable ridges, was increasingly a cause of anxiety.
The areas of disturbance were gradually approaching the ship. During
July 21 we could bear the grinding and crashing of the working floes to
the south-west and west and could see cracks opening, working, and
closing ahead.

“The ice is rafting up to a height of 10 or 15 ft. in places, the
opposing floes are moving against one another at the rate of about 200
yds. per hour. The noise resembles the roar of heavy, distant surf.
Standing on the stirring ice one can imagine it is disturbed by the
breathing and tossing of a mighty giant below.”

Early on the afternoon of the 22nd a 2-ft. crack, running south-west
and north-east for a distance of about two miles, approached to within
35 yds. of the port quarter. I had all the sledges brought aboard and
set a special watch in case it became necessary to get the dogs off the
floe in a hurry. This crack was the result of heavy pressure 300 yds.
away on the port bow, where huge blocks of ice were piled up in wild
and threatening confusion. The pressure at that point was enormous.
Blocks weighing many tons were raised 15 ft. above the level of the
floe. I arranged to divide the night watches with Worsley and Wild, and
none of us had much rest. The ship was shaken by heavy bumps, and we
were on the alert to see that no dogs had fallen into cracks. The
morning light showed that our island had been reduced considerably
during the night. Our long months of rest and safety seemed to be at an
end, and a period of stress had begun.

During the following day I had a store of sledging provisions, oil,
matches, and other essentials placed on the upper deck handy to the
starboard quarter boat, so as to be in readiness for a sudden
emergency. The ice was grinding and working steadily to the southward,
and in the evening some large cracks appeared on the port quarter,
while a crack alongside opened out to 15 yds. The blizzard seemed to
have set the ice in strong movement towards the north, and the
south-westerly and west-south-westerly winds that prevailed two days
out of three maintained the drift. I hoped that this would continue
unchecked, since our chance of getting clear of the pack early in the
spring appeared to depend upon our making a good northing. Soundings at
this time gave depths of from 186 to 190 fathoms, with a glacial mud
bottom. No land was in sight. The light was improving. A great deal of
ice-pressure was heard and observed in all directions during the 25th,
much of it close to the port quarter of the ship. On the starboard bow
huge blocks of ice, weighing many tons and 5 ft. in thickness, were
pushed up on the old floe to a height of 15 to 20 ft. The floe that
held the _Endurance_ was swung to and fro by the pressure during the
day, but came back to the old bearing before midnight.

“The ice for miles around is much looser. There are numerous cracks and
short leads to the north-east and south-east. Ridges are being forced
up in all directions, and there is a water-sky to the south-east. It
would be a relief to be able to make some effort on our own behalf; but
we can do nothing until the ice releases our ship. If the floes
continue to loosen, we may break out within the next few weeks and
resume the fight. In the meantime the pressure continues, and it is
hard to foresee the outcome. Just before noon to-day (July 26) the top
of the sun appeared by refraction for one minute, seventy-nine days
after our last sunset. A few minutes earlier a small patch of the sun
had been thrown up on one of the black streaks above the horizon. All
hands are cheered by the indication that the end of the winter darkness
is near.... Clark finds that with returning daylight the _diatoms_ are
again appearing. His nets and line are stained a pale yellow, and much
of the newly formed ice has also a faint brown or yellow tinge. The
_diatoms_ cannot multiply without light, and the ice formed since
February can be distinguished in the pressure-ridges by its clear blue
colour. The older masses of ice are of a dark earthy brown, dull
yellow, or reddish brown.”


[Illustration: Ice-Rafting]


[Illustration: The Returning Sun]


The break-up of our floe came suddenly on Sunday, August 1, just one
year after the _Endurance_ left the South-West India Docks on the
voyage to the Far South. The position was lat. 72° 26´ S., long. 48°
10´ W. The morning brought a moderate south-westerly gale with heavy
snow, and at 8 a.m., after some warning movements of the ice, the floe
cracked 40 yds. off the starboard bow. Two hours later the floe began
to break up all round us under pressure and the ship listed over 10
degrees to starboard. I had the dogs and sledges brought aboard at once
and the gangway hoisted. The animals behaved well. They came aboard
eagerly as though realizing their danger, and were placed in their
quarters on deck without a single fight occurring. The pressure was
cracking the floe rapidly, rafting it close to the slip and forcing
masses of ice beneath the keel. Presently the _Endurance_ listed
heavily to port against the gale, and at the same time was forced
ahead, astern, and sideways several times by the grinding floes. She
received one or two hard nips, but resisted them without as much as a
creak. It looked at one stage as if the ship was to be made the
plaything of successive floes, and I was relieved when she came to a
standstill with a large piece of our old “dock” under the starboard
bilge. I had the boats cleared away ready for lowering, got up some
additional stores, and set a double watch. All hands were warned to
stand by, get what sleep they could, and have their warmest clothing at
hand. Around us lay the ruins of “Dog Town” amid the debris of
pressure-ridges. Some of the little dwellings had been crushed flat
beneath blocks of ice; others had been swallowed and pulverized when
the ice opened beneath them and closed again. It was a sad sight, but
my chief concern just then was the safety of the rudder, which was
being attacked viciously by the ice. We managed to pole away a large
lump that had become jammed between the rudder and the stern-post, but
I could see that damage had been done, though a close examination was
not possible that day.

After the ship had come to a standstill in her new position very heavy
pressure was set up. Some of the trenails were started and beams
buckled slightly under the terrific stresses. But the _Endurance_ had
been built to withstand the attacks of the ice, and she lifted bravely
as the floes drove beneath her. The effects of the pressure around us
were awe-inspiring. Mighty blocks of ice, gripped between meeting
floes, rose slowly till they jumped like cherry-stones squeezed between
thumb and finger. The pressure of millions of tons of moving ice was
crushing and smashing inexorably. If the ship was once gripped firmly
her fate would be sealed.

The gale from the south-west blew all night and moderated during the
afternoon of the 2nd to a stiff breeze. The pressure had almost ceased.
Apparently the gale had driven the southern pack down upon us, causing
congestion in our area; the pressure had stopped when the whole of the
pack got into motion. The gale had given us some northing, but it had
dealt the _Endurance_ what might prove to be a severe blow. The rudder
had been driven hard over to starboard and the blade partially torn
away from the rudder-head. Heavy masses of ice were still jammed
against the stern, and it was impossible to ascertain the extent of the
damage at that time. I felt that it would be impossible in any case to
effect repairs in the moving pack. The ship lay steady all night, and
the sole sign of continuing pressure was an occasional slight rumbling
shock. We rigged shelters and kennels for the dogs inboard.

The weather on August 3 was overcast and misty. We had nine hours of
twilight, with good light at noon. There was no land in sight for ten
miles from the mast-head. The pack as far as the eye could reach was in
a condition of chaos, much rafted and consolidated, with very large
pressure-ridges in all directions. At 9 p.m. a rough altitude of
_Canopus_ gave the latitude as 71° 55´ 17´´ S. The drift, therefore,
had been about 37 miles to the north in three days. Four of the poorest
dogs were shot this day. They were suffering severely from worms, and
we could not afford to keep sick dogs under the changed conditions. The
sun showed through the clouds on the northern horizon for an hour on
the 4th. There was no open water to be seen from aloft in any
direction. We saw from the masthead to west-south-west an appearance of
barrier, land, or a very long iceberg, about 20 odd miles away, but the
horizon clouded over before we could determine its nature. We tried
twice to make a sounding that day, but failed on each occasion. The
Kelvin machine gave no bottom at the full length of the line, 370
fathoms. After much labour we made a hole in the ice near the
stern-post large enough for the Lucas machine with a 32-lb. lead; but
this appeared to be too light. The machine stopped at 452 fathoms,
leaving us in doubt as to whether bottom had been reached. Then in
heaving up we lost the lead, the thin wire cutting its way into the ice
and snapping. All hands and the carpenter were busy this day making and
placing kennels on the upper deck, and by nightfall all the dogs were
comfortably housed, ready for any weather. The sun showed through the
clouds above the northern horizon for nearly an hour.

The remaining days of August were comparatively uneventful. The ice
around the ship froze firm again and little movement occurred in our
neighbourhood. The training of the dogs, including the puppies,
proceeded actively, and provided exercise as well as occupation. The
drift to the north-west continued steadily. We had bad luck with
soundings, the weather interfering at times and the gear breaking on
several occasions, but a big increase in the depth showed that we had
passed over the edge of the Weddell Sea plateau. A sounding of about
1700 fathoms on August 10 agreed fairly well with Filchner’s 1924
fathoms, 130 miles east of our then position. An observation at noon of
the 8th had given us lat. 71° 23´ S., long. 49° 13´ W. Minus
temperatures prevailed still, but the daylight was increasing. We
captured a few emperor penguins which were making their way to the
south-west. Ten penguins taken on the 19th were all in poor condition,
and their stomachs contained nothing but stones and a few cuttle-fish
beaks. A sounding on the 17th gave 1676 fathoms, 10 miles west of the
charted position of Morell Land. No land could be seen from the
mast-head, and I decided that Morell Land must be added to the long
list of Antarctic islands and continental coasts that on close
investigation have resolved themselves into icebergs. On clear days we
could get an extended view in all directions from the mast-head, and
the line of the pack was broken only by familiar bergs. About one
hundred bergs were in view on a fine day, and they seemed practically
the same as when they started their drift with us nearly seven months
earlier. The scientists wished to inspect some of the neighbouring
bergs at close quarters, but sledge travelling outside the well-trodden
area immediately around the ship proved difficult and occasionally
dangerous. On August 20, for example, Worsley, Hurley, and Greenstreet
started off for the Rampart Berg and got on to a lead of young ice that
undulated perilously beneath their feet. A quick turn saved them.

A wonderful mirage of the Fata Morgana type was visible on August 20.
The day was clear and bright, with a blue sky overhead and some rime
aloft.

“The distant pack is thrown up into towering barrier-like cliffs, which
are reflected in blue lakes and lanes of water at their base. Great
white and golden cities of Oriental appearance at close intervals along
these clifftops indicate distant bergs, some not previously known to
us. Floating above these are wavering violet and creamy lines of still
more remote bergs and pack. The lines rise and fall, tremble,
dissipate, and reappear in an endless transformation scene. The
southern pack and bergs, catching the sun’s rays, are golden, but to
the north the ice-masses are purple. Here the bergs assume changing
forms, first a castle, then a balloon just clear of the horizon, that
changes swiftly into an immense mushroom, a mosque, or a cathedral. The
principal characteristic is the vertical lengthening of the object, a
small pressure-ridge being given the appearance of a line of
battlements or towering cliffs. The mirage is produced by refraction
and is intensified by the columns of comparatively warm air rising from
several cracks and leads that have opened eight to twenty miles away
north and south.”

We noticed this day that a considerable change had taken place in our
position relative to the Rampart Berg. It appeared that a big lead had
opened and that there had been some differential movement of the pack.
The opening movement might presage renewed pressure. A few hours later
the dog teams, returning from exercise, crossed a narrow crack that had
appeared ahead of the ship. This crack opened quickly to 60 ft. and
would have given us trouble if the dogs had been left on the wrong
side. It closed on the 25th and pressure followed in its neighbourhood.


[Illustration: Wild and Shackleton in the Heavy Pressure]


[Illustration: Exercising the Dogs]


On August 24 we were two miles north of the latitude of Morell’s
farthest south, and over 10° of longitude, or more than 200 miles, west
of his position. From the mast-head no land could be seen within twenty
miles, and no land of over 500 ft. altitude could have escaped
observation on our side of long. 52° W. A sounding of 1900 fathoms on
August 25 was further evidence of the non-existence of New South
Greenland. There was some movement of the ice near the ship during the
concluding days of the month. All hands were called out in the night of
August 26, sounds of pressure having been followed by the cracking of
the ice alongside the ship, but the trouble did not develop
immediately. Late on the night of the 31st the ice began to work ahead
of the ship and along the port side. Creaking and groaning of timbers,
accompanied by loud snapping sounds fore and aft, told their story of
strain. The pressure continued during the following day, beams and deck
planks occasionally buckling to the strain. The ponderous floes were
grinding against each other under the influence of wind and current,
and our ship seemed to occupy for the time being an undesirable
position near the centre of the disturbance; but she resisted staunchly
and showed no sign of water in the bilges, although she had not been
pumped out for six months. The pack extended to the horizon in every
direction. I calculated that we were 250 miles from the nearest known
land to the westward, and more than 500 miles from the nearest outpost
of civilization, Wilhelmina Bay. I hoped we would not have to undertake
a march across the moving ice-fields. The _Endurance_ we knew to be
stout and true; but no ship ever built by man could live if taken
fairly in the grip of the floes and prevented from rising to the
surface of the grinding ice. These were anxious days. In the early
morning of September 2 the ship jumped and shook to the accompaniment
of cracks and groans, and some of the men who had been in the berths
hurried on deck. The pressure eased a little later in the day, when the
ice on the port side broke away from the ship to just abaft the main
rigging. The _Endurance_ was still held aft and at the rudder, and a
large mass of ice could be seen adhering to the port bow, rising to
within three feet of the surface. I wondered if this ice had got its
grip by piercing the sheathing.




CHAPTER IV
LOSS OF THE _ENDURANCE_


The ice did not trouble us again seriously until the end of September,
though during the whole month the floes were seldom entirely without
movement. The roar of pressure would come to us across the otherwise
silent ice-fields, and bring with it a threat and a warning. Watching
from the crow’s-nest, we could see sometimes the formation of
pressure-ridges. The sunshine glittered on newly riven ice-surfaces as
the masses of shattered floe rose and fell away from the line of
pressure. The area of disturbance would advance towards us, recede, and
advance again. The routine of work and play on the _Endurance_
proceeded steadily. Our plans and preparations for any contingency that
might arise during the approaching summer had been made, but there
seemed always plenty to do in and about our prisoned ship. Runs with
the dogs and vigorous games of hockey and football on the rough
snow-covered floe kept all hands in good fettle. The record of one or
two of these September days will indicate the nature of our life and
our surroundings:

“_September_ 4.—Temperature, –14.1° Fahr. Light easterly breeze, blue
sky, and stratus clouds. During forenoon notice a distinct terra-cotta
or biscuit colour in the stratus clouds to the north. This travelled
from east to west and could conceivably have come from some of the
Graham Land volcanoes, now about 300 miles distant to the north-west.
The upper current of air probably would come from that direction. Heavy
rime. Pack unbroken and unchanged as far as visible. No land for 22
miles. No animal life observed.”

“_September_ 7.—Temperature, –10.8° Fahr. Moderate easterly to
southerly winds, overcast and misty, with light snow till midnight,
when weather cleared. Blue sky and fine clear weather to noon. Much
rime aloft. Thick fresh snow on ship and floe that glistens brilliantly
in the morning sunlight. Little clouds of faint violet-coloured mist
rise from the lower and brinier portions of the pack, which stretches
unbroken to the horizon. Very great refraction all round. A tabular
berg about fifty feet high ten miles west is a good index of the amount
of refraction. On ordinary days it shows from the mast-head, clear-cut
against the sky; with much refraction, the pack beyond at the back of
it lifts up into view; to-day a broad expanse of miles of pack is seen
above it. Numerous other bergs generally seen in silhouette are, at
first sight, lost, but after a closer scrutiny they appear as large
lumps or dark masses well below the horizon. Refraction generally
results in too big an altitude when observing the sun for position, but
to-day, the horizon is thrown up so much that the altitude is about 12´
too small. No land visible for twenty miles. No animal life observed.
Lower Clark’s tow-net with 566 fathoms of wire, and hoist it up at two
and a half miles an hour by walking across the floe with the wire.
Result rather meagre—jelly-fish and some fish larvæ. Exercise dogs in
sledge teams. The young dogs, under Crean’s care, pull as well, though
not so strongly, as the best team in the pack. Hercules for the last
fortnight or more has constituted himself leader of the orchestra. Two
or three times in the twenty-four hours he starts a howl—a deep,
melodious howl—and in about thirty seconds he has the whole pack in
full song, the great deep, booming, harmonious song of the half-wolf
pack.”

By the middle of September we were running short of fresh meat for the
dogs. The seals and penguins seemed to have abandoned our neighbourhood
altogether. Nearly five months had passed since we killed a seal, and
penguins had been seen seldom. Clark, who was using his trawl as often
as possible, reported that there was a marked absence of _plankton_ in
the sea, and we assumed that the seals and the penguins had gone in
search of their accustomed food. The men got an emperor on the 23rd.
The dogs, which were having their sledging exercise, became wildly
excited when the penguin, which had risen in a crack, was driven
ashore, and the best efforts of the drivers failed to save it alive. On
the following day Wild, Hurley, Macklin, and McIlroy took their teams
to the Stained Berg, about seven miles west of the ship, and on their
way back got a female crab-eater, which they killed, skinned, and left
to be picked up later. They ascended to the top of the berg, which lay
in about lat. 69° 30´ S., long. 51° W., and from an elevation of 110
ft. could see no land. Samples of the discoloured ice from the berg
proved to contain dust with black gritty particles or sand-grains.
Another seal, a bull Weddell, was secured on the 26th. The return of
seal-life was opportune, since we had nearly finished the winter supply
of dog-biscuit and wished to be able to feed the dogs on meat. The
seals meant a supply of blubber, moreover, to supplement our small
remaining stock of coal when the time came to get up steam again. We
initiated a daylight-saving system on this day by putting forward the
clock one hour. “This is really pandering to the base but universal
passion that men, and especially seafarers, have for getting up late,
otherwise we would be honest and make our routine earlier instead of
flogging the clock.”

During the concluding days of September the roar of the pressure grew
louder, and I could see that the area of disturbance was rapidly
approaching the ship. Stupendous forces were at work and the fields of
firm ice around the _Endurance_ were being diminished steadily.
September 30 was a bad day. It began well, for we got two penguins and
five seals during the morning. Three other seals were seen. But at 3
p.m. cracks that had opened during the night alongside the ship
commenced to work in a lateral direction. The ship sustained terrific
pressure on the port side forward, the heaviest shocks being under the
forerigging. It was the worst squeeze we had experienced. The decks
shuddered and jumped, beams arched, and stanchions buckled and shook. I
ordered all hands to stand by in readiness for whatever emergency might
arise. Even the dogs seemed to feel the tense anxiety of the moment.
But the ship resisted valiantly, and just when it appeared that the
limit of her strength was being reached the huge floe that was pressing
down upon us cracked across and so gave relief.

“The behaviour of our ship in the ice has been magnificent,” wrote
Worsley. “Since we have been beset her staunchness and endurance have
been almost past belief again and again. She has been nipped with a
million-ton pressure and risen nobly, falling clear of the water out on
the ice. She has been thrown to and fro like a shuttlecock a dozen
times. She has been strained, her beams arched upwards, by the fearful
pressure; her very sides opened and closed again as she was actually
bent and curved along her length, groaning like a living thing. It will
be sad if such a brave little craft should be finally crushed in the
remorseless, slowly strangling grip of the Weddell pack after ten
months of the bravest and most gallant fight ever put up by a ship.”

The _Endurance_ deserved all that could be said in praise of her.
Shipwrights had never done sounder or better work; but how long could
she continue the fight under such conditions? We were drifting into the
congested area of the western Weddell Sea, the worst portion of the
worst sea in the world, where the pack, forced on irresistibly by wind
and current, impinges on the western shore and is driven up in huge
corrugated ridges and chaotic fields of pressure. The vital question
for us was whether or not the ice would open sufficiently to release
us, or at least give us a chance of release, before the drift carried
us into the most dangerous area. There was no answer to be got from the
silent bergs and the grinding floes, and we faced the month of October
with anxious hearts.

The leads in the pack appeared to have opened out a little on October
1, but not sufficiently to be workable even if we had been able to
release the _Endurance_ from the floe. The day was calm, cloudy and
misty in the forenoon and clearer in the afternoon, when we observed
well-defined parhelia. The ship was subjected to slight pressure at
intervals. Two bull crab-eaters climbed on to the floe close to the
ship and were shot by Wild. They were both big animals in prime
condition, and I felt that there was no more need for anxiety as to the
supply of fresh meat for the dogs. Seal-liver made a welcome change in
our own menu. The two bulls were marked, like many of their kind, with
long parallel scars about three inches apart, evidently the work of the
killers. A bull we killed on the following day had four parallel scars,
sixteen inches long, on each side of its body; they were fairly deep
and one flipper had been nearly torn away. The creature must have
escaped from the jaws of a killer by a very small margin. Evidently
life beneath the pack is not always monotonous. We noticed that several
of the bergs in the neighbourhood of the ship were changing their
relative positions more than they had done for months past. The floes
were moving.


[Illustration: Crab-eater Seals]


[Illustration: The Beginning of the End]


Our position on Sunday, October 3, was lat. 69° 14´ S., long. 51° 8´ W.
During the night the floe holding the ship aft cracked in several
places, and this appeared to have eased the strain on the rudder. The
forenoon was misty, with falls of snow, but the weather cleared later
in the day and we could see that the pack was breaking. New leads had
appeared, while several old leads had closed. Pressure-ridges had risen
along some of the cracks. The thickness of the season’s ice, now about
230 days old, was 4 ft. 5 in. under 7 or 8 in. of snow. This ice had
been slightly thicker in the early part of September, and I assumed
that some melting had begun below. Clark had recorded plus temperatures
at depths of 150 and 200 fathoms in the concluding days of September.
The ice obviously had attained its maximum thickness by direct
freezing, and the heavier older floes had been created by the
consolidation of pressure-ice and the overlapping of floes under
strain. The air temperatures were still low, –24.5° Fahr. being
recorded on October 4.

The movement of the ice was increasing. Frost-smoke from opening cracks
was showing in all directions during October 6. It had the appearance
in one place of a great prairie fire, rising from the surface and
getting higher as it drifted off before the wind in heavy, dark,
rolling masses. At another point there was the appearance of a train
running before the wind, the smoke rising from the locomotive straight
upwards; and the smoke columns elsewhere gave the effect of warships
steaming in line ahead. During the following day the leads and cracks
opened to such an extent that if the _Endurance_ could have been forced
forward for thirty yards we could have proceeded for two or three
miles; but the effort did not promise any really useful result. The
conditions did not change materially during the rest of that week. The
position on Sunday, October 10, was lat. 69° 21´ S., long. 50° 34´ W. A
thaw made things uncomfortable for us that day. The temperature had
risen from –10° Fahr. to +29.8° Fahr., the highest we had experienced
since January, and the ship got dripping wet between decks. The upper
deck was clear of ice and snow and the cabins became unpleasantly
messy. The dogs, who hated wet, had a most unhappy air. Undoubtedly one
grows to like familiar conditions. We had lived long in temperatures
that would have seemed distressingly low in civilized life, and now we
were made uncomfortable by a degree of warmth that would have left the
unaccustomed human being still shivering. The thaw was an indication
that winter was over, and we began preparations for reoccupying the
cabins on the main deck. I had the shelter-house round the stern pulled
down on the 11th and made other preparations for working the ship as
soon as she got clear. The carpenter had built a wheel-house over the
wheel aft as shelter in cold and heavy weather. The ice was still
loosening and no land was visible for twenty miles.

The temperature remained relatively high for several days. All hands
moved to their summer quarters in the upper cabins on the 12th, to the
accompaniment of much noise and laughter. Spring was in the air, and if
there were no green growing things to gladden our eyes, there were at
least many seals, penguins, and even whales disporting themselves in
the leads. The time for renewed action was coming, and though our
situation was grave enough, we were facing the future hopefully. The
dogs were kept in a state of uproar by the sight of so much game. They
became almost frenzied when a solemn-looking emperor penguin inspected
them gravely from some point of vantage on the floe and gave utterance
to an apparently derisive “Knark!” At 7 p.m. on the 13th the ship broke
free of the floe on which she had rested to starboard sufficiently to
come upright. The rudder freed itself, but the propeller was found to
be athwartship, having been forced into that position by the floe some
time after August 1. The water was very clear and we could see the
rudder, which appeared to have suffered only a slight twist to port at
the water-line. It moved quite freely. The propeller, as far as we
could see, was intact, but it could not be moved by the hand-gear,
probably owing to a film of ice in the stern gland and sleeve. I did
not think it advisable to attempt to deal with it at that stage. The
ship had not been pumped for eight months, but there was no water and
not much ice in the bilges. Meals were served again in the wardroom
that day.

The south-westerly breeze freshened to a gale on the 14th, and the
temperature fell from +31° Fahr. to –1° Fahr. At midnight the ship came
free from the floe and drifted rapidly astern. Her head fell off before
the wind until she lay nearly at right-angles across the narrow lead.
This was a dangerous position for rudder and propeller. The spanker was
set, but the weight of the wind on the ship gradually forced the floes
open until the _Endurance_ swung right round and drove 100 yds. along
the lead. Then the ice closed and at 3 a.m. we were fast again. The
wind died down during the day and the pack opened for five or six miles
to the north. It was still loose on the following morning, and I had
the boiler pumped up with the intention of attempting to clear the
propeller; but one of the manholes developed a leak, the packing being
perished by cold or loosened by contraction, and the boiler had to be
emptied out again.

The pack was rather closer on Sunday the 17th. Top-sails and head-sails
were set in the afternoon, and with a moderate north-easterly breeze we
tried to force the ship ahead out of the lead; but she was held fast.
Later that day heavy pressure developed. The two floes between which
the _Endurance_ was lying began to close and the ship was subjected to
a series of tremendously heavy strains. In the engine-room, the weakest
point, loud groans, crashes, and hammering sounds were heard. The iron
plates on the floor buckled up and overrode with loud clangs. Meanwhile
the floes were grinding off each other’s projecting points and throwing
up pressure-ridges. The ship stood the strain well for nearly an hour
and then, to my great relief, began to rise with heavy jerks and jars.
She lifted ten inches forward and three feet four inches aft, at the
same time heeling six degrees to port. The ice was getting below us and
the immediate danger had passed. The position was lat. 69° 19´ S.,
long. 50° 40´ W.

The next attack of the ice came on the afternoon of October 18th. The
two floes began to move laterally, exerting great pressure on the ship.
Suddenly the floe on the port side cracked and huge pieces of ice shot
up from under the port bilge. Within a few seconds the ship heeled over
until she had a list of thirty degrees to port, being held under the
starboard bilge by the opposing floe. The lee boats were now almost
resting on the floe. The midship dog-kennels broke away and crashed
down on to the lee kennels, and the howls and barks of the frightened
dogs assisted to create a perfect pandemonium. Everything movable on
deck and below fell to the lee side, and for a few minutes it looked as
if the _Endurance_ would be thrown upon her beam ends. Order was soon
restored. I had all fires put out and battens nailed on the deck to
give the dogs a foothold and enable people to get about. Then the crew
lashed all the movable gear. If the ship had heeled any farther it
would have been necessary to release the lee boats and pull them clear,
and Worsley was watching to give the alarm. Hurley meanwhile descended
to the floe and took some photographs of the ship in her unusual
position. Dinner in the wardroom that evening was a curious affair.
Most of the diners had to sit on the deck, their feet against battens
and their plates on their knees. At 8 p.m. the floes opened, and within
a few minutes the _Endurance_ was nearly upright again. Orders were
given for the ice to be chipped clear of the rudder. The men poled the
blocks out of the way when they had been detached from the floe with
the long ice-chisels, and we were able to haul the ship’s stern into a
clear berth. Then the boiler was pumped up. This work was completed
early in the morning of October 19, and during that day the engineer
lit fires and got up steam very slowly, in order to economize fuel and
avoid any strain on the chilled boilers by unequal heating. The crew
cut up all loose lumber, boxes, etc., and put them in the bunkers for
fuel. The day was overcast, with occasional snowfalls, the temperature
+12° Fahr. The ice in our neighbourhood was quiet, but in the distance
pressure was at work. The wind freshened in the evening, and we ran a
wire-mooring astern. The barometer at 11 p.m. stood at 28.96, the
lowest since the gales of July. An uproar among the dogs attracted
attention late in the afternoon, and we found a 25-ft. whale cruising
up and down in our pool. It pushed its head up once in characteristic
killer fashion, but we judged from its small curved dorsal fin that it
was a specimen of _Balænoptera acutorostrata_, not _Orca gladiator_.


[Illustration: “Within a few Seconds she heeled over until she had a
List of Thirty Degrees to Port”]


[Illustration: Almost Overwhelmed]


A strong south-westerly wind was blowing on October 20 and the pack was
working. The _Endurance_ was imprisoned securely in the pool, but our
chance might come at any time. Watches were set so as to be ready for
working ship. Wild and Hudson, Greenstreet and Cheetham, Worsley and
Crean, took the deck watches, and the Chief Engineer and Second
Engineer kept watch and watch with three of the A.B.’s for stokers. The
staff and the forward hands, with the exception of the cook, the
carpenter and his mate, were on “watch and watch”—that is, four hours
on deck and four hours below, or off duty. The carpenter was busy
making a light punt, which might prove useful in the navigation of
lanes and channels. At 11 a.m. we gave the engines a gentle trial turn
astern. Everything worked well after eight months of frozen inactivity,
except that the bilge-pump and the discharge proved to be frozen up;
they were cleared with some little difficulty. The engineer reported
that to get steam he had used one ton of coal, with wood-ashes and
blubber. The fires required to keep the boiler warm consumed one and a
quarter to one and a half hundred-weight of coal per day. We had about
fifty tons of coal remaining in the bunkers.

October 21 and 22 were days of low temperature, which caused the open
leads to freeze over. The pack was working, and ever and anon the roar
of pressure came to our ears. We waited for the next move of the
gigantic forces arrayed against us. The 23rd brought a strong
north-westerly wind, and the movement of the floes and pressure-ridges
became more formidable. Then on Sunday, October 24, there came what for
the _Endurance_ was the beginning of the end. The position was lat. 69°
11´ S., long. 51° 5´ W. We had now twenty-two and a half hours of
daylight, and throughout the day we watched the threatening advance of
the floes. At 6.45 p.m. the ship sustained heavy pressure in a
dangerous position. The attack of the ice is illustrated roughly in the
appended diagram. The shaded portions represent the pool, covered with
new ice that afforded no support to the ship, and the arrows indicate
the direction of the pressure exercised by the thick floes and
pressure-ridges. The onslaught was all but irresistible. The
_Endurance_ groaned and quivered as her starboard quarter was forced
against the floe, twisting the sternpost and starting the heads and
ends of planking. The ice had lateral as well as forward movement, and
the ship was twisted and actually bent by the stresses. She began to
leak dangerously at once.


[Illustration]

I had the pumps rigged, got up steam, and started the bilge-pumps at 8
p.m. The pressure by that time had relaxed. The ship was making water
rapidly aft, and the carpenter set to work to make a coffer-dam astern
of the engines. All hands worked, watch and watch, throughout the
night, pumping ship and helping the carpenter. By morning the leak was
being kept in check. The carpenter and his assistants caulked the
coffer-dam with strips of blankets and nailed strips over the seams
wherever possible. The main or hand pump was frozen up and could not be
used at once. After it had been knocked out Worsley, Greenstreet, and
Hudson went down in the bunkers and cleared the ice from the bilges.
“This is not a pleasant job,” wrote Worsley. “We have to dig a hole
down through the coal while the beams and timbers groan and crack all
around us like pistol-shots. The darkness is almost complete, and we
mess about in the wet with half-frozen hands and try to keep the coal
from slipping back into the bilges. The men on deck pour buckets of
boiling water from the galley down the pipe as we prod and hammer from
below, and at last we get the pump clear, cover up the bilges to keep
the coal out, and rush on deck, very thankful to find ourselves safe
again in the open air.”

Monday, October 25, dawned cloudy and misty, with a minus temperature
and a strong south-easterly breeze. All hands were pumping at intervals
and assisting the carpenter with the coffer-dam. The leak was being
kept under fairly easily, but the outlook was bad. Heavy
pressure-ridges were forming in all directions, and though the
immediate pressure upon the ship was not severe, I realized that the
respite would not be prolonged. The pack within our range of vision was
being subjected to enormous compression, such as might be caused by
cyclonic winds, opposing ocean currents, or constriction in a channel
of some description. The pressure-ridges, massive and threatening,
testified to the overwhelming nature of the forces that were at work.
Huge blocks of ice, weighing many tons, were lifted into the air and
tossed aside as other masses rose beneath them. We were helpless
intruders in a strange world, our lives dependent upon the play of grim
elementary forces that made a mock of our puny efforts. I scarcely
dared hope now that the _Endurance_ would live, and throughout that
anxious day I reviewed again the plans made long before for the
sledging journey that we must make in the event of our having to take
to the ice. We were ready, as far as forethought could make us, for
every contingency. Stores, dogs, sledges, and equipment were ready to
be moved from the ship at a moment’s notice.

The following day brought bright clear weather, with a blue sky. The
sunshine was inspiriting. The roar of pressure could be heard all
around us. New ridges were rising, and I could see as the day wore on
that the lines of major disturbance were drawing nearer to the ship.
The _Endurance_ suffered some strains at intervals. Listening below, I
could hear the creaking and groaning of her timbers, the pistol-like
cracks that told of the starting of a trenail or plank, and the faint,
indefinable whispers of our ship’s distress. Overhead the sun shone
serenely; occasional fleecy clouds drifted before the southerly breeze,
and the light glinted and sparkled on the million facets of the new
pressure-ridges. The day passed slowly. At 7 p.m. very heavy pressure
developed, with twisting strains that racked the ship fore and aft. The
butts of planking were opened four and five inches on the starboard
side, and at the same time we could see from the bridge that the ship
was bending like a bow under titanic pressure. Almost like a living
creature, she resisted the forces that would crush her; but it was a
one-sided battle. Millions of tons of ice pressed inexorably upon the
little ship that had dared the challenge of the Antarctic. The
_Endurance_ was now leaking badly, and at 9 p.m. I gave the order to
lower boats, gear, provisions, and sledges to the floe, and move them
to the flat ice a little way from the ship. The working of the ice
closed the leaks slightly at midnight, but all hands were pumping all
night. A strange occurrence was the sudden appearance of eight emperor
penguins from a crack 100 yds. away at the moment when the pressure
upon the ship was at its climax. They walked a little way towards us,
halted, and after a few ordinary calls proceeded to utter weird cries
that sounded like a dirge for the ship. None of us had ever before
heard the emperors utter any other than the most simple calls or cries,
and the effect of this concerted effort was almost startling.

Then came a fateful day—Wednesday, October 27. The position was lat.
69° 5´ S., long. 51° 30´ W. The temperature was –8.5° Fahr., a gentle
southerly breeze was blowing and the sun shone in a clear sky.

“After long months of ceaseless anxiety and strain, after times when
hope beat high and times when the outlook was black indeed, the end of
the _Endurance_ has come. But though we have been compelled to abandon
the ship, which is crushed beyond all hope of ever being righted, we
are alive and well, and we have stores and equipment for the task that
lies before us. The task is to reach land with all the members of the
Expedition. It is hard to write what I feel. To a sailor his ship is
more than a floating home, and in the _Endurance_ I had centred
ambitions, hopes, and desires. Now, straining and groaning, her timbers
cracking and her wounds gaping, she is slowly giving up her sentient
life at the very outset of her career. She is crushed and abandoned
after drifting more than 570 miles in a north-westerly direction during
the 281 days since she became locked in the ice. The distance from the
point where she became beset to the place where she now rests mortally
hurt in the grip of the floes is 573 miles, but the total drift through
all observed positions has been 1186 miles, and probably we actually
covered more than 1500 miles. We are now 346 miles from Paulet Island,
the nearest point where there is any possibility of finding food and
shelter. A small hut built there by the Swedish expedition in 1902 is
filled with stores left by the Argentine relief ship. I know all about
those stores, for I purchased them in London on behalf of the Argentine
Government when they asked me to equip the relief expedition. The
distance to the nearest barrier west of us is about 180 miles, but a
party going there would still be about 360 miles from Paulet Island and
there would be no means of sustaining life on the barrier. We could not
take from here food enough for the whole journey; the weight would be
too great.

“This morning, our last on the ship, the weather was clear, with a
gentle south-south-easterly to south-south-westerly breeze. From the
crow’s-nest there was no sign of land of any sort. The pressure was
increasing steadily, and the passing hours brought no relief or respite
for the ship. The attack of the ice reached its climax at 4 p.m. The
ship was hove stern up by the pressure, and the driving floe, moving
laterally across the stern, split the rudder and tore out the
rudder-post and stern-post. Then, while we watched, the ice loosened
and the _Endurance_ sank a little. The decks were breaking upwards and
the water was pouring in below. Again the pressure began, and at 5 p.m.
I ordered all hands on to the ice. The twisting, grinding floes were
working their will at last on the ship. It was a sickening sensation to
feel the decks breaking up under one’s feet, the great beams bending
and then snapping with a noise like heavy gunfire. The water was
overmastering the pumps, and to avoid an explosion when it reached the
boilers I had to give orders for the fires to be drawn and the steam
let down. The plans for abandoning the ship in case of emergency had
been made well in advance, and men and dogs descended to the floe and
made their way to the comparative safety of an unbroken portion of the
floe without a hitch. Just before leaving, I looked down the
engine-room skylight as I stood on the quivering deck, and saw the
engines dropping sideways as the stays and bed-plates gave way. I
cannot describe the impression of relentless destruction that was
forced upon me as I looked down and around. The floes, with the force
of millions of tons of moving ice behind them, were simply annihilating
the ship.”

Essential supplies had been placed on the floe about 100 yds. from the
ship, and there we set about making a camp for the night. But about 7
p.m., after the tents were up, the ice we were occupying became
involved in the pressure and started to split and smash beneath our
feet. I had the camp moved to a bigger floe about 200 yds. away, just
beyond the bow of the ship. Boats, stores, and camp equipment had to be
conveyed across a working pressure-ridge. The movement of the ice was
so slow that it did not interfere much with our short trek, but the
weight of the ridge had caused the floes to sink on either side and
there were pools of water there. A pioneer party with picks and shovels
had to build a snow-causeway before we could get all our possessions
across. By 8 p.m. the camp had been pitched again. We had two
pole-tents and three hoop-tents. I took charge of the small pole-tent,
No. 1, with Hudson, Hurley, and James as companions; Wild had the small
hoop-tent, No. 2, with Wordie, McNeish, and McIlroy. These hoop-tents
are very easily shifted and set up. The eight forward hands had the
large hoop-tent, No. 3; Crean had charge of No. 4 hoop-tent with
Hussey, Marston, and Cheetham; and Worsley had the other pole-tent, No.
5, with Greenstreet, Lees, Clark, Kerr, Rickenson, Macklin, and
Blackborrow, the last named being the youngest of the forward hands.


[Illustration: “The Driving Floe, moving laterally across the Stern,
split the Rudder and tore out the Rudder-Post and Stern-Post”]


[Illustration: The End]


“To-night the temperature has dropped to –16° Fahr., and most of the
men are cold and uncomfortable. After the tents had been pitched I
mustered all hands and explained the position to them briefly and, I
hope, clearly. I have told them the distance to the Barrier and the
distance to Paulet Island, and have stated that I propose to try to
march with equipment across the ice in the direction of Paulet Island.
I thanked the men for the steadiness and good morale they have shown in
these trying circumstances, and told them I had no doubt that, provided
they continued to work their utmost and to trust me, we will all reach
safety in the end. Then we had supper, which the cook had prepared at
the big blubber-stove, and after a watch had been set all hands except
the watch turned in.” For myself, I could not sleep. The destruction
and abandonment of the ship was no sudden shock. The disaster had been
looming ahead for many months, and I had studied my plans for all
contingencies a hundred times. But the thoughts that came to me as I
walked up and down in the darkness were not particularly cheerful. The
task now was to secure the safety of the party, and to that I must bend
my energies and mental power and apply every bit of knowledge that
experience of the Antarctic had given me. The task was likely to be
long and strenuous, and an ordered mind and a clear programme were
essential if we were to come through without loss of life. A man must
shape himself to a new mark directly the old one goes to ground.

At midnight I was pacing the ice, listening to the grinding floe and to
the groans and crashes that told of the death-agony of the _Endurance_,
when I noticed suddenly a crack running across our floe right through
the camp. The alarm-whistle brought all hands tumbling out, and we
moved the tents and stores lying on what was now the smaller portion of
the floe to the larger portion. Nothing more could be done at that
moment, and the men turned in again; but there was little sleep. Each
time I came to the end of my beat on the floe I could just see in the
darkness the uprearing piles of pressure-ice, which toppled over and
narrowed still further the little floating island we occupied. I did
not notice at the time that my tent, which had been on the wrong side
of the crack, had not been erected again. Hudson and James had managed
to squeeze themselves into other tents, and Hurley had wrapped himself
in the canvas of No. 1 tent. I discovered this about 5 a.m. All night
long the electric light gleamed from the stern of the dying
_Endurance_. Hussey had left this light switched on when he took a last
observation, and, like a lamp in a cottage window, it braved the night
until in the early morning the _Endurance_ received a particularly
violent squeeze. There was a sound of rending beams and the light
disappeared. The connexion had been cut.

Morning came in chill and cheerless. All hands were stiff and weary
after their first disturbed night on the floe. Just at daybreak I went
over to the _Endurance_ with Wild and Hurley, in order to retrieve some
tins of petrol that could be used to boil up milk for the rest of the
men. The ship presented a painful spectacle of chaos and wreck. The
jib-boom and bowsprit had snapped off during the night and now lay at
right angles to the ship, with the chains, martingale, and bob-stay
dragging them as the vessel quivered and moved in the grinding pack.
The ice had driven over the forecastle and she was well down by the
head. We secured two tins of petrol with some difficulty, and postponed
the further examination of the ship until after breakfast. Jumping
across cracks with the tins, we soon reached camp, and built a
fireplace out of the triangular water-tight tanks we had ripped from
the lifeboat. This we had done in order to make more room. Then we
pierced a petrol-tin in half a dozen places with an ice-axe and set
fire to it. The petrol blazed fiercely under the five-gallon drum we
used as a cooker, and the hot milk was ready in quick time. Then we
three ministering angels went round the tents with the life-giving
drink, and were surprised and a trifle chagrined at the matter-of-fact
manner in which some of the men accepted this contribution to their
comfort. They did not quite understand what work we had done for them
in the early dawn, and I heard Wild say, “If any of you gentlemen would
like your boots cleaned just put them outside.” This was his gentle way
of reminding them that a little thanks will go a long way on such
occasions.

The cook prepared breakfast, which consisted of biscuit and hoosh, at 8
a.m., and I then went over to the _Endurance_ again and made a fuller
examination of the wreck. Only six of the cabins had not been pierced
by floes and blocks of ice. Every one of the starboard cabins had been
crushed. The whole of the after part of the ship had been crushed
concertina fashion. The forecastle and the Ritz were submerged, and the
wardroom was three-quarters full of ice. The starboard side of the
wardroom had come away. The motor-engine forward had been driven
through the galley. Petrol-cases that had been stacked on the fore-deck
had been driven by the floe through the wall into the wardroom and had
carried before them a large picture. Curiously enough, the glass of
this picture had not been cracked, whereas in the immediate
neighbourhood I saw heavy iron davits that had been twisted and bent
like the ironwork of a wrecked train. The ship was being crushed
remorselessly.

Under a dull, overcast sky I returned to camp and examined our
situation. The floe occupied by the camp was still subject to pressure,
and I thought it wise to move to a larger and apparently stronger floe
about 200 yds. away, off the starboard bow of the ship. This camp was
to become known as Dump Camp, owing to the amount of stuff that was
thrown away there. We could not afford to carry unnecessary gear, and a
drastic sorting of equipment took place. I decided to issue a complete
new set of Burberrys and underclothing to each man, and also a supply
of new socks. The camp was transferred to the larger floe quickly, and
I began there to direct the preparations for the long journey across
the floes to Paulet Island or Snow Hill.

Hurley meanwhile had rigged his kinematograph-camera and was getting
pictures of the _Endurance_ in her death-throes. While he was engaged
thus, the ice, driving against the standing rigging and the fore-,
main- and mizzen-masts, snapped the shrouds. The foretop and
topgallant-mast came down with a run and hung in wreckage on the
fore-mast, with the fore-yard vertical. The main-mast followed
immediately, snapping off about 10 ft. above the main deck. The
crow’s-nest fell within 10 ft. of where Hurley stood turning the handle
of his camera, but he did not stop the machine, and so secured a
unique, though sad, picture.

The issue of clothing was quickly accomplished. Sleeping-bags were
required also. We had eighteen fur bags, and it was necessary,
therefore, to issue ten of the Jaeger woollen bags in order to provide
for the twenty-eight men of the party. The woollen bags were lighter
and less warm than the reindeer bags, and so each man who received one
of them was allowed also a reindeer-skin to lie upon. It seemed fair to
distribute the fur bags by lot, but some of us older hands did not join
in the lottery. We thought we could do quite as well with the Jaegers
as with the furs. With quick dispatch the clothing was apportioned, and
then we turned one of the boats on its side and supported it with two
broken oars to make a lee for the galley. The cook got the
blubber-stove going, and a little later, when I was sitting round the
corner of the stove, I heard one man say, “Cook, I like my tea strong.”
Another joined in, “Cook, I like mine weak.” It was pleasant to know
that their minds were untroubled, but I thought the time opportune to
mention that the tea would be the same for all hands and that we would
be fortunate if two months later we had any tea at all. It occurred to
me at the time that the incident had psychological interest. Here were
men, their home crushed, the camp pitched on the unstable floes, and
their chance of reaching safety apparently remote, calmly attending to
the details of existence and giving their attention to such trifles as
the strength of a brew of tea.

During the afternoon the work continued. Every now and then we heard a
noise like heavy guns or distant thunder, caused by the floes grinding
together.

“The pressure caused by the congestion in this area of the pack is
producing a scene of absolute chaos. The floes grind stupendously,
throw up great ridges, and shatter one another mercilessly. The ridges,
or hedgerows, marking the pressure-lines that border the
fast-diminishing pieces of smooth floe-ice, are enormous. The ice moves
majestically, irresistibly. Human effort is not futile, but man fights
against the giant forces of Nature in a spirit of humility. One has a
sense of dependence on the higher Power. To-day two seals, a Weddell
and a crabeater, came close to the camp and were shot. Four others were
chased back into the water, for their presence disturbed the dog teams,
and this meant floggings and trouble with the harness. The arrangement
of the tents has been completed and their internal management settled.
Each tent has a mess orderly, the duty being taken in turn on an
alphabetical rota. The orderly takes the hoosh-pots of his tent to the
galley, gets all the hoosh he is allowed, and, after the meal, cleans
the vessels with snow and stores them in sledge or boat ready for a
possible move.”


[Illustration: A Week Later]


[Illustration: “The Wreckage lies around in Dismal Confusion”]


“_October_ 29.—We passed a quiet night, although the pressure was
grinding around us. Our floe is a heavy one and it withstood the blows
it received. There is a light wind from the north-west to
north-north-west, and the weather is fine. We are twenty-eight men with
forty-nine dogs, including Sue’s and Sallie’s five grown-up pups. All
hands this morning were busy preparing gear, fitting boats on sledges,
and building up and strengthening the sledges to carry the boats....
The main motor-sledge, with a little fitting from the carpenter,
carried our largest boat admirably. For the next boat four ordinary
sledges were lashed together, but we were dubious as to the strength of
this contrivance, and as a matter of fact it broke down quickly under
strain.... The ship is still afloat, with the spurs of the pack driven
through her and holding her up. The forecastle-head is under water, the
decks are burst up by the pressure, the wreckage lies around in dismal
confusion, but over all the blue ensign flies still.

“This afternoon Sallie’s three youngest pups, Sue’s Sirius, and Mrs.
Chippy, the carpenter’s cat, have to be shot. We could not undertake
the maintenance of weaklings under the new conditions. Macklin, Crean,
and the carpenter seemed to feel the loss of their friends rather
badly. We propose making a short trial journey to-morrow, starting with
two of the boats and the ten sledges. The number of dog teams has been
increased to seven, Greenstreet taking charge of the new additional
team, consisting of Snapper and Sallie’s four oldest pups. We have ten
working sledges to relay with five teams. Wild’s and Hurley’s teams
will haul the cutter with the assistance of four men. The whaler and
the other boats will follow, and the men who are hauling them will be
able to help with the cutter at the rough places. We cannot hope to
make rapid progress, but each mile counts. Crean this afternoon has a
bad attack of snow-blindness.”

The weather on the morning of October 30 was overcast and misty, with
occasional falls of snow. A moderate north-easterly breeze was blowing.
We were still living on extra food, brought from the ship when we
abandoned her, and the sledging and boating rations were intact. These
rations would provide for twenty-eight men for fifty-six days on full
rations, but we could count on getting enough seal and penguin meat to
at least double this time. We could even, if progress proved too
difficult and too injurious to the boats, which we must guard as our
ultimate means of salvation, camp on the nearest heavy floe, scour the
neighbouring pack for penguins and seals, and await the outward rift of
the pack, to open and navigable water.

“This plan would avoid the grave dangers we are now incurring of
getting entangled in impassable pressure-ridges and possibly
irretrievably damaging the boats, which are bound to suffer in rough
ice; it would also minimize the peril of the ice splitting under us, as
it did twice during the night at our first camp. Yet I feel sure that
it is the right thing to attempt a march, since if we can make five or
seven miles a day to the north-west our chance of reaching safety in
the months to come will be increased greatly. There is a psychological
aspect to the question also. It will be much better for the men in
general to feel that, even though progress is slow, they are on their
way to land than it will be simply to sit down and wait for the tardy
north-westerly drift to take us out of this cruel waste of ice. We will
make an attempt to move. The issue is beyond my power either to predict
or to control.”

That afternoon Wild and I went out in the mist and snow to find a road
to the north-east. After many devious turnings to avoid the heavier
pressure-ridges, we pioneered a way for at least a mile and a half. and
then returned by a rather better route to the camp. The pressure now
was rapid in movement and our floe was suffering from the shakes and
jerks of the ice. At 3 p.m., after lunch, we got under way, leaving
Dump Camp a mass of debris. The order was that personal gear must not
exceed two pounds per man, and this meant that nothing but bare
necessaries was to be taken on the march. We could not afford to cumber
ourselves with unnecessary weight. Holes had been dug in the snow for
the reception of private letters and little personal trifles, the Lares
and Penates of the members of the Expedition, and into the privacy of
these white graves were consigned much of sentimental value and not a
little of intrinsic worth. I rather grudged the two pounds allowance
per man, owing to my keen anxiety to keep weights at a minimum, but
some personal belongings could fairly be regarded as indispensable. The
journey might be a long one, and there was a possibility of a winter in
improvised quarters on an inhospitable coast at the other end. A man
under such conditions needs something to occupy his thoughts, some
tangible memento of his home and people beyond the seas. So sovereigns
were thrown away and photographs were kept. I tore the fly-leaf out of
the Bible that Queen Alexandra had given to the ship, with her own
writing in it, and also the wonderful page of Job containing the verse:

Out of whose womb came the ice?
And the hoary frost of Heaven, who hath gendered it?
The waters are hid as with a stone,
And the face of the deep is frozen.
—[Job 38:29–30]


The other Bible, which Queen Alexandra had given for the use of the
shore party, was down below in the lower hold in one of the cases when
the ship received her death-blow. Suitcases were thrown away; these
were retrieved later as material for making boots, and some of them,
marked “solid leather,” proved, to our disappointment, to contain a
large percentage of cardboard. The manufacturer would have had
difficulty in convincing us at the time that the deception was anything
short of criminal.

The pioneer sledge party, consisting of Wordie, Hussey, Hudson, and
myself, carrying picks and shovels, started to break a road through the
pressure-ridges for the sledges carrying the boats. The boats, with
their gear and the sledges beneath them, weighed each more than a ton.
The cutter was smaller than the whaler, but weighed more and was a much
more strongly built boat. The whaler was mounted on the sledge part of
the Girling tractor forward and two sledges amidships and aft. These
sledges were strengthened with cross-timbers and shortened oars fore
and aft. The cutter was mounted on the aero-sledge. The sledges were
the point of weakness. It appeared almost hopeless to prevent them
smashing under their heavy loads when travelling over rough
pressure-ice which stretched ahead of us for probably 300 miles. After
the pioneer sledge had started the seven dog teams got off. They took
their sledges forward for half a mile, then went back for the other
sledges. Worsley took charge of the two boats, with fifteen men
hauling, and these also had to be relayed. It was heavy work for dogs
and men, but there were intervals of comparative rest on the backward
journey, after the first portion of the load had been taken forward. We
passed over two opening cracks, through which killers were pushing
their ugly snouts, and by 5 p.m. had covered a mile in a
north-north-westerly direction. The condition of the ice ahead was
chaotic, for since the morning increased pressure had developed and the
pack was moving and crushing in all directions. So I gave the order to
pitch camp for the night on flat ice, which, unfortunately, proved to
be young and salty. The older pack was too rough and too deeply laden
with snow to offer a suitable camping-ground. Although we had gained
only one mile in a direct line, the necessary deviations made the
distance travelled at least two miles, and the relays brought the
distance marched up to six miles. Some of the dog teams had covered at
least ten miles. I set the watch from 6 p.m. to 7 a.m., one hour for
each man in each tent in rotation.


[Illustration: The First Attempt to reach the Land 346 Miles Away]


[Illustration: Ocean Camp]


During the night snow fell heavily, and the floor-cloths of the tents
got wet through, as the temperature had risen to +25° Fahr. One of the
things we hoped for in those days was a temperature in the
neighbourhood of zero, for then the snow surface would be hard, we
would not be troubled by damp, and our gear would not become covered in
soft snow. The killers were blowing all night, and a crack appeared
about 20 ft. from the camp at 2 a.m. The ice below us was quite thin
enough for the killers to break through if they took a fancy to do so,
but there was no other camping-ground within our reach and we had to
take the risk. When morning came the snow was falling so heavily that
we could not see more than a few score yards ahead, and I decided not
to strike camp. A path over the shattered floes would be hard to find,
and to get the boats into a position of peril might be disastrous.
Rickenson and Worsley started back for Dump Camp at 7 a.m. to get some
wood and blubber for the fire, and an hour later we had hoosh, with one
biscuit each. At 10 a.m. Hurley and Hudson left for the old camp in
order to bring some additional dog-pemmican, since there were no seals
to be found near us. Then, as the weather cleared, Worsley and I made a
prospect to the west and tried to find a practicable road. A large floe
offered a fairly good road for at least another mile to the north-west,
and we went back prepared for another move. The weather cleared a
little, and after lunch we struck camp. I took Rickenson, Kerr, Wordie,
and Hudson as a breakdown gang to pioneer a path among the
pressure-ridges. Five dog teams followed. Wild’s and Hurley’s teams
were hitched on to the cutter and they started off in splendid style.
They needed to be helped only once; indeed fourteen dogs did as well or
even better than eighteen men. The ice was moving beneath and around us
as we worked towards the big floe, and where this floe met the smaller
ones there was a mass of pressed-up ice, still in motion, with water
between the ridges. But it is wonderful what a dozen men can do with
picks and shovels. We could cut a road through a pressure-ridge about
14 ft. high in ten minutes and leave a smooth, or comparatively smooth,
path for the sledges and teams.




CHAPTER V
OCEAN CAMP


In spite of the wet, deep snow and the halts occasioned by thus having
to cut our road through the pressure-ridges, we managed to march the
best part of a mile towards our goal, though the relays and the
deviations again made the actual distance travelled nearer six miles.
As I could see that the men were all exhausted I gave the order to
pitch the tents under the lee of the two boats, which afforded some
slight protection from the wet snow now threatening to cover
everything. While so engaged one of the sailors discovered a small pool
of water, caused by the snow having thawed on a sail which was lying in
one of the boats. There was not much—just a sip each; but, as one man
wrote in his diary, “One has seen and tasted cleaner, but seldom more
opportunely found water.”

Next day broke cold and still with the same wet snow, and in the
clearing light I could see that with the present loose surface, and
considering how little result we had to show for all our strenuous
efforts of the past four days, it would be impossible to proceed for
any great distance. Taking into account also the possibility of leads
opening close to us, and so of our being able to row north-west to
where we might find land, I decided to find a more solid floe and there
camp until conditions were more favourable for us to make a second
attempt to escape from our icy prison. To this end we moved our tents
and all our gear to a thick, heavy old floe about one and a half miles
from the wreck and there made our camp. We called this “Ocean Camp.” It
was with the utmost difficulty that we shifted our two boats. The
surface was terrible—like nothing that any of us had ever seen around
us before. We were sinking at times up to our hips, and everywhere the
snow was two feet deep.

I decided to conserve our valuable sledging rations, which would be so
necessary for the inevitable boat journey, as much as possible, and to
subsist almost entirely on seals and penguins.

A party was sent back to Dump Camp, near the ship, to collect as much
clothing, tobacco, etc., as they could find. The heavy snow which had
fallen in the last few days, combined with the thawing and consequent
sinking of the surface, resulted in the total disappearance of a good
many of the things left behind at this dump. The remainder of the men
made themselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances at
Ocean Camp. This floating lump of ice, about a mile square at first but
later splitting into smaller and smaller fragments, was to be our home
for nearly two months. During these two months we made frequent visits
to the vicinity of the ship and retrieved much valuable clothing and
food and some few articles of personal value which in our light-hearted
optimism we had thought to leave miles behind us on our dash across the
moving ice to safety.

The collection of food was now the all-important consideration. As we
were to subsist almost entirely on seals and penguins, which were to
provide fuel as well as food, some form of blubber-stove was a
necessity. This was eventually very ingeniously contrived from the
ship’s steel ash-shoot, as our first attempt with a large iron oil-drum
did not prove eminently successful. We could only cook seal or penguin
hooshes or stews on this stove, and so uncertain was its action that
the food was either burnt or only partially cooked; and, hungry though
we were, half-raw seal meat was not very appetizing. On one occasion a
wonderful stew made from seal meat, with two or three tins of Irish
stew that had been salved from the ship, fell into the fire through the
bottom of the oil-drum that we used as a saucepan becoming burnt out on
account of the sudden intense heat of the fire below. We lunched that
day on one biscuit and a quarter of a tin of bully-beef each, frozen
hard.

This new stove, which was to last us during our stay at Ocean Camp, was
a great success. Two large holes were punched, with much labour and few
tools, opposite one another at the wider or top end of the shoot. Into
one of these an oil-drum was fixed, to be used as the fireplace, the
other hole serving to hold our saucepan. Alongside this another hole
was punched to enable two saucepans to be boiled at a time; and farther
along still a chimney made from biscuit-tins completed a very
efficient, if not a very elegant, stove. Later on the cook found that
he could bake a sort of flat bannock or scone on this stove, but he was
seriously hampered for want of yeast or baking-powder.

An attempt was next made to erect some sort of a galley to protect the
cook against the inclemencies of the weather. The party which I had
sent back under Wild to the ship returned with, amongst other things,
the wheel-house practically complete. This, with the addition of some
sails and tarpaulins stretched on spars, made a very comfortable
storehouse and galley. Pieces of planking from the deck were lashed
across some spars stuck upright into the snow, and this, with the
ship’s binnacle, formed an excellent look-out from which to look for
seals and penguins. On this platform, too, a mast was erected from
which flew the King’s flag and the Royal Clyde Yacht Club burgee.

I made a strict inventory of all the food in our possession, weights
being roughly determined with a simple balance made from a piece of
wood and some string, the counter-weight being a 60-lb. box of
provisions.

The dog teams went off to the wreck early each morning under Wild, and
the men made every effort to rescue as much as possible from the ship.
This was an extremely difficult task as the whole of the deck forward
was under a foot of water on the port side, and nearly three feet on
the starboard side. However, they managed to collect large quantities
of wood and ropes and some few cases of provisions. Although the galley
was under water, Bakewell managed to secure three or four saucepans,
which later proved invaluable acquisitions. Quite a number of boxes of
flour, etc., had been stowed in a cabin in the hold, and these we had
been unable to get out before we left the ship. Having, therefore,
determined as nearly as possible that portion of the deck immediately
above these cases, we proceeded to cut a hole with large ice-chisels
through the 3-in. planking of which it was formed. As the ship at this
spot was under 5 ft. of water and ice, it was not an easy job. However,
we succeeded in making the hole sufficiently large to allow of some few
cases to come floating up. These were greeted with great satisfaction,
and later on, as we warmed to our work, other cases, whose upward
progress was assisted with a boat-hook, were greeted with either cheers
or groans according to whether they contained farinaceous food or
merely luxuries such as jellies. For each man by now had a good idea of
the calorific value and nutritive and sustaining qualities of the
various foods. It had a personal interest for us all. In this way we
added to our scanty stock between two and three tons of provisions,
about half of which was farinaceous food, such as flour and peas, of
which we were so short. This sounds a great deal, but at one pound per
day it would only last twenty-eight men for three months. Previous to
this I had reduced the food allowance to nine and a half ounces per man
per day. Now, however, it could be increased, and “this afternoon, for
the first time for ten days, we knew what it was to be really
satisfied.”


[Illustration: The Look-out at Ocean Camp]


[Illustration: The Emergency Sledges being packed in case of a sudden
break up of the Ice]


I had the sledges packed in readiness with the special sledging rations
in case of a sudden move, and with the other food, allowing also for
prospective seals and penguins, I calculated a dietary to give the
utmost possible variety and yet to use our precious stock of flour in
the most economical manner. All seals and penguins that appeared
anywhere within the vicinity of the camp were killed to provide food
and fuel. The dog-pemmican we also added to our own larder, feeding the
dogs on the seals which we caught, after removing such portions as were
necessary for our own needs. We were rather short of crockery, but
small pieces of venesta-wood served admirably as plates for seal
steaks; stews and liquids of all sorts were served in the aluminium
sledging-mugs, of which each man had one. Later on, jelly-tins and
biscuit-tin lids were pressed into service.

Monotony in the meals, even considering the circumstances in which we
found ourselves, was what I was striving to avoid, so our little stock
of luxuries, such as fish-paste, tinned herrings, etc., was carefully
husbanded and so distributed as to last as long as possible. My efforts
were not in vain, as one man states in his diary: “It must be admitted
that we are feeding very well indeed, considering our position. Each
meal consists of one course and a beverage. The dried vegetables, if
any, all go into the same pot as the meat, and every dish is a sort of
hash or stew, be it ham or seal meat or half and half. The fact that we
only have two pots available places restrictions upon the number of
things that can be cooked at one time, but in spite of the limitation
of facilities, we always seem to manage to get just enough. The
milk-powder and sugar are necessarily boiled with the tea or cocoa.

“We are, of course, very short of the farinaceous element in our diet,
and consequently have a mild craving for more of it. Bread is out of
the question, and as we are husbanding the remaining cases of our
biscuits for our prospective boat journey, we are eking out the supply
of flour by making bannocks, of which we have from three to four each
day. These bannocks are made from flour, fat, water, salt, and a little
baking-powder, the dough being rolled out into flat rounds and baked in
about ten minutes on a hot sheet of iron over the fire. Each bannock
weighs about one and a half to two ounces, and we are indeed lucky to
be able to produce them.”

A few boxes of army biscuits soaked with sea-water were distributed at
one meal. They were in such a state that they would not have been
looked at a second time under ordinary circumstances, but to us on a
floating lump of ice, over three hundred miles from land, and that
quite hypothetical, and with the unplumbed sea beneath us, they were
luxuries indeed. Wild’s tent made a pudding of theirs with some
dripping.

Although keeping in mind the necessity for strict economy with our
scanty store of food, I knew how important it was to keep the men
cheerful, and that the depression occasioned by our surroundings and
our precarious position could to some extent be alleviated by
increasing the rations, at least until we were more accustomed to our
new mode of life. That this was successful is shown in their diaries.

“Day by day goes by much the same as one another. We work; we talk; we
eat. Ah, how we eat! No longer on short rations, we are a trifle more
exacting than we were when we first commenced our ‘simple life,’ but by
comparison with home standards we are positive barbarians, and our
gastronomic rapacity knows no bounds.

“All is eaten that comes to each tent, and everything is most carefully
and accurately divided into as many equal portions as there are men in
the tent. One member then closes his eyes or turns his head away and
calls out the names at random, as the cook for the day points to each
portion, saying at the same time, ‘Whose?’

“Partiality, however unintentional it may be, is thus entirely obviated
and every one feels satisfied that all is fair, even though one may
look a little enviously at the next man’s helping, which differs in
some especially appreciated detail from one’s own. We break the Tenth
Commandment energetically, but as we are all in the same boat in this
respect, no one says a word. We understand each other’s feelings quite
sympathetically.

“It is just like school-days over again, and very jolly it is too, for
the time being!”

Later on, as the prospect of wintering in the pack became more
apparent, the rations had to be considerably reduced. By that time,
however, everybody had become more accustomed to the idea and took it
quite as a matter of course.

Our meals now consisted in the main of a fairly generous helping of
seal or penguin, either boiled or fried. As one man wrote:

“We are now having enough to eat, but not by any means too much; and
every one is always hungry enough to eat every scrap he can get. Meals
are invariably taken very seriously, and little talking is done till
the hoosh is finished.”

Our tents made somewhat cramped quarters, especially during meal-times.

“Living in a tent without any furniture requires a little getting used
to. For our meals we have to sit on the floor, and it is surprising how
awkward it is to eat in such a position; it is better by far to kneel
and sit back on one’s heels, as do the Japanese.”

Each man took it in turn to be the tent “cook” for one day, and one
writes:

“The word ‘cook’ is at present rather a misnomer, for whilst we have a
permanent galley no cooking need be done in the tent.

“Really, all that the tent cook has to do is to take his two hoosh-pots
over to the galley and convey the hoosh and the beverage to the tent,
clearing up after each meal and washing up the two pots and the mugs.
There are no spoons, etc., to wash, for we each keep our own spoon and
pocket-knife in our pockets. We just lick them as clean as possible and
replace them in our pockets after each meal.

“Our spoons are one of our indispensable possessions here. To lose
one’s spoon would be almost as serious as it is for an edentate person
to lose his set of false teeth.”

During all this time the supply of seals and penguins, if not
inexhaustible, was always sufficient for our needs.

Seal- and penguin-hunting was our daily occupation, and parties were
sent out in different directions to search among the hummocks and the
pressure-ridges for them. When one was found a signal was hoisted,
usually in the form of a scarf or a sock on a pole, and an answering
signal was hoisted at the camp.

Then Wild went out with a dog team to shoot and bring in the game. To
feed ourselves and the dogs, at least one seal a day was required. The
seals were mostly crab-eaters, and emperor penguins were the general
rule. On November 5, however, an adelie was caught, and this was the
cause of much discussion, as the following extract shows: “The man on
watch from 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. caught an adelie penguin. This is the first
of its kind that we have seen since January last, and it may mean a
lot. It may signify that there is land somewhere near us, or else that
great leads are opening up, but it is impossible to form more than a
mere conjecture at present.”

No skuas, Antarctic petrels, or sea-leopards were seen during our two
months’ stay at Ocean Camp.

In addition to the daily hunt for food, our time was passed in reading
the few books that we had managed to save from the ship. The greatest
treasure in the library was a portion of the “Encyclopædia
Britannica.” This was being continually used to settle the inevitable
arguments that would arise. The sailors were discovered one day engaged
in a very heated discussion on the subject of _Money and Exchange_.
They finally came to the conclusion that the Encyclopædia, since it
did not coincide with their views, must be wrong.

“For descriptions of every American town that ever has been, is, or
ever will be, and for full and complete biographies of every American
statesman since the time of George Washington and long before, the
Encyclopædia would be hard to beat. Owing to our shortage of matches
we have been driven to use it for purposes other than the purely
literary ones though; and one genius having discovered that the paper,
used for its pages had been impregnated with saltpetre, we can now
thoroughly recommend it as a very efficient pipe-lighter.”

We also possessed a few books on Antarctic exploration, a copy of
Browning and one of “The Ancient Mariner.” On reading the latter, we
sympathized with him and wondered what he had done with the albatross;
it would have made a very welcome addition to our larder.

The two subjects of most interest to us were our rate of drift and the
weather. Worsley took observations of the sun whenever possible, and
his results showed conclusively that the drift of our floe was almost
entirely dependent upon the winds and not much affected by currents.
Our hope, of course, was to drift northwards to the edge of the pack
and then, when the ice was loose enough, to take to the boats and row
to the nearest land. We started off in fine style, drifting north about
twenty miles in two or three days in a howling south-westerly blizzard.
Gradually, however, we slowed up, as successive observations showed,
until we began to drift back to the south. An increasing north-easterly
wind, which commenced on November 7 and lasted for twelve days, damped
our spirits for a time, until we found that we had only drifted back to
the south three miles, so that we were now seventeen miles to the good.
This tended to reassure us in our theories that the ice of the Weddell
Sea was drifting round in a clockwise direction, and that if we could
stay on our piece long enough we must eventually be taken up to the
north, where lay the open sea and the path to comparative safety.

The ice was not moving fast enough to be noticeable. In fact, the only
way in which we could prove that we were moving at all was by noting
the change of relative positions of the bergs around us, and, more
definitely, by fixing our absolute latitude and longitude by
observations of the sun. Otherwise, as far as actual visible drift was
concerned, we might have been on dry land.

For the next few days we made good progress, drifting seven miles to
the north on November 24 and another seven miles in the next
forty-eight hours. We were all very pleased to know that although the
wind was mainly south-west all this time, yet we had made very little
easting. The land lay to the west, so had we drifted to the east we
should have been taken right away to the centre of the entrance to the
Weddell Sea, and our chances of finally reaching land would have been
considerably lessened.

Our average rate of drift was slow, and many and varied were the
calculations as to when we should reach the pack-edge. On December 12,
1915, one man wrote: “Once across the Antarctic Circle, it will seem as
if we are practically halfway home again; and it is just possible that
with favourable winds we may cross the circle before the New Year. A
drift of only three miles a day would do it, and we have often done
that and more for periods of three or four weeks.

“We are now only 250 miles from Paulet Island, but too much to the east
of it. We are approaching the latitudes in which we were at this time
last year, on our way down. The ship left South Georgia just a year and
a week ago, and reached this latitude four or five miles to the
eastward of our present position on January 3, 1915, crossing the
circle on New Year’s Eve.”

Thus, after a year’s incessant battle with the ice, we had returned, by
many strange turns of fortune’s wheel, to almost identically the same
latitude that we had left with such high hopes and aspirations twelve
months previously; but under what different conditions now! Our ship
crushed and lost, and we ourselves drifting on a piece of ice at the
mercy of the winds. However, in spite of occasional setbacks due to
unfavourable winds, our drift was in the main very satisfactory, and
this went a long way towards keeping the men cheerful.

As the drift was mostly affected by the winds, the weather was closely
watched by all, and Hussey, the meteorologist, was called upon to make
forecasts every four hours, and some times more frequently than that. A
meteorological screen, containing thermometers and a barograph, had
been erected on a post frozen into the ice, and observations were taken
every four hours. When we first left the ship the weather was cold and
miserable, and altogether as unpropitious as it could possibly have
been for our attempted march. Our first few days at Ocean Camp were
passed under much the same conditions. At nights the temperature
dropped to zero, with blinding snow and drift. One-hour watches were
instituted, all hands taking their turn, and in such weather this job
was no sinecure. The watchman had to be continually on the alert for
cracks in the ice, or any sudden changes in the ice conditions, and
also had to keep his eye on the dogs, who often became restless,
fretful, and quarrelsome in the early hours of the morning. At the end
of his hour he was very glad to crawl back into the comparative warmth
of his frozen sleeping-bag.

On November 6 a dull, overcast day developed into a howling blizzard
from the south-west, with snow and low drift. Only those who were
compelled left the shelter of their tent. Deep drifts formed
everywhere, burying sledges and provisions to a depth of two feet, and
the snow piling up round the tents threatened to burst the thin fabric.
The fine drift found its way in through the ventilator of the tent,
which was accordingly plugged up with a spare sock.

This lasted for two days, when one man wrote: “The blizzard continued
through the morning, but cleared towards noon, and it was a beautiful
evening; but we would far rather have the screeching blizzard with its
searching drift and cold damp wind, for we drifted about eleven miles
to the north during the night.”

For four days the fine weather continued, with gloriously warm, bright
sun, but cold when standing still or in the shade. The temperature
usually dropped below zero, but every opportunity was taken during
these fine, sunny days to partially dry our sleeping-bags and other
gear, which had become sodden through our body-heat having thawed the
snow which had drifted in on to them during the blizzard. The bright
sun seemed to put new heart into all.

The next day brought a north-easterly wind with the very high
temperature of 27° Fahr.—only 5° below freezing. “These high
temperatures do not always represent the warmth which might be assumed
from the thermometrical readings. They usually bring dull, overcast
skies, with a raw, muggy, moisture-laden wind. The winds from the
south, though colder, are nearly always coincident with sunny days and
clear blue skies.”

The temperature still continued to rise, reaching 33° Fahr. on November
14. The thaw consequent upon these high temperatures was having a
disastrous effect upon the surface of our camp. “The surface is
awful!—not slushy, but elusive. You step out gingerly. All is well for
a few paces, then your foot suddenly sinks a couple of feet until it
comes to a hard layer. You wade along in this way step by step, like a
mudlark at Portsmouth Hard, hoping gradually to regain the surface.
Soon you do, only to repeat the exasperating performance _ad lib_., to
the accompaniment of all the expletives that you can bring to bear on
the subject. What actually happens is that the warm air melts the
surface sufficiently to cause drops of water to trickle down slightly,
where, on meeting colder layers of snow, they freeze again, forming a
honeycomb of icy nodules instead of the soft, powdery, granular snow
that we are accustomed to.”

These high temperatures persisted for some days, and when, as
occasionally happened, the sky was clear and the sun was shining it was
unbearably hot. Five men who were sent to fetch some gear from the
vicinity of the ship with a sledge marched in nothing but trousers and
singlet, and even then were very hot; in fact they were afraid of
getting sunstroke, so let down flaps from their caps to cover their
necks. Their sleeves were rolled up over their elbows, and their arms
were red and sunburnt in consequence. The temperature on this occasion
was 26° Fahr., or 6° below freezing. For five or six days more the sun
continued, and most of our clothes and sleeping-bags were now
comparatively dry. A wretched day with rainy sleet set in on November
21, but one could put up with this discomfort as the wind was now from
the south.

The wind veered later to the west, and the sun came out at 9 p.m. For
at this time, near the end of November, we had the midnight sun. “A
thrice-blessed southerly wind” soon arrived to cheer us all,
occasioning the following remarks in one of the diaries:

“To-day is the most beautiful day we have had in the Antarctic—a clear
sky, a gentle, warm breeze from the south, and the most brilliant
sunshine. We all took advantage of it to strike tents, clean out, and
generally dry and air ground-sheets and sleeping-bags.”

I was up early—4 a.m.—to keep watch, and the sight was indeed
magnificent. Spread out before one was an extensive panorama of
ice-fields, intersected here and there by small broken leads, and
dotted with numerous noble bergs, partly bathed in sunshine and partly
tinged with the grey shadows of an overcast sky.

As one watched one observed a distinct line of demarcation between the
sunshine and the shade, and this line gradually approached nearer and
nearer, lighting up the hummocky relief of the ice-field bit by bit,
until at last it reached us, and threw the whole camp into a blaze of
glorious sunshine which lasted nearly all day.

“This afternoon we were treated to one or two showers of hail-like
snow. Yesterday we also had a rare form of snow, or, rather,
precipitation of ice-spicules, exactly like little hairs, about a third
of an inch long.

“The warmth in the tents at lunch-time was so great that we had all the
side-flaps up for ventilation, but it is a treat to get warm
occasionally, and one can put up with a little stuffy atmosphere now
and again for the sake of it. The wind has gone to the best quarter
this evening, the south-east, and is freshening.”

On these fine, clear, sunny days wonderful mirage effects could be
observed, just as occur over the desert. Huge bergs were apparently
resting on nothing, with a distinct gap between their bases and the
horizon; others were curiously distorted into all sorts of weird and
fantastic shapes, appearing to be many times their proper height. Added
to this, the pure glistening white of the snow and ice made a picture
which it is impossible adequately to describe.

Later on, the freshening south-westerly wind brought mild, overcast
weather, probably due to the opening up of the pack in that direction.

I had already made arrangements for a quick move in case of a sudden
break-up of the ice. Emergency orders were issued; each man had his
post allotted and his duty detailed; and the whole was so organized
that in less than five minutes from the sounding of the alarm on my
whistle, tents were struck, gear and provisions packed, and the whole
party was ready to move off. I now took a final survey of the men to
note their condition, both mental and physical. For our time at Ocean
Camp had not been one of unalloyed bliss. The loss of the ship meant
more to us than we could ever put into words. After we had settled at
Ocean Camp she still remained nipped by the ice, only her stern showing
and her bows overridden and buried by the relentless pack. The tangled
mass of ropes, rigging, and spars made the scene even more desolate and
depressing.

It was with a feeling almost of relief that the end came.

“_November_ 21, 1915.—This evening, as we were lying in our tents we
heard the Boss call out, ‘She’s going, boys!’ We were out in a second
and up on the look-out station and other points of vantage, and, sure
enough, there was our poor ship a mile and a half away struggling in
her death-agony. She went down bows first, her stern raised in the air.
She then gave one quick dive and the ice closed over her for ever. It
gave one a sickening sensation to see it, for, mastless and useless as
she was, she seemed to be a link with the outer world. Without her our
destitution seems more emphasized, our desolation more complete. The
loss of the ship sent a slight wave of depression over the camp. No one
said much, but we cannot be blamed for feeling it in a sentimental way.
It seemed as if the moment of severance from many cherished
associations, many happy moments, even stirring incidents, had come as
she silently up-ended to find a last resting-place beneath the ice on
which we now stand. When one knows every little nook and corner of
one’s ship as we did, and has helped her time and again in the fight
that she made so well, the actual parting was not without its pathos,
quite apart from one’s own desolation, and I doubt if there was one
amongst us who did not feel some personal emotion when Sir Ernest,
standing on the top of the look-out, said somewhat sadly and quietly,
‘She’s gone, boys.’

“It must, however, be said that we did not give way to depression for
long, for soon every one was as cheery as usual. Laughter rang out from
the tents, and even the Boss had a passage-at-arms with the storekeeper
over the inadequacy of the sausage ration, insisting that there should
be two each ‘because they were such little ones,’ instead of the one
and a half that the latter proposed.”

The psychological effect of a slight increase in the rations soon
neutralized any tendency to downheartedness, but with the high
temperatures surface-thaw set in, and our bags and clothes were soaked
and sodden. Our boots squelched as we walked, and we lived in a state
of perpetual wet feet. At nights, before the temperature had fallen,
clouds of steam could be seen rising from our soaking bags and boots.
During the night, as it grew colder, this all condensed as rime on the
inside of the tent, and showered down upon us if one happened to touch
the side inadvertently. One had to be careful how one walked, too, as
often only a thin crust of ice and snow covered a hole in the floe,
through which many an unwary member went in up to his waist. These
perpetual soakings, however, seemed to have had little lasting effect,
or perhaps it was not apparent owing to the excitement of the prospect
of an early release.

A north-westerly wind on December 7 and 8 retarded our progress
somewhat, but I had reason to believe that it would help to open the
ice and form leads through which we might escape to open water. So I
ordered a practice launching of the boats and stowage of food and
stores in them. This was very satisfactory. We cut a slipway from our
floe into a lead which ran alongside, and the boats took the water
“like a bird,” as one sailor remarked. Our hopes were high in
anticipation of an early release. A blizzard sprang up, increasing the
next day and burying tents and packing-cases in the drift. On December
12 it had moderated somewhat and veered to the south-east, and the next
day the blizzard had ceased, but a good steady wind from south and
south-west continued to blow us north.

“_December_ 15, 1915.—The continuance of southerly winds is exceeding
our best hopes, and raising our spirits in proportion. Prospects could
not be brighter than they are just now. The environs of our floe are
continually changing. Some days we are almost surrounded by small open
leads, preventing us from crossing over to the adjacent floes.”

After two more days our fortune changed, and a strong north-easterly
wind brought “a beastly cold, windy day” and drove us back three and a
quarter miles. Soon, however, the wind once more veered to the south
and south-west. These high temperatures, combined with the strong
changeable winds that we had had of late, led me to conclude that the
ice all around us was rotting and breaking up and that the moment of
our deliverance from the icy maw of the Antarctic was at hand.

On December 20, after discussing the question with Wild, I informed all
hands that I intended to try and make a march to the west to reduce the
distance between us and Paulet Island. A buzz of pleasurable
anticipation went round the camp, and every one was anxious to get on
the move. So the next day I set off with Wild, Crean, and Hurley, with
dog teams, to the westward to survey the route. After travelling about
seven miles we mounted a small berg, and there as far as we could see
stretched a series of immense flat floes from half a mile to a mile
across, separated from each other by pressure-ridges which seemed
easily negotiable with pick and shovel. The only place that appeared
likely to be formidable was a very much cracked-up area between the old
floe that we were on and the first of the series of young flat floes
about half a mile away.


[Illustration: The Sledges packed and ready]


[Illustration: Relaying the _James Caird_]


December 22 was therefore kept as Christmas Day, and most of our small
remaining stock of luxuries was consumed at the Christmas feast. We
could not carry it all with us, so for the last time for eight months
we had a really good meal—as much as we could eat. Anchovies in oil,
baked beans, and jugged hare made a glorious mixture such as we have
not dreamed of since our school-days. Everybody was working at high
pressure, packing and repacking sledges and stowing what provisions we
were going to take with us in the various sacks and boxes. As I looked
round at the eager faces of the men I could not but hope that this time
the fates would be kinder to us than in our last attempt to march
across the ice to safety.




CHAPTER VI
THE MARCH BETWEEN


With the exception of the night-watchman we turned in at 11 p.m., and
at 3 a.m. on December 23 all hands were roused for the purpose of
sledging the two boats, the _James Caird_ and the _Dudley Docker_, over
the dangerously cracked portion to the first of the young floes, whilst
the surface still held its night crust. A thick sea-fog came up from
the west, so we started off finally at 4.30 a.m., after a drink of hot
coffee.

Practically all hands had to be harnessed to each boat in succession,
and by dint of much careful manipulation and tortuous courses amongst
the broken ice we got both safely over the danger-zone.

We then returned to Ocean Camp for the tents and the rest of the
sledges, and pitched camp by the boats about one and a quarter miles
off. On the way back a big seal was caught which provided fresh food
for ourselves and for the dogs. On arrival at the camp a supper of cold
tinned mutton and tea was served, and everybody turned in at 2 p.m. It
was my intention to sleep by day and march by night, so as to take
advantage of the slightly lower temperatures and consequent harder
surfaces.

At 8 p.m. the men were roused, and after a meal of cold mutton and tea,
the march was resumed. A large open lead brought us to a halt at 11
p.m., whereupon we camped and turned in without a meal. Fortunately
just at this time the weather was fine and warm. Several men slept out
in the open at the beginning of the march. One night, however, a slight
snow-shower came on, succeeded immediately by a lowering of the
temperature. Worsley, who had hung up his trousers and socks on a boat,
found them iced-up and stiff; and it was quite a painful process for
him to dress quickly that morning. I was anxious, now that we had
started, that we should make every effort to extricate ourselves, and
this temporary check so early was rather annoying. So that afternoon
Wild and I ski-ed out to the crack and found that it had closed up
again. We marked out the track with small flags as we returned. Each
day, after all hands had turned in, Wild and I would go ahead for two
miles or so to reconnoitre the next day’s route, marking it with pieces
of wood, tins, and small flags. We had to pick the road which though it
might be somewhat devious, was flattest and had least hummocks.
Pressure-ridges had to be skirted, and where this was not possible the
best place to make a bridge of ice-blocks across the lead or over the
ridge had to be found and marked. It was the duty of the dog-drivers to
thus prepare the track for those who were toiling behind with the heavy
boats. These boats were hauled in relays, about sixty yards at a time.
I did not wish them to be separated by too great a distance in case the
ice should crack between them, and we should be unable to reach the one
that was in rear. Every twenty yards or so they had to stop for a rest
and to take breath, and it was a welcome sight to them to see the
canvas screen go up on some oars, which denoted the fact that the cook
had started preparing a meal, and that a temporary halt, at any rate,
was going to be made. Thus the ground had to be traversed three times
by the boat-hauling party. The dog-sledges all made two, and some of
them three, relays. The dogs were wonderful. Without them we could
never have transported half the food and gear that we did.

We turned in at 7 p.m. that night, and at 1 a.m. next day, the 25th,
and the third day of our march, a breakfast of sledging ration was
served. By 2 a.m. we were on the march again. We wished one another a
merry Christmas, and our thoughts went back to those at home. We
wondered, too, that day, as we sat down to our “lunch” of stale, thin
bannock and a mug of thin cocoa, what they were having at home.

All hands were very cheerful. The prospect of a relief from the
monotony of life on the floe raised all our spirits. One man wrote in
his diary: “It’s a hard, rough, jolly life, this marching and camping;
no washing of self or dishes, no undressing, no changing of clothes. We
have our food anyhow, and always impregnated with blubber-smoke;
sleeping almost on the bare snow and working as hard as the human
physique is capable of doing on a minimum of food.”

We marched on, with one halt at 6 a.m., till half-past eleven. After a
supper of seal steaks and tea we turned in. The surface now was pretty
bad. High temperatures during the day made the upper layers of snow
very soft, and the thin crust which formed at night was not sufficient
to support a man. Consequently, at each step we went in over our knees
in the soft wet snow. Sometimes a man would step into a hole in the ice
which was hidden by the covering of snow, and be pulled up with a jerk
by his harness. The sun was very hot and many were suffering from
cracked lips.

Two seals were killed to-day. Wild and McIlroy, who went out to secure
them, had rather an exciting time on some very loose, rotten ice, three
killer-whales in a lead a few yards away poking up their ugly heads as
if in anticipation of a feast.

Next day, December 26, we started off again at 1 a.m. “The surface was
much better than it has been for the last few days, and this is the
principal thing that matters. The route, however, lay over very
hummocky floes, and required much work with pick and shovel to make it
passable for the boat-sledges. These are handled in relays by eighteen
men under Worsley. It is killing work on soft surfaces.”

At 5 a.m. we were brought up by a wide open lead after an
unsatisfactorily short march. While we waited, a meal of tea and two
small bannocks was served, but as 10 a.m. came and there were no signs
of the lead closing we all turned in.

It snowed a little during the day and those who were sleeping outside
got their sleeping-bags pretty wet.

At 9.30 p.m. that night we were off again. I was, as usual, pioneering
in front, followed by the cook and his mate pulling a small sledge with
the stove and all the cooking gear on. These two, black as two Mohawk
Minstrels with the blubber-soot, were dubbed “Potash and Perlmutter.”
Next come the dog teams, who soon overtake the cook, and the two boats
bring up the rear. Were it not for these cumbrous boats we should get
along at a great rate, but we dare not abandon them on any account. As
it is we left one boat, the _Stancomb Wills_, behind at Ocean Camp, and
the remaining two will barely accommodate the whole party when we leave
the floe.


[Illustration: Potash and Perlmutter]


[Illustration: “Loneliness”: Patience Camp]


We did a good march of one and a half miles that night before we halted
for “lunch” at 1 a.m., and then on for another mile, when at 5 a.m. we
camped by a little sloping berg.

Blackie, one of Wild’s dogs, fell lame and could neither pull nor keep
up with the party even when relieved of his harness, so had to be shot.

Nine p.m. that night, the 27th, saw us on the march again. The first
200 yds. took us about five hours to cross, owing to the amount of
breaking down of pressure-ridges and filling in of leads that was
required. The surface, too, was now very soft, so our progress was slow
and tiring. We managed to get another three-quarters of a mile before
lunch, and a further mile due west over a very hummocky floe before we
camped at 5.30 a.m. Greenstreet and Macklin killed and brought in a
huge Weddell seal weighing about 800 lbs., and two emperor penguins
made a welcome addition to our larder.

I climbed a small tilted berg nearby. The country immediately ahead was
much broken up. Great open leads intersected the floes at all angles,
and it all looked very unpromising. Wild and I went out prospecting as
usual, but it seemed too broken to travel over.

“_December_ 29.—After a further reconnaissance the ice ahead proved
quite un-negotiable, so at 8.30 p.m. last night, to the intense
disappointment of all, instead of forging ahead, we had to retire half
a mile so as to get on a stronger floe, and by 10 p.m. we had camped
and all hands turned in again. The extra sleep was much needed, however
disheartening the check may be.”

During the night a crack formed right across the floe, so we hurriedly
shifted to a strong old floe about a mile and a half to the east of our
present position. The ice all around was now too broken and soft to
sledge over, and yet there was not sufficient open water to allow us to
launch the boats with any degree of safety. We had been on the march
for seven days; rations were short and the men were weak. They were
worn out with the hard pulling over soft surfaces, and our stock of
sledging food was very small. We had marched seven and a half miles in
a direct line and at this rate it would take us over three hundred days
to reach the land away to the west. As we only had food for forty-two
days there was no alternative, therefore, but to camp once more on the
floe and to possess our souls with what patience we could till
conditions should appear more favourable for a renewal of the attempt
to escape. To this end, we stacked our surplus provisions, the reserve
sledging rations being kept lashed on the sledges, and brought what
gear we could from our but lately deserted Ocean Camp.

Our new home, which we were to occupy for nearly three and a half
months, we called “Patience Camp.”




CHAPTER VII
PATIENCE CAMP


The apathy which seemed to take possession of some of the men at the
frustration of their hopes was soon dispelled. Parties were sent out
daily in different directions to look for seals and penguins. We had
left, other than reserve sledging rations, about 110 lbs. of pemmican,
including the dog-pemmican, and 300 lbs. of flour. In addition there
was a little tea, sugar, dried vegetables, and suet. I sent Hurley and
Macklin to Ocean Camp to bring back the food that we had had to leave
there. They returned with quite a good load, including 130 lbs. of dry
milk, about 50 lbs. each of dog-pemmican and jam, and a few tins of
potted meats. When they were about a mile and a half away their voices
were quite audible to us at Ocean Camp, so still was the air.

We were, of course, very short of the farinaceous element in our diet.
The flour would last ten weeks. After that our sledging rations would
last us less than three months. Our meals had to consist mainly of seal
and penguin; and though this was valuable as an anti-scorbutic, so much
so that not a single case of scurvy occurred amongst the party, yet it
was a badly adjusted diet, and we felt rather weak and enervated in
consequence.

“The cook deserves much praise for the way he has stuck to his job
through all this severe blizzard. His galley consists of nothing but a
few boxes arranged as a table, with a canvas screen erected around them
on four oars and the two blubber-stoves within. The protection afforded
by the screen is only partial, and the eddies drive the pungent
blubber-smoke in all directions.”

After a few days we were able to build him an igloo of ice-blocks, with
a tarpaulin over the top as a roof.

“Our rations are just sufficient to keep us alive, but we all feel that
we could eat twice as much as we get. An average day’s food at present
consists of ½ lb. of seal with ¾ pint of tea for breakfast, a 4-oz.
bannock with milk for lunch, and ¾ pint of seal stew for supper. That
is barely enough, even doing very little work as we are, for of course
we are completely destitute of bread or potatoes or anything of that
sort. Some seem to feel it more than others and are continually talking
of food; but most of us find that the continual conversation about food
only whets an appetite that cannot be satisfied. Our craving for bread
and butter is very real, not because we cannot get it, but because the
system feels the need of it.”

Owing to this shortage of food and the fact that we needed all that we
could get for ourselves, I had to order all the dogs except two teams
to be shot. It was the worst job that we had had throughout the
Expedition, and we felt their loss keenly.

I had to be continually rearranging the weekly menu. The possible
number of permutations of seal meat were decidedly limited. The fact
that the men did not know what was coming gave them a sort of mental
speculation, and the slightest variation was of great value.

“We caught an adelie to-day (January 26) and another whale was seen at
close quarters, but no seals.

“We are now very short of blubber, and in consequence one stove has to
be shut down. We only get one hot beverage a day, the tea at breakfast.
For the rest we have iced water. Sometimes we are short even of this,
so we take a few chips of ice in a tobacco-tin to bed with us. In the
morning there is about a spoonful of water in the tin, and one has to
lie very still all night so as not to spill it.”

To provide some variety in the food, I commenced to use the sledging
ration at half strength twice a week.

The ice between us and Ocean Camp, now only about five miles away and
actually to the south-west of us, was very broken, but I decided to
send Macklin and Hurley back with their dogs to see if there was any
more food that could be added to our scanty stock. I gave them written
instructions to take no undue risk or cross any wide-open leads, and
said that they were to return by midday the next day. Although they
both fell through the thin ice up to their waists more than once, they
managed to reach the camp. They found the surface soft and sunk about
two feet. Ocean Camp, they said, “looked like a village that had been
razed to the ground and deserted by its inhabitants.” The floor-boards
forming the old tent-bottoms had prevented the sun from thawing the
snow directly underneath them, and were in consequence raised about two
feet above the level of the surrounding floe.


[Illustration: The Kitchen at Patience Camp]


[Illustration: The Stove at Patience Camp constructed out of old
Oil-drums]


The storehouse next the galley had taken on a list of several degrees
to starboard, and pools of water had formed everywhere. They collected
what food they could find and packed a few books in a venesta
sledging-case, returning to Patience Camp by about 8 p.m. I was pleased
at their quick return, and as their report seemed to show that the road
was favourable, on February 2 I sent back eighteen men under Wild to
bring all the remainder of the food and the third boat, the _Stancomb
Wills_. They started off at 1 a.m., towing the empty boat-sledge on
which the _James Caird_ had rested, and reached Ocean Camp about 3.30
a.m.

“We stayed about three hours at the Camp, mounting the boat on the
sledge, collecting eatables, clothing, and books. We left at 6 a.m.,
arriving back at Patience Camp with the boat at 12.30 p.m., taking
exactly three times as long to return with the boat as it did to pull
in the empty sledge to fetch it. On the return journey we had numerous
halts while the pioneer party of four were busy breaking down
pressure-ridges and filling in open cracks with ice-blocks, as the
leads were opening up. The sun had softened the surface a good deal,
and in places it was terribly hard pulling. Every one was a bit
exhausted by the time we got back, as we are not now in good training
and are on short rations. Every now and then the heavy sledge broke
through the ice altogether and was practically afloat. We had an awful
job to extricate it, exhausted as we were. The longest distance which
we managed to make without stopping for leads or pressure-ridges was
about three quarters of a mile.

“About a mile from Patience Camp we had a welcome surprise. Sir Ernest
and Hussey sledged out to meet us with dixies of hot tea, well wrapped
up to keep them warm.

“One or two of the men left behind had cut a moderately good track for
us into the camp, and they harnessed themselves up with us, and we got
in in fine style.

“One excellent result of our trip was the recovery of two cases of
lentils weighing 42 lbs. each.”

The next day I sent Macklin and Crean back to make a further selection
of the gear, but they found that several leads had opened up during the
night, and they had to return when within a mile and a half of their
destination. We were never able to reach Ocean Camp again. Still, there
was very little left there that would have been of use to us.

By the middle of February the blubber question was a serious one. I had
all the discarded seals’ heads and flippers dug up and stripped of
every vestige of blubber. Meat was very short too. We still had our
three months’ supply of sledging food practically untouched; we were
only to use this as a last resort. We had a small supply of
dog-pemmican, the dogs that were left being fed on those parts of the
seals that we could not use. This dog-pemmican we fried in suet with a
little flour and made excellent bannocks.

Our meat supply was now very low indeed; we were reduced to just a few
scraps. Fortunately, however, we caught two seals and four emperor
penguins, and next day forty adelies. We had now only forty days’ food
left, and the lack of blubber was being keenly felt. All our suet was
used up, so we used seal-blubber to fry the meat in. Once we were used
to its fishy taste we enjoyed it; in fact, like Oliver Twist, we wanted
more.

On Leap Year day, February 29, we held a special celebration, more to
cheer the men up than for anything else. Some of the cynics of the
party held that it was to celebrate their escape from woman’s wiles for
another four years. The last of our cocoa was used to-day. Henceforth
water, with an occasional drink of weak milk, is to be our only
beverage. Three lumps of sugar were now issued to each man daily.

One night one of the dogs broke loose and played havoc with our
precious stock of bannocks. He ate four and half of a fifth before he
could be stopped. The remaining half, with the marks of the dog’s teeth
on it, I gave to Worsley, who divided it up amongst his seven
tent-mates; they each received about half a square inch.

Lees, who was in charge of the food and responsible for its safe
keeping, wrote in his diary: “The shorter the provisions the more there
is to do in the commissariat department, contriving to eke out our
slender stores as the weeks pass by. No housewife ever had more to do
than we have in making a little go a long way.

“Writing about the bannock that Peter bit makes one wish now that one
could have many a meal that one has given to the dog at home. When one
is hungry, fastidiousness goes to the winds and one is only too glad to
eat up any scraps regardless of their antecedents. One is almost
ashamed to write of all the titbits one has picked up here, but it is
enough to say that when the cook upset some pemmican on to an old sooty
cloth and threw it outside his galley, one man subsequently made a
point of acquiring it and scraping off the palatable but dirty
compound.”

Another man searched for over an hour in the snow where he had dropped
a piece of cheese some days before, in the hopes of finding a few
crumbs. He was rewarded by coming across a piece as big as his
thumb-nail, and considered it well worth the trouble.

By this time blubber was a regular article of our diet—either raw,
boiled, or fried. “It is remarkable how our appetites have changed in
this respect. Until quite recently almost the thought of it was
nauseating. Now, however, we positively demand it. The thick black oil
which is rendered down from it, rather like train-oil in appearance and
cod-liver oil in taste, we drink with avidity.”

We had now about enough farinaceous food for two meals all round, and
sufficient seal to last for a month. Our forty days’ reserve sledging
rations, packed on the sledges, we wished to keep till the last.

But, as one man philosophically remarked in his diary:

“It will do us all good to be hungry like this, for we will appreciate
so much more the good things when we get home.”

Seals and penguins now seemed to studiously avoid us, and on taking
stock of our provisions on March 21 I found that we had only sufficient
meat to last us for ten days, and the blubber would not last that time
even, so one biscuit had to be our midday meal.

Our meals were now practically all seal meat, with one biscuit at
midday; and I calculated that at this rate, allowing for a certain
number of seals and penguins being caught, we could last for nearly six
months. We were all very weak though, and as soon as it appeared likely
that we should leave our floe and take to the boats I should have to
considerably increase the ration. One day a huge sea-leopard climbed on
to the floe and attacked one of the men. Wild, hearing the shouting,
ran out and shot it. When it was cut up, we found in its stomach
several undigested fish. These we fried in some of its blubber, and so
had our only “fresh” fish meal during the whole of our drift on the
ice.

“As fuel is so scarce we have had to resort to melting ice for
drinking-water in tins against our bodies, and we treat the tins of
dog-pemmican for breakfast similarly by keeping them in our
sleeping-bags all night.

“The last two teams of dogs were shot to-day (April 2) the carcasses
being dressed for food. We had some of the dog-meat cooked, and it was
not at all bad—just like beef, but, of course, very tough.”

On April 5 we killed two seals, and this, with the sea-leopard of a few
days before, enabled us to slightly increase our ration. Everybody now
felt much happier; such is the psychological effect of hunger appeased.

On cold days a few strips of raw blubber were served out to all hands,
and it is wonderful how it fortified us against the cold.

Our stock of forty days’ sledging rations remained practically
untouched, but once in the boats they were used at full strength.

When we first settled down at Patience Camp the weather was very mild.
New Year’s Eve, however, was foggy and overcast, with some snow, and
next day, though the temperature rose to 38° Fahr., it was “abominably
cold and wet underfoot.” As a rule, during the first half of January
the weather was comparatively warm, so much so that we could dispense
with our mitts and work outside for quite long periods with bare hands.
Up till the 13th it was exasperatingly warm and calm. This meant that
our drift northwards, which was almost entirely dependent on the wind,
was checked. A light southerly breeze on the 16th raised all our hopes,
and as the temperature was dropping we were looking forward to a period
of favourable winds and a long drift north.

On the 18th it had developed into a howling south-westerly gale, rising
next day to a regular blizzard with much drift. No one left the shelter
of his tent except to feed the dogs, fetch the meals from the galley
for his tent, or when his turn as watchman came round. For six days
this lasted, when the drift subsided somewhat, though the southerly
wind continued, and we were able to get a glimpse of the sun. This
showed us to have drifted 84 miles north in six days, the longest drift
we had made. For weeks we had remained on the 67th parallel, and it
seemed as though some obstruction was preventing us from passing it. By
this amazing leap, however, we had crossed the Antarctic Circle, and
were now 146 miles from the nearest land to the west of us—Snow
Hill—and 357 miles from the South Orkneys, the first land directly to
the north of us.

As if to make up for this, an equally strong north-easterly wind sprang
up next day, and not only stopped our northward drift but set us back
three miles to the south. As usual, high temperatures and wet fog
accompanied these northerly winds, though the fog disappeared on the
afternoon of January 25, and we had the unusual spectacle of bright hot
sun with a north-easterly wind. It was as hot a day as we had ever had.
The temperature was 36° Fahr. in the shade and nearly 80° Fahr. inside
the tents. This had an awful effect on the surface, covering it with
pools and making it very treacherous to walk upon. Ten days of
northerly winds rather damped our spirits, but a strong southerly wind
on February 4, backing later, to south-east, carried us north again.
High temperatures and northerly winds soon succeeded this, so that our
average rate of northerly drift was about a mile a day in February.
Throughout the month the diaries record alternately “a wet day,
overcast and mild,” and “bright and cold with light southerly winds.”
The wind was now the vital factor with us and the one topic of any real
interest.

The beginning of March brought cold, damp, calm weather, with much wet
snow and overcast skies. The effect of the weather on our mental state
was very marked. All hands felt much more cheerful on a bright sunny
day, and looked forward with much more hope to the future, than when it
was dull and overcast. This had a much greater effect than an increase
in rations.

A south-easterly gale on the 13th lasting for five days sent us twenty
miles north, and from now our good fortune, as far as the wind was
concerned, never left us for any length of time. On the 20th we
experienced the worst blizzard we had had up to that time, though worse
were to come after landing on Elephant Island. Thick snow fell, making
it impossible to see the camp from thirty yards off. To go outside for
a moment entailed getting covered all over with fine powdery snow,
which required a great deal of brushing off before one could enter
again.

As the blizzard eased up, the temperature dropped and it became
bitterly cold. In our weak condition, with torn, greasy clothes, we
felt these sudden variations in temperature much more than we otherwise
would have done. A calm, clear, magnificently warm day followed, and
next day came a strong southerly blizzard. Drifts four feet deep
covered everything, and we had to be continually digging up our scanty
stock of meat to prevent its being lost altogether. We had taken
advantage of the previous fine day to attempt to thaw out our blankets,
which were frozen stiff and could be held out like pieces of
sheet-iron; but on this day, and for the next two or three also, it was
impossible to do anything but get right inside one’s frozen
sleeping-bag to try and get warm. Too cold to read or sew, we had to
keep our hands well inside, and pass the time in conversation with each
other.


[Illustration: Worsley taking Observations of the Sun to determine
our Position]


[Illustration: “We cut Steps in this Twenty-five Foot Slab and it
makes a fine Look-out”]


“The temperature was not strikingly low as temperatures go down here,
but the terrific winds penetrate the flimsy fabric of our fragile tents
and create so much draught that it is impossible to keep warm within.
At supper last night our drinking-water froze over in the tin in the
tent before we could drink it. It is curious how thirsty we all are.”

Two days of brilliant warm sunshine succeeded these cold times, and on
March 29 we experienced, to us, the most amazing weather. It began to
rain hard, and it was the first rain that we had seen since we left
South Georgia sixteen months ago. We regarded, it as our first touch
with civilization, and many of the men longed for the rain and fogs of
London.

Strong south winds with dull, overcast skies and occasional high
temperatures were now our lot till April 7, when the mist lifted and we
could make out what appeared to be land to the north.

Although the general drift of our ice-floe had indicated to us that we
must eventually drift north, our progress in that direction was not by
any means uninterrupted. We were at the mercy of the wind, and could no
more control our drift than we could control the weather.

A long spell of calm, still weather at the beginning of January caused
us some anxiety by keeping us at about the latitude that we were in at
the beginning of December. Towards the end of January, however, a long
drift of eighty-four miles in a blizzard cheered us all up. This soon
stopped and we began a slight drift to the east. Our general drift now
slowed up considerably, and by February 22 we were still eighty miles
from Paulet Island, which now was our objective. There was a hut there
and some stores which had been taken down by the ship which went to the
rescue of Nordenskjold’s Expedition in 1904, and whose fitting out and
equipment I had charge of. We remarked amongst ourselves what a strange
turn of fate it would be if the very cases of provisions which I had
ordered and sent out so many years before were now to support us during
the coming winter. But this was not to be. March 5 found us about forty
miles south of the longitude of Paulet Island, but well to the east of
it; and as the ice was still too much broken up to sledge over, it
appeared as if we should be carried past it. By March 17 we were
exactly on a level with Paulet Island but sixty miles to the east. It
might have been six hundred for all the chance that we had of reaching
it by sledging across the broken sea-ice in its present condition.

Our thoughts now turned to the Danger Islands, thirty-five miles away.
“It seems that we are likely to drift up and down this coast from
south-west to north-east and back again for some time yet before we
finally clear the point of Joinville Island; until we do we cannot hope
for much opening up, as the ice must be very congested against the
south-east coast of the island, otherwise our failure to respond to the
recent south-easterly gale cannot be well accounted for. In support of
this there has been some very heavy pressure on the north-east side, of
our floe, one immense block being up-ended to a height of 25 ft. We saw
a Dominican gull fly over to-day, the first we have seen since leaving
South Georgia; it is another sign of our proximity to land. We cut
steps in this 25-ft. slab, and it makes a fine look-out. When the
weather clears we confidently expect to see land.”

A heavy blizzard obscured our view till March 23. “‘Land in sight’ was
reported this morning. We were sceptical, but this afternoon it showed
up unmistakably to the west, and there can be no further doubt about
it. It is Joinville Island, and its serrated mountain ranges, all
snow-clad, are just visible on the horizon. This barren,
inhospitable-looking land would be a haven of refuge to us if we could
but reach it. It would be ridiculous to make the attempt though, with
the ice all broken up as it is. It is too loose and broken to march
over, yet not open enough to be able to launch the boats.” For the next
two or three days we saw ourselves slowly drifting past the land,
longing to reach it yet prevented from doing so by the ice between, and
towards the end of March we saw Mount Haddington fade away into the
distance.

Our hopes were now centred on Elephant Island or Clarence Island, which
lay 100 miles almost due north of us.

If we failed to reach either of them we might try for South Georgia,
but our chances of reaching it would be very small.




CHAPTER VIII
ESCAPE FROM THE ICE


On April 7 at daylight the long-desired peak of Clarence Island came
into view, bearing nearly north from our camp. At first it had the
appearance of a huge berg, but with the growing light we could see
plainly the black lines of scree and the high, precipitous cliffs of
the island, which were miraged up to some extent. The dark rocks in the
white snow were a pleasant sight. So long had our eyes looked on
icebergs that apparently grew or dwindled according to the angles at
which the shadows were cast by the sun; so often had we discovered
rocky islands and brought in sight the peaks of Joinville Land, only to
find them, after some change of wind or temperature, floating away as
nebulous cloud or ordinary berg; that not until Worsley, Wild, and
Hurley had unanimously confirmed my observation was I satisfied that I
was really looking at Clarence Island. The land was still more than
sixty miles away, but it had to our eyes something of the appearance of
home, since we expected to find there our first solid footing after all
the long months of drifting on the unstable ice. We had adjusted
ourselves to the life on the floe, but our hopes had been fixed all the
time on some possible landing-place. As one hope failed to materialize,
our anticipations fed themselves on another. Our drifting home had no
rudder to guide it, no sail to give it speed. We were dependent upon
the caprice of wind and current; we went whither those irresponsible
forces listed. The longing to feel solid earth under our feet filled
our hearts.

In the full daylight Clarence Island ceased to look like land and had
the appearance of a berg of more than eight or ten miles away, so
deceptive are distances in the clear air of the Antarctic. The sharp
white peaks of Elephant Island showed to the west of north a little
later in the day.

“I have stopped issuing sugar now, and our meals consist of seal meat
and blubber only, with 7 ozs. of dried milk per day for the party,” I
wrote. “Each man receives a pinch of salt, and the milk is boiled up to
make hot drinks for all hands. The diet suits us, since we cannot get
much exercise on the floe and the blubber supplies heat. Fried slices
of blubber seem to our taste to resemble crisp bacon. It certainly is
no hardship to eat it, though persons living under civilized conditions
probably would shudder at it. The hardship would come if we were unable
to get it.”

I think that the palate of the human animal can adjust itself to
anything. Some creatures will die before accepting a strange diet if
deprived of their natural food. The Yaks of the Himalayan uplands must
feed from the growing grass, scanty and dry though it may be, and would
starve even if allowed the best oats and corn.

“We still have the dark water-sky of the last week with us to the
south-west and west, round to the north-east. We are leaving all the
bergs to the west and there are few within our range of vision now. The
swell is more marked to-day, and I feel sure we are at the verge of the
floe-ice. One strong gale, followed by a calm would scatter the pack, I
think, and then we could push through. I have been thinking much of our
prospects. The appearance of Clarence Island after our long drift
seems, somehow, to convey an ultimatum. The island is the last outpost
of the south and our final chance of a landing-place. Beyond it lies
the broad Atlantic. Our little boats may be compelled any day now to
sail unsheltered over the open sea with a thousand leagues of ocean
separating them from the land to the north and east. It seems vital
that we shall land on Clarence Island or its neighbour, Elephant
Island. The latter island has attraction for us, although as far as I
know nobody has ever landed there. Its name suggests the presence of
the plump and succulent sea-elephant. We have an increasing desire in
any case to get firm ground under our feet. The floe has been a good
friend to us, but it is reaching the end of its journey, and it is
liable at any time now to break up and fling us into the unplumbed
sea.”

A little later, after reviewing the whole situation in the light of our
circumstances, I made up my mind that we should try to reach Deception
Island. The relative positions of Clarence, Elephant, and Deception
Islands can be seen on the chart. The two islands first named lay
comparatively near to us and were separated by some eighty miles of
water from Prince George Island, which was about 150 miles away from
our camp on the berg. From this island a chain of similar islands
extends westward, terminating in Deception Island. The channels
separating these desolate patches of rock and ice are from ten to
fifteen miles wide. But we knew from the Admiralty sailing directions
that there were stores for the use of shipwrecked mariners on Deception
Island, and it was possible that the summer whalers had not yet
deserted its harbour. Also we had learned from our scanty records that
a small church had been erected there for the benefit of the transient
whalers. The existence of this building would mean to us a supply of
timber, from which, if dire necessity urged us, we could construct a
reasonably seaworthy boat. We had discussed this point during our drift
on the floe. Two of our boats were fairly strong, but the third, the
_James Caird_, was light, although a little longer than the others. All
of them were small for the navigation of these notoriously stormy seas,
and they would be heavily loaded, so a voyage in open water would be a
serious undertaking. I fear that the carpenter’s fingers were already
itching to convert pews into topsides and decks. In any case, the worst
that could befall us when we had reached Deception Island would be a
wait until the whalers returned about the middle of November.

Another bit of information gathered from the records of the west side
of the Weddell Sea related to Prince George Island. The Admiralty
“Sailing Directions,” referring to the South Shetlands, mentioned a
cave on this island. None of us had seen that cave or could say if it
was large or small, wet or dry; but as we drifted on our floe and
later, when navigating the treacherous leads and making our uneasy
night camps, that cave seemed to my fancy to be a palace which in
contrast would dim the splendours of Versailles.

The swell increased that night and the movement of the ice became more
pronounced. Occasionally a neighbouring floe would hammer against the
ice on which we were camped, and the lesson of these blows was plain to
read. We must get solid ground under our feet quickly. When the
vibration ceased after a heavy surge, my thoughts flew round to the
problem ahead. If the party had not numbered more than six men a
solution would not have been so hard to find; but obviously the
transportation of the whole party to a place of safety, with the
limited means at our disposal, was going to be a matter of extreme
difficulty. There were twenty-eight men on our floating cake of ice,
which was steadily dwindling under the influence of wind, weather,
charging floes, and heavy swell. I confess that I felt the burden of
responsibility sit heavily on my shoulders; but, on the other hand, I
was stimulated and cheered by the attitude of the men. Loneliness is
the penalty of leadership, but the man who has to make the decisions is
assisted greatly if he feels that there is no uncertainty in the minds
of those who follow him, and that his orders will be carried out
confidently and in expectation of success.

The sun was shining in the blue sky on the following morning (April 8).
Clarence Island showed clearly on the horizon, and Elephant Island
could also be distinguished. The single snow-clad peak of Clarence
Island stood up as a beacon of safety, though the most optimistic
imagination could not make an easy path of the ice and ocean that
separated us from that giant, white and austere.

“The pack was much looser this morning, and the long rolling swell from
the north-east is more pronounced than it was yesterday. The floes rise
and fall with the surge of the sea. We evidently are drifting with the
surface current, for all the heavier masses of floe, bergs, and
hummocks are being left behind. There has been some discussion in the
camp as to the advisability of making one of the bergs our home for the
time being and drifting with it to the west. The idea is not sound. I
cannot be sure that the berg would drift in the right direction. If it
did move west and carried us into the open water, what would be our
fate when we tried to launch the boats down the steep sides of the berg
in the sea-swell after the surrounding floes had left us? One must
reckon, too, the chance of the berg splitting or even overturning
during our stay. It is not possible to gauge the condition of a big
mass of ice by surface appearance. The ice may have a fault, and when
the wind, current, and swell set up strains and tensions, the line of
weakness may reveal itself suddenly and disastrously. No, I do not like
the idea of drifting on a berg. We must stay on our floe till
conditions improve and then make another attempt to advance towards the
land.”


[Illustration: “There was no Sleep for us that Night, so we lit the
Blubber Stove”]


[Illustration: Hauling up the Boats for the Night]


At 6.30 p.m. a particularly heavy shock went through our floe. The
watchman and other members of the party made an immediate inspection
and found a crack right under the _James Caird_ and between the other
two boats and the main camp. Within five minutes the boats were over
the crack and close to the tents. The trouble was not caused by a blow
from another floe. We could see that the piece of ice we occupied had
slewed and now presented its long axis towards the oncoming swell. The
floe, therefore, was pitching in the manner of a ship, and it had
cracked across when the swell lifted the centre, leaving the two ends
comparatively unsupported. We were now on a triangular raft of ice, the
three sides measuring, roughly, 90, 100, and 120 yds. Night came down
dull and overcast, and before midnight the wind had freshened from the
west. We could see that the pack was opening under the influence of
wind, wave, and current, and I felt that the time for launching the
boats was near at hand. Indeed, it was obvious that even if the
conditions were unfavourable for a start during the coming day, we
could not safely stay on the floe many hours longer. The movement of
the ice in the swell was increasing, and the floe might split right
under our camp. We had made preparations for quick action if anything
of the kind occurred. Our case would be desperate if the ice broke into
small pieces not large enough to support our party and not loose enough
to permit the use of the boats.

The following day was Sunday (April 9), but it proved no day of rest
for us. Many of the important events of our Expedition occurred on
Sundays, and this particular day was to see our forced departure from
the floe on which we had lived for nearly six months, and the start of
our journeyings in the boats.

“This has been an eventful day. The morning was fine, though somewhat
overcast by stratus and cumulus clouds; moderate south-south-westerly
and south-easterly breezes. We hoped that with this wind the ice would
drift nearer to Clarence Island. At 7 a.m. lanes of water and leads
could be seen on the horizon to the west. The ice separating us from
the lanes was loose, but did not appear to be workable for the boats.
The long swell from the north-west was coming in more freely than on
the previous day and was driving the floes together in the utmost
confusion. The loose brash between the masses of ice was being churned
to mudlike consistency, and no boat could have lived in the channels
that opened and closed around us. Our own floe was suffering in the
general disturbance, and after breakfast I ordered the tents to be
struck and everything prepared for an immediate start when the boats
could be launched.”

I had decided to take the _James Caird_ myself, with Wild and eleven
men. This was the largest of our boats, and in addition to her human
complement she carried the major portion of the stores. Worsley had
charge of the _Dudley Docker_ with nine men, and Hudson and Crean were
the senior men on the _Stancomb Wills_.

Soon after breakfast the ice closed again. We were standing by, with
our preparations as complete as they could be made, when at 11 a.m. our
floe suddenly split right across under the boats. We rushed our gear on
to the larger of the two pieces and watched with strained attention for
the next development. The crack had cut through the site of my tent. I
stood on the edge of the new fracture, and, looking across the widening
channel of water, could see the spot where for many months my head and
shoulders had rested when I was in my sleeping-bag. The depression
formed by my body and legs was on our side of the crack. The ice had
sunk under my weight during the months of waiting in the tent, and I
had many times put snow under the bag to fill the hollow. The lines of
stratification showed clearly the different layers of snow. How fragile
and precarious had been our resting-place! Yet usage had dulled our
sense of danger. The floe had become our home, and during the early
months of the drift we had almost ceased to realize that it was but a
sheet of ice floating on unfathomed seas. Now our home was being
shattered under our feet, and we had a sense of loss and incompleteness
hard to describe.

The fragments of our floe came together again a little later, and we
had our lunch of seal meat, all hands eating their fill. I thought that
a good meal would be the best possible preparation for the journey that
now seemed imminent, and as we would not be able to take all our meat
with us when we finally moved, we could regard every pound eaten as a
pound rescued. The call to action came at 1 p.m. The pack opened well
and the channels became navigable. The conditions were not all one
could have desired, but it was best not to wait any longer. The _Dudley
Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ were launched quickly. Stores were
thrown in, and the two boats were pulled clear of the immediate floes
towards a pool of open water three miles broad, in which floated a lone
and mighty berg. The _James Caird_ was the last boat to leave, heavily
loaded with stores and odds and ends of camp equipment. Many things
regarded by us as essentials at that time were to be discarded a little
later as the pressure of the primitive became more severe. Man can
sustain life with very scanty means. The trappings of civilization are
soon cast aside in the face of stern realities, and given the barest
opportunity of winning food and shelter, man can live and even find his
laughter ringing true.

The three boats were a mile away from our floe home at 2 p.m. We had
made our way through the channels and had entered the big pool when we
saw a rush of foam-clad water and tossing ice approaching us, like the
tidal bore of a river. The pack was being impelled to the east by a
tide-rip, and two huge masses of ice were driving down upon us on
converging courses. The _James Caird_ was leading. Starboarding the
helm and bending strongly to the oars, we managed to get clear. The two
other boats followed us, though from their position astern at first
they had not realized the immediate danger. The _Stancomb Wills_ was
the last boat and she was very nearly caught, but by great exertion she
was kept just ahead of the driving ice. It was an unusual and startling
experience. The effect of tidal action on ice is not often as marked as
it was that day. The advancing ice, accompanied by a large wave,
appeared to be travelling at about three knots; and if we had not
succeeded in pulling clear we would certainly have been swamped.

We pulled hard for an hour to windward of the berg that lay in the open
water. The swell was crashing on its perpendicular sides and throwing
spray to a height of sixty feet. Evidently there was an ice-foot at the
east end, for the swell broke before it reached the berg-face and flung
its white spray on to the blue ice-wall. We might have paused to have
admired the spectacle under other conditions; but night was coming on
apace, and we needed a camping-place. As we steered north-west, still
amid the ice-floes, the _Dudley Docker_ got jammed between two masses
while attempting to make a short cut. The old adage about a short cut
being the longest way round is often as true in the Antarctic as it is
in the peaceful countryside. The _James Caird_ got a line aboard the
_Dudley Docker_, and after some hauling the boat was brought clear of
the ice again. We hastened forward in the twilight in search of a flat,
old floe, and presently found a fairly large piece rocking in the
swell. It was not an ideal camping-place by any means, but darkness had
overtaken us. We hauled the boats up, and by 8 p.m. had the tents
pitched and the blubber-stove burning cheerily. Soon all hands were
well fed and happy in their tents, and snatches of song came to me as I
wrote up my log.

Some intangible feeling of uneasiness made me leave my tent about 11
p.m. that night and glance around the quiet camp. The stars between the
snow-flurries showed that the floe had swung round and was end on to
the swell, a position exposing it to sudden strains. I started to walk
across the floe in order to warn the watchman to look carefully for
cracks, and as I was passing the men’s tent the floe lifted on the
crest of a swell and cracked right under my feet. The men were in one
of the dome-shaped tents, and it began to stretch apart as the ice
opened. A muffled sound, suggestive of suffocation, came from beneath
the stretching tent. I rushed forward, helped some emerging men from
under the canvas, and called out, “Are you all right?”

“There are two in the water,” somebody answered. The crack had widened
to about four feet, and as I threw myself down at the edge, I saw a
whitish object floating in the water. It was a sleeping-bag with a man
inside. I was able to grasp it, and with a heave lifted man and bag on
to the floe. A few seconds later the ice-edges came together again with
tremendous force. Fortunately, there had been but one man in the water,
or the incident might have been a tragedy. The rescued bag contained
Holness, who was wet down to the waist but otherwise unscathed. The
crack was now opening again. The _James Caird_ and my tent were on one
side of the opening and the remaining two boats and the rest of the
camp on the other side. With two or three men to help me I struck my
tent; then all hands manned the painter and rushed the _James Caird_
across the opening crack. We held to the rope while, one by one, the
men left on our side of the floe jumped the channel or scrambled over
by means of the boat. Finally I was left alone. The night had swallowed
all the others and the rapid movement of the ice forced me to let go
the painter. For a moment I felt that my piece of rocking floe was the
loneliest place in the world. Peering into the darkness; I could just
see the dark figures on the other floe. I hailed Wild, ordering him to
launch the _Stancomb Wills_, but I need not have troubled. His quick
brain had anticipated the order and already the boat was being manned
and hauled to the ice-edge. Two or three minutes later she reached me,
and I was ferried across to the Camp.

We were now on a piece of flat ice about 200 ft. long and 100 ft. wide.
There was no more sleep for any of us that night. The killers were
blowing in the lanes around, and we waited for daylight and watched for
signs of another crack in the ice. The hours passed with laggard feet
as we stood huddled together or walked to and fro in the effort to keep
some warmth in our bodies. We lit the blubber-stove at 3 a.m., and with
pipes going and a cup of hot milk for each man, we were able to
discover some bright spots in our outlook. At any rate, we were on the
move at last, and if dangers and difficulties lay ahead we could meet
and overcome them. No longer were we drifting helplessly at the mercy
of wind and current.

The first glimmerings of dawn came at 6 a.m., and I waited anxiously
for the full daylight. The swell was growing, and at times our ice was
surrounded closely by similar pieces. At 6.30 a.m. we had hot hoosh,
and then stood by waiting for the pack to open. Our chance came at 8,
when we launched the boats, loaded them, and started to make our way
through the lanes in a northerly direction. The _James Caird_ was in
the lead, with the _Stancomb Wills_ next and the _Dudley Docker_
bringing up the rear. In order to make the boats more seaworthy we had
left some of our shovels, picks, and dried vegetables on the floe, and
for a long time we could see the abandoned stores forming a dark spot
on the ice. The boats were still heavily loaded. We got out of the
lanes, and entered a stretch of open water at 11 a.m. A strong easterly
breeze was blowing, but the fringe of pack lying outside protected us
from the full force of the swell, just as the coral-reef of a tropical
island checks the rollers of the Pacific. Our way was across the open
sea, and soon after noon we swung round the north end of the pack and
laid a course to the westward, the _James Caird_ still in the lead.
Immediately our deeply laden boats began to make heavy weather. They
shipped sprays, which, freezing as they fell, covered men and gear with
ice, and soon it was clear that we could not safely proceed. I put the
_James Caird_ round and ran for the shelter of the pack again, the
other boats following. Back inside the outer line of ice the sea was
not breaking. This was at 3 p.m., and all hands were tired and cold. A
big floeberg resting peacefully ahead caught my eye, and half an hour
later we had hauled up the boats and pitched camp for the night. It was
a fine, big, blue berg with an attractively solid appearance, and from
our camp we could get a good view of the surrounding sea and ice. The
highest point was about 15 ft. above sea-level. After a hot meal all
hands, except the watchman, turned in. Every one was in need of rest
after the troubles of the previous night and the unaccustomed strain of
the last thirty-six hours at the oars. The berg appeared well able to
withstand the battering of the sea, and too deep and massive to be
seriously affected by the swell; but it was not as safe as it looked.
About midnight the watchman called me and showed me that the heavy
north-westerly swell was undermining the ice. A great piece had broken
off within eight feet of my tent. We made what inspection was possible
in the darkness, and found that on the westward side of the berg the
thick snow covering was yielding rapidly to the attacks of the sea. An
ice-foot had formed just under the surface of the water. I decided that
there was no immediate danger and did not call the men. The
north-westerly wind strengthened during the night.

The morning of April 11 was overcast and misty. There was a haze on the
horizon, and daylight showed that the pack had closed round our berg,
making it impossible in the heavy swell to launch the boats. We could
see no sign of the water. Numerous whales and killers were blowing
between the floes, and Cape pigeons, petrels, and fulmars were circling
round our berg. The scene from our camp as the daylight brightened was
magnificent beyond description, though I must admit that we viewed it
with anxiety. Heaving hills of pack and floe were sweeping towards us
in long undulations, later to be broken here and there by the dark
lines that indicated open water. As each swell lifted around our
rapidly dissolving berg it drove floe-ice on to the ice-foot, shearing
off more of the top snow-covering and reducing the size of our camp.
When the floes retreated to attack again the water swirled over the
ice-foot, which was rapidly increasing in width. The launching of the
boats under such conditions would be difficult. Time after time, so
often that a track was formed, Worsley, Wild, and I, climbed to the
highest point of the berg and stared out to the horizon in search of a
break in the pack. After long hours had dragged past, far away on the
lift of the swell there appeared a dark break in the tossing field of
ice. Æons seemed to pass, so slowly it approached. I noticed enviously
the calm peaceful attitudes of two seals which lolled lazily on a
rocking floe. They were at home and had no reason for worry or cause
for fear. If they thought at all, I suppose they counted it an ideal
day for a joyous journey on the tumbling ice. To us it was a day that
seemed likely to lead to no more days. I do not think I had ever before
felt the anxiety that belongs to leadership quite so keenly. When I
looked down at the camp to rest my eyes from the strain of watching the
wide white expanse broken by that one black ribbon of open water, I
could see that my companions were waiting with more than ordinary
interest to learn what I thought about it all. After one particularly
heavy collision somebody shouted sharply, “She has cracked in the
middle.” I jumped off the look-out station and ran to the place the men
were examining. There was a crack, but investigation showed it to be a
mere surface break in the snow with no indication of a split in the
berg itself. The carpenter mentioned calmly that earlier in the day he
had actually gone adrift on a fragment of ice. He was standing near the
edge of our camping-ground when the ice under his feet parted from the
parent mass. A quick jump over the widening gap saved him.

The hours dragged on. One of the anxieties in my mind was the
possibility that we would be driven by the current through the
eighty-mile gap between Clarence Island and Prince George Island into
the open Atlantic; but slowly the open water came nearer, and at noon
it had almost reached us. A long lane, narrow but navigable, stretched
out to the south-west horizon. Our chance came a little later. We
rushed our boats over the edge of the reeling berg and swung them clear
of the ice-foot as it rose beneath them. The _James Caird_ was nearly
capsized by a blow from below as the berg rolled away, but she got into
deep water. We flung stores and gear aboard and within a few minutes
were away. The _James Caird_ and _Dudley Docker_ had good sails and
with a favourable breeze could make progress along the lane, with the
rolling fields of ice on either side. The swell was heavy and spray was
breaking over the ice-floes. An attempt to set a little rag of sail on
the _Stancomb Wills_ resulted in serious delay. The area of sail was
too small to be of much assistance, and while the men were engaged in
this work the boat drifted down towards the ice-floe, where her
position was likely to be perilous. Seeing her plight, I sent the
_Dudley Docker_ back for her and tied the _James Caird_ up to a piece
of ice. The _Dudley Docker_ had to tow the _Stancomb Wills_, and the
delay cost us two hours of valuable daylight. When I had the three
boats together again we continued down the lane, and soon saw a wider
stretch of water to the west; it appeared to offer us release from the
grip of the pack. At the head of an ice-tongue that nearly closed the
gap through which we might enter the open space was a wave-worn berg
shaped like some curious antediluvian monster, an icy Cerberus guarding
the way. It had head and eyes and rolled so heavily that it almost
overturned. Its sides dipped deep in the sea, and as it rose again the
water seemed to be streaming from its eyes, as though it were weeping
at our escape from the clutch of the floes. This may seem fanciful to
the reader, but the impression was real to us at the time. People
living under civilized conditions, surrounded by Nature’s varied forms
of life and by all the familiar work of their own hands, may scarcely
realize how quickly the mind, influenced by the eyes, responds to the
unusual and weaves about it curious imaginings like the firelight
fancies of our childhood days. We had lived long amid the ice, and we
half-unconsciously strove to see resemblances to human faces and living
forms in the fantastic contours and massively uncouth shapes of berg
and floe.


[Illustration: The Reeling Berg]


[Illustration: Sailing South Again]


At dusk we made fast to a heavy floe, each boat having its painter
fastened to a separate hummock in order to avoid collisions in the
swell. We landed the blubber-stove, boiled some water in order to
provide hot milk, and served cold rations. I also landed the dome tents
and stripped the coverings from the hoops. Our experience of the
previous day in the open sea had shown us that the tents must be packed
tightly. The spray had dashed over the bows and turned to ice on the
cloth, which had soon grown dangerously heavy. Other articles off our
scanty equipment had to go that night. We were carrying only the things
that had seemed essential, but we stripped now to the barest limit of
safety. We had hoped for a quiet night, but presently we were forced to
cast off, since pieces of loose ice began to work round the floe.
Drift-ice is always attracted to the lee side of a heavy floe, where it
bumps and presses under the influence of the current. I had determined
not to risk a repetition of the last night’s experience and so had not
pulled the boats up. We spent the hours of darkness keeping an offing
from the main line of pack under the lee of the smaller pieces.
Constant rain and snow squalls blotted out the stars and soaked us
through, and at times it was only by shouting to each other that we
managed to keep the boats together. There was no sleep for anybody
owing to the severe cold, and we dare not pull fast enough to keep
ourselves warm since we were unable to see more than a few yards ahead.
Occasionally the ghostly shadows of silver, snow, and fulmar petrels
flashed close to us, and all around we could hear the killers blowing,
their short, sharp hisses sounding like sudden escapes of steam. The
killers were a source of anxiety, for a boat could easily have been
capsized by one of them coming up to blow. They would throw aside in a
nonchalant fashion pieces of ice much bigger than our boats when they
rose to the surface, and we had an uneasy feeling that the white
bottoms of the boats would look like ice from below. Shipwrecked
mariners drifting in the Antarctic seas would be things not dreamed of
in the killers’ philosophy, and might appear on closer examination to
be tasty substitutes for seal and penguin. We certainly regarded the
killers with misgivings.

Early in the morning of April 12 the weather improved and the wind
dropped. Dawn came with a clear sky, cold and fearless. I looked around
at the faces of my companions in the _James Caird_ and saw pinched and
drawn features. The strain was beginning to tell. Wild sat at the
rudder with the same calm, confident expression that he would have worn
under happier conditions; his steel-blue eyes looked out to the day
ahead. All the people, though evidently suffering, were doing their
best to be cheerful, and the prospect of a hot breakfast was
inspiriting. I told all the boats that immediately we could find a
suitable floe the cooker would be started and hot milk and Bovril would
soon fix everybody up. Away we rowed to the westward through open pack,
floes of all shapes and sizes on every side of us, and every man not
engaged in pulling looking eagerly for a suitable camping-place. I
could gauge the desire for food of the different members by the
eagerness they displayed in pointing out to me the floes they
considered exactly suited to our purpose. The temperature was about 10°
Fahr., and the Burberry suits of the rowers crackled as the men bent to
the oars. I noticed little fragments of ice and frost falling from arms
and bodies. At eight o’clock a decent floe appeared ahead and we pulled
up to it. The galley was landed, and soon the welcome steam rose from
the cooking food as the blubber-stove flared and smoked. Never did a
cook work under more anxious scrutiny. Worsley, Crean, and I stayed in
our respective boats to keep them steady and prevent collisions with
the floe, since the swell was still running strong, but the other men
were able to stretch their cramped limbs and run to and fro “in the
kitchen,” as somebody put it. The sun was now rising gloriously. The
Burberry suits were drying and the ice was melting off our beards. The
steaming food gave us new vigour, and within three-quarters of an hour
we were off again to the west with all sails set. We had given an
additional sail to the _Stancomb Wills_ and she was able to keep up
pretty well. We could see that we were on the true pack-edge, with the
blue, rolling sea just outside the fringe of ice to the north.
White-capped waves vied with the glittering floes in the setting of
blue water, and countless seals basked and rolled on every piece of ice
big enough to form a raft.

We had been making westward with oars and sails since April 9, and fair
easterly winds had prevailed. Hopes were running high as to the noon
observation for position. The optimists thought that we had done sixty
miles towards our goal, and the most cautious guess gave us at least
thirty miles. The bright sunshine and the brilliant scene around us may
have influenced our anticipations. As noon approached I saw Worsley, as
navigating officer, balancing himself on the gunwale of the _Dudley
Docker_ with his arm around the mast, ready to snap the sun. He got his
observation and we waited eagerly while he worked out the sight. Then
the _Dudley Docker_ ranged up alongside the _James Caird_ and I jumped
into Worsley’s boat in order to see the result. It was a grievous
disappointment. Instead of making a good run to the westward we had
made a big drift to the south-east. We were actually thirty miles to
the east of the position we had occupied when we left the floe on the
9th. It has been noted by sealers operating in this area that there are
often heavy sets to the east in the Belgica Straits, and no doubt it
was one of these sets that we had experienced. The originating cause
would be a north-westerly gale off Cape Horn, producing the swell that
had already caused us so much trouble. After a whispered consultation
with Worsley and Wild, I announced that we had not made as much
progress as we expected, but I did not inform the hands of our
retrograde movement.

The question of our course now demanded further consideration.
Deception Island seemed to be beyond our reach. The wind was foul for
Elephant Island, and as the sea was clear to the south-west; I
discussed with Worsley and Wild the advisability of proceeding to Hope
Bay on the mainland of the Antarctic Continent, now only eighty miles
distant. Elephant Island was the nearest land, but it lay outside the
main body of pack, and even if the wind had been fair we would have
hesitated at that particular time to face the high sea that was running
in the open. We laid a course roughly for Hope Bay, and the boats moved
on again. I gave Worsley a line for a berg ahead and told him, if
possible, to make fast before darkness set in. This was about three
o’clock in the afternoon. We had set sail, and as the _Stancomb Wills_
could not keep up with the other two boats I took her in tow, not being
anxious to repeat the experience of the day we left the reeling berg.
The _Dudley Docker_ went ahead, but came beating down towards us at
dusk. Worsley had been close to the berg, and he reported that it was
unapproachable. It was rolling in the swell and displaying an ugly
ice-foot. The news was bad. In the failing light we turned towards a
line of pack, and found it so tossed and churned by the sea that no
fragment remained big enough to give us an anchorage and shelter. Two
miles away we could see a larger piece of ice, and to it we managed,
after some trouble, to secure the boats. I brought my boat bow on to
the floe, whilst Howe, with the painter in his hand, stood ready to
jump. Standing up to watch our chance, while the oars were held ready
to back the moment Howe had made his leap, I could see that there would
be no possibility of getting the galley ashore that night. Howe just
managed to get a footing on the edge of the floe, and then made the
painter fast to a hummock. The other two boats were fastened alongside
the _James Caird_. They could not lie astern of us in a line, since
cakes of ice came drifting round the floe and gathering under its lee.
As it was we spent the next two hours poling off the drifting ice that
surged towards us. The blubber-stove could not be used, so we started
the Primus lamps. There was a rough, choppy sea, and the _Dudley
Docker_ could not get her Primus under way, something being adrift. The
men in that boat had to wait until the cook on the _James Caird_ had
boiled up the first pot of milk.

The boats were bumping so heavily that I had to slack away the painter
of the _Stancomb Wills_ and put her astern. Much ice was coming round
the floe and had to be poled off. Then the _Dudley Docker_, being the
heavier boat, began to damage the _James Caird_, and I slacked the
_Dudley Docker_ away. The _James Caird_ remained moored to the ice,
with the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ in line behind her.
The darkness had become complete, and we strained our eye to see the
fragments of ice that threatened us. Presently we thought we saw a
great berg bearing down upon us, its form outlined against the sky, but
this startling spectacle resolved itself into a low-lying cloud in
front of the rising moon. The moon appeared in a clear sky. The wind
shifted to the south-east as the light improved and drove the boats
broadside on towards the jagged edge of the floe. We had to cut the
painter of the _James Caird_ and pole her off, thus losing much
valuable rope. There was no time to cast off. Then we pushed away from
the floe, and all night long we lay in the open, freezing sea, the
_Dudley Docker_ now ahead, the _James Caird_ astern of her, and the
_Stancomb Wills_ third in the line. The boats were attached to one
another by their painters. Most of the time the _Dudley Docker_ kept
the _James Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ up to the swell, and the men
who were rowing were in better pass than those in the other boats,
waiting inactive for the dawn. The temperature was down to 4° below
zero, and a film of ice formed on the surface of the sea. When we were
not on watch we lay in each other’s arms for warmth. Our frozen suits
thawed where our bodies met, and as the slightest movement exposed
these comparatively warm spots to the biting air, we clung motionless,
whispering each to his companion our hopes and thoughts. Occasionally
from an almost clear sky came snow-showers, falling silently on the sea
and laying a thin shroud of white over our bodies and our boats.

The dawn of April 13 came clear and bright, with occasional passing
clouds. Most of the men were now looking seriously worn and strained.
Their lips were cracked and their eyes and eyelids showed red in their
salt-encrusted faces. The beards even of the younger men might have
been those of patriarchs, for the frost and the salt spray had made
them white. I called the _Dudley Docker_ alongside and found the
condition of the people there was no better than in the _James Caird_.
Obviously we must make land quickly, and I decided to run for Elephant
Island. The wind had shifted fair for that rocky isle, then about one
hundred miles away, and the pack that separated us from Hope Bay had
closed up during the night from the south. At 6 p.m. we made a
distribution of stores among the three boats, in view of the
possibility of their being separated. The preparation of a hot
breakfast was out of the question. The breeze was strong and the sea
was running high in the loose pack around us. We had a cold meal, and I
gave orders that all hands might eat as much as they pleased, this
concession being due partly to a realization that we would have to
jettison some of our stores when we reached open sea in order to
lighten the boats. I hoped, moreover, that a full meal of cold rations
would compensate to some extent for the lack of warm food and shelter.
Unfortunately, some of the men were unable to take advantage of the
extra food owing to seasickness. Poor fellows, it was bad enough to be
huddled in the deeply laden, spray-swept boats, frost-bitten and
half-frozen, without having the pangs of seasickness added to the list
of their woes. But some smiles were caused even then by the plight of
one man, who had a habit of accumulating bits of food against the day
of starvation that he seemed always to think was at hand, and who was
condemned now to watch impotently while hungry comrades with
undisturbed stomachs made biscuits, rations, and sugar disappear with
extraordinary rapidity.

We ran before the wind through the loose pack, a man in the bow of each
boat trying to pole off with a broken oar the lumps of ice that could
not be avoided. I regarded speed as essential. Sometimes collisions
were not averted. The _James Caird_ was in the lead, where she bore the
brunt of the encounter with lurking fragments, and she was holed above
the water-line by a sharp spur of ice, but this mishap did not stay us.
Later the wind became stronger and we had to reef sails, so as not to
strike the ice too heavily. The _Dudley Docker_ came next to the _James
Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ followed. I had given order that the
boats should keep 30 or 40 yds. apart, so as to reduce the danger of a
collision if one boat was checked by the ice. The pack was thinning,
and we came to occasional open areas where thin ice had formed during
the night. When we encountered this new ice we had to shake the reef
out of the sails in order to force a way through. Outside of the pack
the wind must have been of hurricane force. Thousands of small dead
fish were to be seen, killed probably by a cold current and the heavy
weather. They floated in the water and lay on the ice, where they had
been cast by the waves. The petrels and skua-gulls were swooping down
and picking them up like sardines off toast.

We made our way through the lanes till at noon we were suddenly spewed
out of the pack into the open ocean. Dark blue and sapphire green ran
the seas. Our sails were soon up, and with a fair wind we moved over
the waves like three Viking ships on the quest of a lost Atlantis. With
the sheet well out and the sun shining bright above, we enjoyed for a
few hours a sense of the freedom and magic of the sea, compensating us
for pain and trouble in the days that had passed. At last we were free
from the ice, in water that our boats could navigate. Thoughts of home,
stifled by the deadening weight of anxious days and nights, came to
birth once more, and the difficulties that had still to be overcome
dwindled in fancy almost to nothing.

During the afternoon we had to take a second reef in the sails, for the
wind freshened and the deeply laden boats were shipping much water and
steering badly in the rising sea. I had laid the course for Elephant
Island and we were making good progress. The _Dudley Docker_ ran down
to me at dusk and Worsley suggested that we should stand on all night;
but already the _Stancomb Wills_ was barely discernible among the
rollers in the gathering dusk, and I decided that it would be safer to
heave to and wait for the daylight. It would never have done for the
boats to have become separated from one another during the night. The
party must be kept together, and, moreover, I thought it possible that
we might overrun our goal in the darkness and not be able to return. So
we made a sea-anchor of oars and hove to, the _Dudley Docker_ in the
lead, since she had the longest painter. The _James Caird_ swung astern
of the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ again had the third
place. We ate a cold meal and did what little we could to make things
comfortable for the hours of darkness. Rest was not for us. During the
greater part of the night the sprays broke over the boats and froze in
masses of ice, especially at the stern and bows. This ice had to be
broken away in order to prevent the boats growing too heavy. The
temperature was below zero and the wind penetrated our clothes and
chilled us almost unbearably. I doubted if all the men would survive
that night. One of our troubles was lack of water. We had emerged so
suddenly from the pack into the open sea that we had not had time to
take aboard ice for melting in the cookers, and without ice we could
not have hot food. The _Dudley Docker_ had one lump of ice weighing
about ten pounds, and this was shared out among all hands. We sucked
small pieces and got a little relief from thirst engendered by the salt
spray, but at the same time we reduced our bodily heat. The condition
of most of the men was pitiable. All of us had swollen mouths and we
could hardly touch the food. I longed intensely for the dawn. I called
out to the other boats at intervals during the night, asking how things
were with them. The men always managed to reply cheerfully. One of the
people on the _Stancomb Wills_ shouted, “We are doing all right, but I
would like some dry mitts.” The jest brought a smile to cracked lips.
He might as well have asked for the moon. The only dry things aboard
the boats were swollen mouths and burning tongues. Thirst is one of the
troubles that confront the traveller in polar regions. Ice may be
plentiful on every hand, but it does not become drinkable until it is
melted, and the amount that may be dissolved in the mouth is limited.
We had been thirsty during the days of heavy pulling in the pack, and
our condition was aggravated quickly by the salt spray. Our
sleeping-bags would have given us some warmth, but they were not within
our reach. They were packed under the tents in the bows, where a
mail-like coating of ice enclosed them, and we were so cramped that we
could not pull them out.

At last daylight came, and with the dawn the weather cleared and the
wind fell to a gentle south-westerly breeze. A magnificent sunrise
heralded in what we hoped would be our last day in the boats. Rose-pink
in the growing light, the lofty peak of Clarence Island told of the
coming glory of the sun. The sky grew blue above us and the crests of
the waves sparkled cheerfully. As soon as it was light enough we
chipped and scraped the ice off the bows and sterns. The rudders had
been unshipped during the night in order to avoid the painters catching
them. We cast off our ice-anchor and pulled the oars aboard. They had
grown during the night to the thickness of telegraph-poles while rising
and falling in the freezing seas, and had to be chipped clear before
they could be brought inboard.

We were dreadfully thirsty now. We found that we could get momentary
relief by chewing pieces of raw seal meat and swallowing the blood, but
thirst came back with redoubled force owing to the saltness of the
flesh. I gave orders, therefore, that meat was to be served out only at
stated intervals during the day or when thirst seemed to threaten the
reason of any particular individual. In the full daylight Elephant
Island showed cold and severe to the north-north-west. The island was
on the bearings that Worsley had laid down, and I congratulated him on
the accuracy of his navigation under difficult circumstances, with two
days dead reckoning while following a devious course through the
pack-ice and after drifting during two nights at the mercy of wind and
waves. The _Stancomb Wills_ came up and McIlroy reported that
Blackborrow’s feet were very badly frost-bitten. This was unfortunate,
but nothing could be done. Most of the people were frost-bitten to some
extent, and it was interesting to notice that the “oldtimers,” Wild,
Crean, Hurley, and I, were all right. Apparently we were acclimatized
to ordinary Antarctic temperature, though we learned later that we were
not immune.

All day, with a gentle breeze on our port bow, we sailed and pulled
through a clear sea. We would have given all the tea in China for a
lump of ice to melt into water, but no ice was within our reach. Three
bergs were in sight and we pulled towards them, hoping that a trail of
brash would be floating on the sea to leeward; but they were hard and
blue, devoid of any sign of cleavage, and the swell that surged around
them as they rose and fell made it impossible for us to approach
closely. The wind was gradually hauling ahead, and as the day wore on
the rays of the sun beat fiercely down from a cloudless sky on
pain-racked men. Progress was slow, but gradually Elephant Island came
nearer. Always while I attended to the other boats, signalling and
ordering, Wild sat at the tiller of the _James Caird_. He seemed
unmoved by fatigue and unshaken by privation. About four o’clock in the
afternoon a stiff breeze came up ahead and, blowing against the
current, soon produced a choppy sea. During the next hour of hard
pulling we seemed to make no progress at all. The _James Caird_ and the
_Dudley Docker_ had been towing the _Stancomb Wills_ in turn, but my
boat now took the _Stancomb Wills_ in tow permanently, as the _James
Caird_ could carry more sail than the _Dudley Docker_ in the freshening
wind.

We were making up for the south-east side of Elephant Island, the wind
being between north-west and west. The boats, held as close to the wind
as possible, moved slowly, and when darkness set in our goal was still
some miles away. A heavy sea was running. We soon lost sight of the
_Stancomb Wills_, astern of the _James Caird_ at the length of the
painter, but occasionally the white gleam of broken water revealed her
presence. When the darkness was complete I sat in the stern with my
hand on the painter, so that I might know if the other boat broke away,
and I kept that position during the night. The rope grew heavy with the
ice as the unseen seas surged past us and our little craft tossed to
the motion of the waters. Just at dusk I had told the men on the
_Stancomb Wills_ that if their boat broke away during the night and
they were unable to pull against the wind, they could run for the east
side of Clarence Island and await our coming there. Even though we
could not land on Elephant Island, it would not do to have the third
boat adrift.

It was a stern night. The men, except the watch, crouched and huddled
in the bottom of the boat, getting what little warmth they could from
the soaking sleeping-bags and each other’s bodies. Harder and harder
blew the wind and fiercer and fiercer grew the sea. The boat plunged
heavily through the squalls and came up to the wind, the sail shaking
in the stiffest gusts. Every now and then, as the night wore on, the
moon would shine down through a rift in the driving clouds, and in the
momentary light I could see the ghostly faces of men, sitting up to
trim the boat as she heeled over to the wind. When the moon was hidden
its presence was revealed still by the light reflected on the streaming
glaciers of the island. The temperature had fallen very low, and it
seemed that the general discomfort of our situation could scarcely have
been increased; but the land looming ahead was a beacon of safety, and
I think we were all buoyed up by the hope that the coming day would see
the end of our immediate troubles. At least we would get firm land
under our feet. While the painter of the _Stancomb Wills_ tightened and
drooped under my hand, my thoughts were busy with plans for the future.

Towards midnight the wind shifted to the south-west, and this change
enabled us to bear up closer to the island. A little later the _Dudley
Docker_ ran down to the _James Caird_, and Worsley shouted a suggestion
that he should go ahead and search for a landing-place. His boat had
the heels of the _James Caird_, with the _Stancomb Wills_ in tow. I
told him he could try, but he must not lose sight of the _James Caird_.
Just as he left me a heavy snow-squall came down, and in the darkness
the boats parted. I saw the _Dudley Docker_ no more. This separation
caused me some anxiety during the remaining hours of the night. A
cross-sea was running and I could not feel sure that all was well with
the missing boat. The waves could not be seen in the darkness, though
the direction and force of the wind could be felt, and under such
conditions, in an open boat, disaster might overtake the most
experienced navigator. I flashed our compass-lamp on the sail in the
hope that the signal would be visible on board the _Dudley Docker_, but
could see no reply. We strained our eyes to windward in the darkness in
the hope of catching a return signal and repeated our flashes at
intervals.

My anxiety, as a matter of fact, was groundless. I will quote Worsley’s
own account of what happened to the _Dudley Docker:_

“About midnight we lost sight of the _James Caird_ with the _Stancomb
Wills_ in tow, but not long after saw the light of the _James Caird’s_
compass-lamp, which Sir Ernest was flashing on their sail as a guide to
us. We answered by lighting our candle under the tent and letting the
light shine through. At the same time we got the direction of the wind
and how we were hauling from my little pocket-compass, the boat’s
compass being smashed. With this candle our poor fellows lit their
pipes, their only solace, as our raging thirst prevented us from eating
anything. By this time we had got into a bad tide-rip, which, combined
with the heavy, lumpy sea, made it almost impossible to keep the
_Dudley Docker_ from swamping. As it was we shipped several bad seas
over the stern as well as abeam and over the bows, although we were ‘on
a wind.’ Lees, who owned himself to be a rotten oarsman, made good here
by strenuous baling, in which he was well seconded by Cheetham.
Greenstreet, a splendid fellow, relieved me at the tiller and helped
generally. He and Macklin were my right and left bowers as stroke-oars
throughout. McLeod and Cheetham were two good sailors and oars, the
former a typical old deep-sea salt and growler, the latter a pirate to
his finger-tips. In the height of the gale that night Cheetham was
buying matches from me for bottles of champagne, one bottle per match
(too cheap; I should have charged him two bottles). The champagne is to
be paid when he opens his pub in Hull and I am able to call that
way.... We had now had one hundred and eight hours of toil, tumbling,
freezing, and soaking, with little or no sleep. I think Sir Ernest,
Wild, Greenstreet, and I could say that we had no sleep at all.
Although it was sixteen months since we had been in a rough sea, only
four men were actually seasick, but several others were off colour.

“The temperature was 20° below freezing-point; fortunately, we were
spared the bitterly low temperature of the previous night.
Greenstreet’s right foot got badly frost-bitten, but Lees restored it
by holding it in his sweater against his stomach. Other men had minor
frost-bites, due principally to the fact that their clothes were soaked
through with salt water.... We were close to the land as the morning
approached, but could see nothing of it through the snow and spindrift.
My eyes began to fail me. Constant peering to windward, watching for
seas to strike us, appeared to have given me a cold in the eyes. I
could not see or judge distance properly, and found myself falling
asleep momentarily at the tiller. At 3 a.m. Greenstreet relieved me
there. I was so cramped from long hours, cold, and wet, in the
constrained position one was forced to assume on top of the gear and
stores at the tiller, that the other men had to pull me amidships and
straighten me out like a jack-knife, first rubbing my thighs, groin,
and stomach.

“At daylight we found ourselves close alongside the land, but the
weather was so thick that we could not see where to make for a landing.
Having taken the tiller again after an hour’s rest under the shelter
(save the mark!) of the dripping tent, I ran the _Dudley Docker_ off
before the gale, following the coast around to the north. This course
for the first hour was fairly risky, the heavy sea before which we were
running threatening to swamp the boat, but by 8 a.m. we had obtained a
slight lee from the land. Then I was able to keep her very close in,
along a glacier front, with the object of picking up lumps of
fresh-water ice as we sailed through them. Our thirst was intense. We
soon had some ice aboard, and for the next hour and a half we sucked
and chewed fragments of ice with greedy relish.

“All this time we were coasting along beneath towering rocky cliffs and
sheer glacier-faces, which offered not the slightest possibility of
landing anywhere. At 9.30 a.m. we spied a narrow, rocky beach at the
base of some very high crags and cliff, and made for it. To our joy, we
sighted the _James Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ sailing into the
same haven just ahead of us. We were so delighted that we gave three
cheers, which were not heard aboard the other boats owing to the roar
of the surf. However, we soon joined them and were able to exchange
experiences on the beach.”

Our experiences on the _James Caird_ had been similar, although we had
not been able to keep up to windward as well as the _Dudley Docker_ had
done. This was fortunate as events proved, for the _James Caird_ and
_Stancomb Wills_ went to leeward of the big bight the _Dudley Docker_
entered and from which she had to turn out with the sea astern. We thus
avoided the risk of having the _Stancomb Wills_ swamped in the
following sea. The weather was very thick in the morning. Indeed at 7
a.m. we were right under the cliffs, which plunged sheer into the sea,
before we saw them. We followed the coast towards the north, and ever
the precipitous cliffs and glacier-faces presented themselves to our
searching eyes. The sea broke heavily against these walls and a landing
would have been impossible under any conditions. We picked up pieces of
ice and sucked them eagerly. At 9 a.m. at the north-west end of the
island we saw a narrow beach at the foot of the cliffs. Outside lay a
fringe of rocks heavily beaten by the surf but with a narrow channel
showing as a break in the foaming water. I decided that we must face
the hazards of this unattractive landing-place. Two days and nights
without drink or hot food had played havoc with most of the men, and we
could not assume that any safer haven lay within our reach. The
_Stancomb Wills_ was the lighter and handier boat—and I called her
alongside with the intention of taking her through the gap first and
ascertaining the possibilities of a landing before the _James Caird_
made the venture. I was just climbing into the _Stancomb Wills_ when I
saw the _Dudley Docker_ coming up astern under sail. The sight took a
great load off my mind.


[Illustration: The First Landing ever made on Elephant Island, April
15, 1916]


[Illustration: “We Pulled the Three Boats a little Higher on the
Beach”]


Rowing carefully and avoiding the blind rollers which showed where
sunken rocks lay, we brought the _Stancomb Wills_ towards the opening
in the reef. Then, with a few strong strokes we shot through on the top
of a swell and ran the boat on to a stony beach. The next swell lifted
her a little farther. This was the first landing ever made on Elephant
Island, and a thought came to me that the honour should belong to the
youngest member of the Expedition, so I told Blackborrow to jump over.
He seemed to be in a state almost of coma, and in order to avoid delay
I helped him, perhaps a little roughly, over the side of the boat. He
promptly sat down in the surf and did not move. Then I suddenly
realized what I had forgotten, that both his feet were frost-bitten
badly. Some of us jumped over and pulled him into a dry place. It was a
rather rough experience for Blackborrow, but, anyhow, he is now able to
say that he was the first man to sit on Elephant Island. Possibly at
the time he would have been willing to forgo any distinction of the
kind. We landed the cook with his blubber-stove, a supply of fuel and
some packets of dried milk, and also several of the men. Then the rest
of us pulled out again to pilot the other boats through the channel.
The _James Caird_ was too heavy to be beached directly, so after
landing most of the men from the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb
Wills_ I superintended the transhipment of the _James Caird’s_ gear
outside the reef. Then we all made the passage, and within a few
minutes the three boats were aground. A curious spectacle met my eyes
when I landed the second time. Some of the men were reeling about the
beach as if they had found an unlimited supply of alcoholic liquor on
the desolate shore. They were laughing uproariously, picking up stones
and letting handfuls of pebbles trickle between their fingers like
misers gloating over hoarded gold. The smiles and laughter, which
caused cracked lips to bleed afresh, and the gleeful exclamations at
the sight of two live seals on the beach made me think for a moment of
that glittering hour of childhood when the door is open at last and the
Christmas-tree in all its wonder bursts upon the vision. I remember
that Wild, who always rose superior to fortune, bad and good, came
ashore as I was looking at the men and stood beside me as easy and
unconcerned as if he had stepped out of his car for a stroll in the
park.

Soon half a dozen of us had the stores ashore. Our strength was nearly
exhausted and it was heavy work carrying our goods over the rough
pebbles and rocks to the foot of the cliff, but we dare not leave
anything within reach of the tide. We had to wade knee-deep in the icy
water in order to lift the gear from the boats. When the work was done
we pulled the three boats a little higher on the beach and turned
gratefully to enjoy the hot drink the cook had prepared. Those of us
who were comparatively fit had to wait until the weaker members of the
party had been supplied; but every man had his pannikin of hot milk in
the end, and never did anything taste better. Seal steak and blubber
followed, for the seals that had been careless enough to await our
arrival on the beach had already given up their lives. There was no
rest for the cook. The blubber-stove flared and spluttered fiercely as
he cooked, not one meal, but many meals, which merged into a day-long
bout of eating. We drank water and ate seal meat until every man had
reached the limit of his capacity.

The tents were pitched with oars for supports, and by 3 p.m. our camp
was in order. The original framework of the tents had been cast adrift
on one of the floes in order to save weight. Most of the men turned in
early for a safe and glorious sleep, to be broken only by the call to
take a turn on watch. The chief duty of the watchman was to keep the
blubber-stove alight, and each man on duty appeared to find it
necessary to cook himself a meal during his watch, and a supper before
he turned in again.

Wild, Worsley, and Hurley accompanied me on an inspection of our beach
before getting into the tents. I almost wished then that I had
postponed the examination until after sleep, but the sense of caution
that the uncertainties of polar travel implant in one’s mind had made
me uneasy. The outlook we found to be anything but cheering. Obvious
signs showed that at spring tides the little beach would be covered by
the water right up to the foot of the cliffs. In a strong
north-easterly gale, such as we might expect to experience at any time,
the waves would pound over the scant barrier of the reef and break
against the sheer sides of the rocky wall behind us. Well-marked
terraces showed the effect of other gales, and right at the back of the
beach was a small bit of wreckage not more than three feet long,
rounded by the constant chafing it had endured. Obviously we must find
some better resting-place. I decided not to share with the men the
knowledge of the uncertainties of our situation until they had enjoyed
the full sweetness of rest untroubled by the thought that at any minute
they might be called to face peril again. The threat of the sea had
been our portion during many, many days, and a respite meant much to
weary bodies and jaded minds.


[Illustration]

The accompanying plan will indicate our exact position more clearly
than I can describe it. The cliffs at the back of the beach were
inaccessible except at two points where there were steep snow-slopes.
We were not worried now about food, for, apart from our own rations,
there were seals on the beach and we could see others in the water
outside the reef. Every now and then one of the animals would rise in
the shallows and crawl up on the beach, which evidently was a
recognized place of resort for its kind. A small rocky island which
protected us to some extent from the north-westerly wind carried a
ringed-penguin rookery. These birds were of migratory habit and might
be expected to leave us before the winter set in fully, but in the
meantime they were within our reach. These attractions, however, were
overridden by the fact that the beach was open to the attack of wind
and sea from the north-east and east. Easterly gales are more prevalent
than western in that area of the Antarctic during the winter. Before
turning in that night I studied the whole position and weighed every
chance of getting the boats and our stores into a place of safety out
of reach of the water. We ourselves might have clambered a little way
up the snow-slopes, but we could not have taken the boats with us. The
interior of the island was quite inaccessible. We climbed up one of the
slopes and found ourselves stopped soon by overhanging cliffs. The
rocks behind the camp were much weathered, and we noticed the sharp,
unworn boulders that had fallen from above. Clearly there was a danger
from overhead if we camped at the back of the beach. We must move on.
With that thought in mind I reached my tent and fell asleep on the
rubbly ground, which gave a comforting sense of stability. The fairy
princess who would not rest on her seven downy mattresses because a pea
lay underneath the pile might not have understood the pleasure we all
derived from the irregularities of the stones, which could not possibly
break beneath us or drift away; the very searching lumps were sweet
reminders of our safety.

Early next morning (April 15) all hands were astir. The sun soon shone
brightly and we spread out our wet gear to dry, till the beach looked
like a particularly disreputable gipsy camp. The boots and clothing had
suffered considerably during our travels. I had decided to send Wild
along the coast in the _Stancomb Wills_ to look for a new
camping-ground, and he and I discussed the details of the journey while
eating our breakfast of hot seal steak and blubber. The camp I wished
to find was one where the party could live for weeks or even months in
safety, without danger from sea or wind in the heaviest winter gale.
Wild was to proceed westwards along the coast and was to take with him
four of the fittest men, Marston, Crean, Vincent, and McCarthy. If he
did not return before dark we were to light a flare, which would serve
him as a guide to the entrance of the channel. The _Stancomb Wills_
pushed off at 11 a.m. and quickly passed out of sight around the
island. Then Hurley and I walked along the beach towards the west,
climbing through a gap between the cliff and a great detached pillar of
basalt. The narrow strip of beach was cumbered with masses of rock that
had fallen from the cliffs. We struggled along for two miles or more in
the search for a place where we could get the boats ashore and make a
permanent camp in the event of Wild’s search proving fruitless, but
after three hours’ vain toil we had to turn back. We had found on the
far side of the pillar of basalt a crevice in the rocks beyond the
reach of all but the heaviest gales. Rounded pebbles showed that the
seas reached the spot on occasions. Here I decided to depot ten cases
of Bovril sledging ration in case of our having to move away quickly.
We could come back for the food at a later date if opportunity offered.


[Illustration: The First Drink and Hot Food for Three-and-a-Half Days]


[Illustration: Mount Frank Houlder, Elephant Island]


Returning to the camp, we found the men resting or attending to their
gear. Clark had tried angling in the shallows off the rocks and had
secured one or two small fish. The day passed quietly. Rusty needles
were rubbed bright on the rocks and clothes were mended and darned. A
feeling of tiredness—due, I suppose, to reaction after the strain of
the preceding days—overtook us, but the rising tide, coming farther up
the beach than it had done on the day before, forced us to labour at
the boats, which we hauled slowly to a higher ledge. We found it
necessary to move our makeshift camp nearer the cliff. I portioned out
the available ground for the tents, the galley, and other purposes, as
every foot was of value. When night arrived the _Stancomb Wills_ was
still away, so I had a blubber-flare lit at the head of the channel.

About 8 p.m. we heard a hail in the distance. We could see nothing, but
soon like a pale ghost out of the darkness came the boat, the faces of
the men showing white in the glare of the fire. Wild ran her on the
beach with the swell, and within a couple of minutes we had dragged her
to a place of safety. I was waiting Wild’s report with keen anxiety,
and my relief was great when he told me that he had discovered a sandy
spit seven miles to the west, about 200 yds. long, running out at right
angles to the coast and terminating at the seaward end in a mass of
rock. A long snow-slope joined the spit at the shore end, and it seemed
possible that a “dugout” could be made in the snow. The spit, in any
case, would be a great improvement on our narrow beach. Wild added that
the place he described was the only possible camping-ground he had
seen. Beyond, to the west and south-west, lay a frowning line of cliffs
and glaciers, sheer to the water’s edge. He thought that in very heavy
gales either from the south-west or east the spit would be spray-blown,
but that the seas would not actually break over it. The boats could be
run up on a shelving beach.

After hearing this good news I was eager to get away from the beach
camp. The wind when blowing was favourable for the run along the coast.
The weather had been fine for two days and a change might come at any
hour. I told all hands that we would make a start early on the
following morning. A newly killed seal provided a luxurious supper of
steak and blubber, and then we slept comfortably till the dawn.

The morning of April 17 came fine and clear. The sea was smooth, but in
the offing we could see a line of pack, which seemed to be approaching.
We had noticed already pack and bergs being driven by the current to
the east and then sometimes coming back with a rush to the west. The
current ran as fast as five miles an hour, and it was a set of this
kind that had delayed Wild on his return from the spit. The rise and
fall of the tide was only about five feet at this time, but the moon
was making for full and the tides were increasing. The appearance of
ice emphasized the importance of getting away promptly. It would be a
serious matter to be prisoned on the beach by the pack. The boats were
soon afloat in the shallows, and after a hurried breakfast all hands
worked hard getting our gear and stores aboard. A mishap befell us when
we were launching the boats. We were using oars as rollers, and three
of these were broken, leaving us short for the journey that had still
to be undertaken. The preparations took longer than I had expected;
indeed, there seemed to be some reluctance on the part of several men
to leave the barren safety of the little beach and venture once more on
the ocean. But the move was imperative, and by 11 a.m. we were away,
the _James Caird_ leading. Just as we rounded the small island occupied
by the ringed penguins the “willywaw” swooped down from the 2000-ft.
cliffs behind us, a herald of the southerly gale that was to spring up
within half an hour.

Soon we were straining at the oars with the gale on our bows. Never had
we found a more severe task. The wind shifted from the south to the
south-west, and the shortage of oars became a serious matter. The
_James Caird_, being the heaviest boat, had to keep a full complement
of rowers, while the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ went
short and took turns using the odd oar. A big swell was thundering
against the cliffs and at times we were almost driven on to the rocks
by swirling green waters. We had to keep close inshore in order to
avoid being embroiled in the raging sea, which was lashed snow-white
and quickened by the furious squalls into a living mass of sprays.
After two hours of strenuous labour we were almost exhausted, but we
were fortunate enough to find comparative shelter behind a point of
rock. Overhead towered the sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet, the
sea-birds that fluttered from the crannies of the rock dwarfed by the
height. The boats rose and fell in the big swell, but the sea was not
breaking in our little haven, and we rested there while we ate our cold
ration. Some of the men had to stand by the oars in order to pole the
boats off the cliff-face.

After half an hour’s pause I gave the order to start again. The _Dudley
Docker_ was pulling with three oars, as the _Stancomb Wills_ had the
odd one, and she fell away to leeward in a particularly heavy squall. I
anxiously watched her battling up against wind and sea. It would have
been useless to take the _James Caird_ back to the assistance of the
_Dudley Docker_ since we were hard pressed to make any progress
ourselves in the heavier boat. The only thing was to go ahead and hope
for the best. All hands were wet to the skin again and many men were
feeling the cold severely. We forged on slowly and passed inside a
great pillar of rock standing out to sea and towering to a height of
about 2400 ft. A line of reef stretched between the shore and this
pillar, and I thought as we approached that we would have to face the
raging sea outside; but a break in the white surf revealed a gap in the
reef and we laboured through, with the wind driving clouds of spray on
our port beam. The _Stancomb Wills_ followed safely. In the stinging
spray I lost sight of the _Dudley Docker_ altogether. It was obvious
she would have to go outside the pillar as she was making so much
leeway, but I could not see what happened to her and I dared not pause.
It was a bad time. At last, about 5 p.m., the _James Caird_ and the
_Stancomb Wills_ reached comparatively calm water and we saw Wild’s
beach just ahead of us. I looked back vainly for the _Dudley Docker_.

Rocks studded the shallow water round the spit and the sea surged
amongst them. I ordered the _Stancomb Wills_ to run on to the beach at
the place that looked smoothest, and in a few moments the first boat
was ashore, the men jumping out and holding her against the receding
wave. Immediately I saw she was safe I ran the _James Caird_ in. Some
of us scrambled up the beach through the fringe of the surf and slipped
the painter round a rock, so as to hold the boat against the backwash.
Then we began to get the stores and gear out, working like men
possessed, for the boats could not be pulled up till they had been
emptied. The blubber-stove was quickly alight and the cook began to
prepare a hot drink. We were labouring at the boats when I noticed
Rickenson turn white and stagger in the surf. I pulled him out of reach
of the water and sent him up to the stove, which had been placed in the
shelter of some rocks. McIlroy went to him and found that his heart had
been temporarily unequal to the strain placed upon it. He was in a bad
way and needed prompt medical attention. There are some men who will do
more than their share of work and who will attempt more than they are
physically able to accomplish. Rickenson was one of these eager souls.
He was suffering, like many other members of the Expedition, from bad
salt-water boils. Our wrists, arms, and legs were attacked. Apparently
this infliction was due to constant soaking with sea-water, the chafing
of wet clothes, and exposure.

I was very anxious about the _Dudley Docker_, and my eyes as well as my
thoughts were turned eastward as we carried the stores ashore; but
within half an hour the missing boat appeared, labouring through the
spume-white sea, and presently she reached the comparative calm of the
bay. We watched her coming with that sense of relief that the mariner
feels when he crosses the harbour-bar. The tide was going out rapidly,
and Worsley lightened the _Dudley Docker_ by placing some cases on an
outer rock, where they were retrieved subsequently. Then he beached his
boat, and with many hands at work we soon had our belongings ashore and
our three craft above high-water mark. The spit was by no means an
ideal camping-ground; it was rough, bleak, and inhospitable—just an
acre or two of rock and shingle, with the sea foaming around it except
where the snow-slope, running up to a glacier, formed the landward
boundary. But some of the larger rocks provided a measure of shelter
from the wind, and as we clustered round the blubber-stove, with the
acrid smoke blowing into our faces, we were quite a cheerful company.
After all, another stage of the homeward journey had been accomplished
and we could afford to forget for an hour the problems of the future.
Life was not so bad. We ate our evening meal while the snow drifted
down from the surface of the glacier, and our chilled bodies grew warm.
Then we dried a little tobacco at the stove and enjoyed our pipes
before we crawled into our tents. The snow had made it impossible for
us to find the tide-line and we were uncertain how far the sea was
going to encroach upon our beach. I pitched my tent on the seaward side
of the camp so that I might have early warning of danger, and, sure
enough, about 2 a.m. a little wave forced its way under the tent-cloth.
This was a practical demonstration that we had not gone far enough back
from the sea, but in the semi-darkness it was difficult to see where we
could find safety. Perhaps it was fortunate that experience had inured
us to the unpleasantness of sudden forced changes of camp. We took down
the tents and re-pitched them close against the high rocks at the
seaward end of the spit, where large boulders made an uncomfortable
resting-place. Snow was falling heavily. Then all hands had to assist
in pulling the boats farther up the beach, and at this task we suffered
a serious misfortune. Two of our four bags of clothing had been placed
under the bilge of the _James Caird_, and before we realized the danger
a wave had lifted the boat and carried the two bags back into the surf.
We had no chance of recovering them. This accident did not complete the
tale of the night’s misfortunes. The big eight-man tent was blown to
pieces in the early morning. Some of the men who had occupied it took
refuge in other tents, but several remained in their sleeping-bags
under the fragments of cloth until it was time to turn out.

A southerly gale was blowing on the morning of April 18 and the
drifting snow was covering everything. The outlook was cheerless
indeed, but much work had to be done and we could not yield to the
desire to remain in the sleeping-bags. Some sea-elephants were lying
about the beach above high-water mark, and we killed several of the
younger ones for their meat and blubber. The big tent could not be
replaced, and in order to provide shelter for the men we turned the
_Dudley Docker_ upside down and wedged up the weather side with
boulders. We also lashed the painter and stern-rope round the heaviest
rocks we could find, so as to guard against the danger of the boat
being moved by the wind. The two bags of clothing were bobbing about
amid the brash and glacier-ice to the windward side of the spit, and it
did not seem possible to reach them. The gale continued all day, and
the fine drift from the surface of the glacier was added to the big
flakes of snow falling from the sky. I made a careful examination of
the spit with the object of ascertaining its possibilities as a
camping-ground. Apparently, some of the beach lay above high-water mark
and the rocks that stood above the shingle gave a measure of shelter.
It would be possible to mount the snow-slope towards the glacier in
fine weather, but I did not push my exploration in that direction
during the gale. At the seaward end of the spit was the mass of rock
already mentioned. A few thousand ringed penguins, with some gentoos,
were on these rocks, and we had noted this fact with a great deal of
satisfaction at the time of our landing. The ringed penguin is by no
means the best of the penguins from the point of view of the hungry
traveller, but it represents food. At 8 a.m. that morning I noticed the
ringed penguins mustering in orderly fashion close to the water’s edge,
and thought that they were preparing for the daily fishing excursion;
but presently it became apparent that some important move was on foot.
They were going to migrate, and with their departure much valuable food
would pass beyond our reach. Hurriedly we armed ourselves with pieces
of sledge-runner and other improvised clubs, and started towards the
rookery. We were too late. The leaders gave their squawk of command and
the columns took to the sea in unbroken ranks. Following their leaders,
the penguins dived through the surf and reappeared in the heaving water
beyond. A very few of the weaker birds took fright and made their way
back to the beach, where they fell victims later to our needs; but the
main army went northwards and we saw them no more. We feared that the
gentoo penguins might follow the example of their ringed cousins, but
they stayed with us; apparently they had not the migratory habit. They
were comparatively few in number, but from time to time they would come
in from the sea and walk up our beach. The gentoo is the most strongly
marked of all the smaller varieties of penguins as far as colouring is
concerned, and it far surpasses the adelie in weight of legs and
breast, the points that particularly appealed to us.

The deserted rookery was sure to be above high-water mark at all times;
and we mounted the rocky ledge in search of a place to pitch our tents.
The penguins knew better than to rest where the sea could reach them
even when the highest tide was supported by the strongest gale. The
disadvantages of a camp on the rookery were obvious. The smell was
strong, to put it mildly, and was not likely to grow less pronounced
when the warmth of our bodies thawed the surface. But our choice of
places was not wide, and that afternoon we dug out a site for two tents
in the debris of the rookery, levelling it off with snow and rocks. My
tent, No. 1, was pitched close under the cliff, and there during my
stay on Elephant Island I lived. Crean’s tent was close by, and the
other three tents, which had fairly clean snow under them, were some
yards away. The fifth tent was a ramshackle affair. The material of the
torn eight-man tent had been drawn over a rough framework of oars, and
shelter of a kind provided for the men who occupied it.

The arrangement of our camp, the checking of our gear, the killing and
skinning of seals and sea-elephants occupied us during the day, and we
took to our sleeping-bags early. I and my companions in No. 1 tent were
not destined to spend a pleasant night. The heat of our bodies soon
melted the snow and refuse beneath us and the floor of the tent became
an evil smelling yellow mud. The snow drifting from the cliff above us
weighted the sides of the tent, and during the night a particularly
stormy gust brought our little home down on top of us. We stayed
underneath the snow-laden cloth till the morning, for it seemed a
hopeless business to set about re-pitching the tent amid the storm that
was raging in the darkness of the night.

The weather was still bad on the morning of April 19. Some of the men
were showing signs of demoralization. They were disinclined to leave
the tents when the hour came for turning out, and it was apparent they
were thinking more of the discomforts of the moment than of the good
fortune that had brought us to sound ground and comparative safety. The
condition of the gloves and headgear shown me by some discouraged men
illustrated the proverbial carelessness of the sailor. The articles had
frozen stiff during the night, and the owners considered, it appeared,
that this state of affairs provided them with a grievance, or at any
rate gave them the right to grumble. They said they wanted dry clothes
and that their health would not admit of their doing any work. Only by
rather drastic methods were they induced to turn to. Frozen gloves and
helmets undoubtedly are very uncomfortable, and the proper thing is to
keep these articles thawed by placing them inside one’s shirt during
the night.

The southerly gale, bringing with it much snow, was so severe that as I
went along the beach to kill a seal I was blown down by a gust. The
cooking-pots from No. 2 tent took a flying run into the sea at the same
moment. A case of provisions which had been placed on them to keep them
safe had been capsized by a squall. These pots, fortunately, were not
essential, since nearly all our cooking was done over the
blubber-stove. The galley was set up by the rocks close to my tent, in
a hole we had dug through the debris of the penguin rookery. Cases of
stores gave some shelter from the wind and a spread sail kept some of
the snow off the cook when he was at work. He had not much idle time.
The amount of seal and sea-elephant steak and blubber consumed by our
hungry party was almost incredible. He did not lack assistance—the
neighbourhood of the blubber-stove had attractions for every member of
the party; but he earned everybody’s gratitude by his unflagging energy
in preparing meals that to us at least were savoury and satisfying.
Frankly, we needed all the comfort that the hot food could give us. The
icy fingers of the gale searched every cranny of our beach and pushed
relentlessly through our worn garments and tattered tents. The snow,
drifting from the glacier and falling from the skies, swathed us and
our gear and set traps for our stumbling feet. The rising sea beat
against the rocks and shingle and tossed fragments of floe-ice within a
few feet of our boats. Once during the morning the sun shone through
the racing clouds and we had a glimpse of blue sky; but the promise of
fair weather was not redeemed. The consoling feature of the situation
was that our camp was safe. We could endure the discomforts, and I felt
that all hands would be benefited by the opportunity for rest and
recuperation.




CHAPTER IX
THE BOAT JOURNEY


The increasing sea made it necessary for us to drag the boats farther
up the beach. This was a task for all hands, and after much labour we
got the boats into safe positions among the rocks and made fast the
painters to big boulders. Then I discussed with Wild and Worsley the
chances of reaching South Georgia before the winter locked the seas
against us. Some effort had to be made to secure relief. Privation and
exposure had left their mark on the party, and the health and mental
condition of several men were causing me serious anxiety. Blackborrow’s
feet, which had been frost-bitten during the boat journey, were in a
bad way, and the two doctors feared that an operation would be
necessary. They told me that the toes would have to be amputated unless
animation could be restored within a short period. Then the food-supply
was a vital consideration. We had left ten cases of provisions in the
crevice of the rocks at our first camping-place on the island. An
examination of our stores showed that we had full rations for the whole
party for a period of five weeks. The rations could be spread over
three months on a reduced allowance and probably would be supplemented
by seals and sea-elephants to some extent. I did not dare to count with
full confidence on supplies of meat and blubber, for the animals seemed
to have deserted the beach and the winter was near. Our stocks included
three seals and two and a half skins (with blubber attached). We were
mainly dependent on the blubber for fuel, and, after making a
preliminary survey of the situation, I decided that the party must be
limited to one hot meal a day.

A boat journey in search of relief was necessary and must not be
delayed. That conclusion was forced upon me. The nearest port where
assistance could certainly be secured was Port Stanley, in the Falkland
Islands, 540 miles away, but we could scarcely hope to beat up against
the prevailing north-westerly wind in a frail and weakened boat with a
small sail area. South Georgia was over 800 miles away, but lay in the
area of the west winds, and I could count upon finding whalers at any
of the whaling-stations on the east coast. A boat party might make the
voyage and be back with relief within a month, provided that the sea
was clear of ice and the boat survive the great seas. It was not
difficult to decide that South Georgia must be the objective, and I
proceeded to plan ways and means. The hazards of a boat journey across
800 miles of stormy sub-Antarctic ocean were obvious, but I calculated
that at worst the venture would add nothing to the risks of the men
left on the island. There would be fewer mouths to feed during the
winter and the boat would not require to take more than one month’s
provisions for six men, for if we did not make South Georgia in that
time we were sure to go under. A consideration that had weight with me
was that there was no chance at all of any search being made for us on
Elephant Island.

The case required to be argued in some detail, since all hands knew
that the perils of the proposed journey were extreme. The risk was
justified solely by our urgent need of assistance. The ocean south of
Cape Horn in the middle of May is known to be the most tempestuous
storm-swept area of water in the world. The weather then is unsettled,
the skies are dull and overcast, and the gales are almost unceasing. We
had to face these conditions in a small and weather-beaten boat,
already strained by the work of the months that had passed. Worsley and
Wild realized that the attempt must be made, and they both asked to be
allowed to accompany me on the voyage. I told Wild at once that he
would have to stay behind. I relied upon him to hold the party together
while I was away and to make the best of his way to Deception Island
with the men in the spring in the event of our failure to bring help.
Worsley I would take with me, for I had a very high opinion of his
accuracy and quickness as a navigator, and especially in the snapping
and working out of positions in difficult circumstances—an opinion that
was only enhanced during the actual journey. Four other men would be
required, and I decided to call for volunteers, although, as a matter
of fact, I pretty well knew which of the people I would select. Crean I
proposed to leave on the island as a right-hand man for Wild, but he
begged so hard to be allowed to come in the boat that, after
consultation with Wild, I promised to take him. I called the men
together, explained my plan, and asked for volunteers. Many came
forward at once. Some were not fit enough for the work that would have
to be done, and others would not have been much use in the boat since
they were not seasoned sailors, though the experiences of recent months
entitled them to some consideration as seafaring men. McIlroy and
Macklin were both anxious to go but realized that their duty lay on the
island with the sick men. They suggested that I should take Blackborrow
in order that he might have shelter and warmth as quickly as possible,
but I had to veto this idea. It would be hard enough for fit men to
live in the boat. Indeed, I did not see how a sick man, lying helpless
in the bottom of the boat, could possibly survive in the heavy weather
we were sure to encounter. I finally selected McNeish, McCarthy, and
Vincent in addition to Worsley and Crean. The crew seemed a strong one,
and as I looked at the men I felt confidence increasing.

The decision made, I walked through the blizzard with Worsley and Wild
to examine the _James Caird_. The 20-ft. boat had never looked big; she
appeared to have shrunk in some mysterious way when I viewed her in the
light of our new undertaking. She was an ordinary ship’s whaler, fairly
strong, but showing signs of the strains she had endured since the
crushing of the _Endurance_. Where she was holed in leaving the pack
was, fortunately, about the water-line and easily patched. Standing
beside her, we glanced at the fringe of the storm-swept, tumultuous sea
that formed our path. Clearly, our voyage would be a big adventure. I
called the carpenter and asked him if he could do anything to make the
boat more seaworthy. He first inquired if he was to go with me, and
seemed quite pleased when I said “Yes.” He was over fifty years of age
and not altogether fit, but he had a good knowledge of sailing-boats
and was very quick. McCarthy said that he could contrive some sort of
covering for the _James Caird_ if he might use the lids of the cases
and the four sledge-runners that we had lashed inside the boat for use
in the event of a landing on Graham Land at Wilhelmina Bay. This bay,
at one time the goal of our desire, had been left behind in the course
of our drift, but we had retained the runners. The carpenter proposed
to complete the covering with some of our canvas; and he set about
making his plans at once.

Noon had passed and the gale was more severe than ever. We could not
proceed with our preparations that day. The tents were suffering in the
wind and the sea was rising. We made our way to the snow-slope at the
shoreward end of the spit, with the intention of digging a hole in the
snow large enough to provide shelter for the party. I had an idea that
Wild and his men might camp there during my absence, since it seemed
impossible that the tents could hold together for many more days
against the attacks of the wind; but an examination of the spot
indicated that any hole we could dig probably would be filled quickly
by the drift. At dark, about 5 p.m., we all turned in, after a supper
consisting of a pannikin of hot milk, one of our precious biscuits, and
a cold penguin leg each.

The gale was stronger than ever on the following morning (April 20). No
work could be done. Blizzard and snow, snow and blizzard, sudden lulls
and fierce returns. During the lulls we could see on the far horizon to
the north-east bergs of all shapes and sizes driving along before the
gale, and the sinister appearance of the swift-moving masses made us
thankful indeed that, instead of battling with the storm amid the ice,
we were required only to face the drift from the glaciers and the
inland heights. The gusts might throw us off our feet, but at least we
fell on solid ground and not on the rocking floes. Two seals came up on
the beach that day, one of them within ten yards of my tent. So urgent
was our need of food and blubber that I called all hands and organized
a line of beaters instead of simply walking up to the seal and hitting
it on the nose. We were prepared to fall upon this seal _en masse_ if
it attempted to escape. The kill was made with a pick-handle, and in a
few minutes five days’ food and six days’ fuel were stowed in a place
of safety among the boulders above high-water mark. During this day the
cook, who had worked well on the floe and throughout the boat journey,
suddenly collapsed. I happened to be at the galley at the moment and
saw him fall. I pulled him down the slope to his tent and pushed him
into its shelter with orders to his tent-mates to keep him in his
sleeping-bag until I allowed him to come out or the doctors said he was
fit enough. Then I took out to replace the cook one of the men who had
expressed a desire to lie down and die. The task of keeping the galley
fire alight was both difficult and strenuous, and it took his thoughts
away from the chances of immediate dissolution. In fact, I found him a
little later gravely concerned over the drying of a naturally not
over-clean pair of socks which were hung up in close proximity to our
evening milk. Occupation had brought his thoughts back to the ordinary
cares of life.

There was a lull in the bad weather on April 21, and the carpenter
started to collect material for the decking of the _James Caird_. He
fitted the mast of the _Stancomb Wills_ fore and aft inside the _James
Caird_ as a hog-back and thus strengthened the keel with the object of
preventing our boat “hogging”—that is, buckling in heavy seas. He had
not sufficient wood to provide a deck, but by using the sledge-runners
and box-lids he made a framework extending from the forecastle aft to a
well. It was a patched-up affair, but it provided a base for a canvas
covering. We had a bolt of canvas frozen stiff, and this material had
to be cut and then thawed out over the blubber-stove, foot by foot, in
order that it might be sewn into the form of a cover. When it had been
nailed and screwed into position it certainly gave an appearance of
safety to the boat, though I had an uneasy feeling that it bore a
strong likeness to stage scenery, which may look like a granite wall
and is in fact nothing better than canvas and lath. As events proved,
the covering served its purpose well. We certainly could not have lived
through the voyage without it.

Another fierce gale was blowing on April 22, interfering with our
preparations for the voyage. The cooker from No. 5 tent came adrift in
a gust, and, although it was chased to the water’s edge, it disappeared
for good. Blackborrow’s feet were giving him much pain, and McIlroy and
Macklin thought it would be necessary for them to operate soon. They
were under the impression then that they had no chloroform, but they
found some subsequently in the medicine-chest after we had left. Some
cases of stores left on a rock off the spit on the day of our arrival
were retrieved during this day. We were setting aside stores for the
boat journey and choosing the essential equipment from the scanty stock
at our disposal. Two ten-gallon casks had to be filled with water
melted down from ice collected at the foot of the glacier. This was a
rather slow business. The blubber-stove was kept going all night, and
the watchmen emptied the water into the casks from the pot in which the
ice was melted. A working party started to dig a hole in the snow-slope
about forty feet above sea-level with the object of providing a site
for a camp. They made fairly good progress at first, but the snow
drifted down unceasingly from the inland ice, and in the end the party
had to give up the project.


[Illustration: Launching the _James Caird_]


[Illustration: The _Stancomb Wills_]


The weather was fine on April 23, and we hurried forward our
preparations. It was on this day I decided finally that the crew for
the _James Caird_ should consist of Worsley, Crean, McNeish, McCarthy,
Vincent, and myself. A storm came on about noon, with driving snow and
heavy squalls. Occasionally the air would clear for a few minutes, and
we could see a line of pack-ice, five miles out, driving across from
west to east. This sight increased my anxiety to get away quickly.
Winter was advancing, and soon the pack might close completely round
the island and stay our departure for days or even for weeks, I did not
think that ice would remain around Elephant Island continuously during
the winter, since the strong winds and fast currents would keep it in
motion. We had noticed ice and bergs, going past at the rate of four or
five knots. A certain amount of ice was held up about the end of our
spit, but the sea was clear where the boat would have to be launched.

Worsley, Wild, and I climbed to the summit of the seaward rocks and
examined the ice from a better vantage-point than the beach offered.
The belt of pack outside appeared to be sufficiently broken for our
purposes, and I decided that, unless the conditions forbade it, we
would make a start in the _James Caird_ on the following morning.
Obviously the pack might close at any time. This decision made, I spent
the rest of the day looking over the boat, gear, and stores, and
discussing plans with Worsley and Wild.

Our last night on the solid ground of Elephant Island was cold and
uncomfortable. We turned out at dawn and had breakfast. Then we
launched the _Stancomb Wills_ and loaded her with stores, gear, and
ballast, which would be transferred to the _James Caird_ when the
heavier boat had been launched. The ballast consisted of bags made from
blankets and filled with sand, making a total weight of about 1000 lbs.
In addition we had gathered a number of round boulders and about 250
lbs. of ice, which would supplement our two casks of water.

The stores taken in the _James Caird_, which would last six men for one
month, were as follows:

30 boxes of matches.
6½ gallons paraffin.
1 tin methylated spirit.
10 boxes of flamers.
1 box of blue lights.
2 Primus stoves with spare parts and prickers.
1 Nansen aluminium cooker.
6 sleeping-bags.
A few spare socks.
A few candles and some blubber-oil in an oil-bag.


_Food_:
3 cases sledging rations = 300 rations.
2 cases nut food = 200 ”
2 cases biscuits = 600 biscuits.
1 case lump sugar.
30 packets of Trumilk.
1 tin. of Bovril cubes.
1 tin of Cerebos salt.
36 gallons of water.
250 lbs. of ice.


_Instruments_:
Sextant.
Sea-anchor.
Binoculars.
Charts.
Prismatic compass.
Aneroid.


The swell was slight when the _Stancomb Wills_ was launched and the
boat got under way without any difficulty; but half an hour later, when
we were pulling down the _James Caird_, the swell increased suddenly.
Apparently the movement of the ice outside had made an opening and
allowed the sea to run in without being blanketed by the line of pack.
The swell made things difficult. Many of us got wet to the waist while
dragging the boat out—a serious matter in that climate. When the _James
Caird_ was afloat in the surf she nearly capsized among the rocks
before we could get her clear, and Vincent and the carpenter, who were
on the deck, were thrown into the water. This was really bad luck, for
the two men would have small chance of drying their clothes after we
had got under way. Hurley, who had the eye of the professional
photographer for “incidents,” secured a picture of the upset, and I
firmly believe that he would have liked the two unfortunate men to
remain in the water until he could get a “snap” at close quarters; but
we hauled them out immediately, regardless of his feelings.

The _James Caird_ was soon clear of the breakers. We used all the
available ropes as a long painter to prevent her drifting away to the
north-east, and then the _Stancomb Wills_ came alongside, transferred
her load, and went back to the shore for more. As she was being beached
this time the sea took her stern and half filled her with water. She
had to be turned over and emptied before the return journey could be
made. Every member of the crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ was wet to the
skin. The water-casks were towed behind the _Stancomb Wills_ on this
second journey, and the swell, which was increasing rapidly, drove the
boat on to the rocks, where one of the casks was slightly stove in.
This accident proved later to be a serious one, since some sea-water
had entered the cask and the contents were now brackish.

By midday the _James Caird_ was ready for the voyage. Vincent and the
carpenter had secured some dry clothes by exchange with members of the
shore party (I heard afterwards that it was a full fortnight before the
soaked garments were finally dried), and the boat’s crew was standing
by waiting for the order to cast off. A moderate westerly breeze was
blowing. I went ashore in the _Stancomb Wills_ and had a last word with
Wild, who was remaining in full command, with directions as to his
course of action in the event of our failure to bring relief, but I
practically left the whole situation and scope of action and decision
to his own judgment, secure in the knowledge that he would act wisely.
I told him that I trusted the party to him and said good-bye to the
men. Then we pushed off for the last time, and within a few minutes I
was aboard the _James Caird_. The crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ shook
hands with us as the boats bumped together and offered us the last good
wishes. Then, setting our jib, we cut the painter and moved away to the
north-east. The men who were staying behind made a pathetic little
group on the beach, with the grim heights of the island behind them and
the sea seething at their feet, but they waved to us and gave three
hearty cheers. There was hope in their hearts and they trusted us to
bring the help that they needed.

I had all sails set, and the _James Caird_ quickly dipped the beach and
its line of dark figures. The westerly wind took us rapidly to the line
of pack, and as we entered it I stood up with my arm around the mast,
directing the steering, so as to avoid the great lumps of ice that were
flung about in the heave of the sea. The pack thickened and we were
forced to turn almost due east, running before the wind towards a gap I
had seen in the morning from the high ground. I could not see the gap
now, but we had come out on its bearing and I was prepared to find that
it had been influenced by the easterly drift. At four o’clock in the
afternoon we found the channel, much narrower than it had seemed in the
morning but still navigable. Dropping sail, we rowed through without
touching the ice anywhere, and by 5.30 p.m. we were clear of the pack
with open water before us. We passed one more piece of ice in the
darkness an hour later, but the pack lay behind, and with a fair wind
swelling the sails we steered our little craft through the night, our
hopes centred on our distant goal. The swell was very heavy now, and
when the time came for our first evening meal we found great difficulty
in keeping the Primus lamp alight and preventing the hoosh splashing
out of the pot. Three men were needed to attend to the cooking, one man
holding the lamp and two men guarding the aluminium cooking-pot, which
had to be lifted clear of the Primus whenever the movement of the boat
threatened to cause a disaster. Then the lamp had to be protected from
water, for sprays were coming over the bows and our flimsy decking was
by no means water-tight. All these operations were conducted in the
confined space under the decking, where the men lay or knelt and
adjusted themselves as best they could to the angles of our cases and
ballast. It was uncomfortable, but we found consolation in the
reflection that without the decking we could not have used the cooker
at all.

The tale of the next sixteen days is one of supreme strife amid heaving
waters. The sub-Antarctic Ocean lived up to its evil winter reputation.
I decided to run north for at least two days while the wind held and so
get into warmer weather before turning to the east and laying a course
for South Georgia. We took two-hourly spells at the tiller. The men who
were not on watch crawled into the sodden sleeping-bags and tried to
forget their troubles for a period; but there was no comfort in the
boat. The bags and cases seemed to be alive in the unfailing knack of
presenting their most uncomfortable angles to our rest-seeking bodies.
A man might imagine for a moment that he had found a position of ease,
but always discovered quickly that some unyielding point was impinging
on muscle or bone. The first night aboard the boat was one of acute
discomfort for us all, and we were heartily glad when the dawn came and
we could set about the preparation of a hot breakfast.

This record of the voyage to South Georgia is based upon scanty notes
made day by day. The notes dealt usually with the bare facts of
distances, positions, and weather, but our memories retained the
incidents of the passing days in a period never to be forgotten. By
running north for the first two days I hoped to get warmer weather and
also to avoid lines of pack that might be extending beyond the main
body. We needed all the advantage that we could obtain from the higher
latitude for sailing on the great circle, but we had to be cautious
regarding possible ice-streams. Cramped in our narrow quarters and
continually wet by the spray, we suffered severely from cold throughout
the journey. We fought the seas and the winds and at the same time had
a daily struggle to keep ourselves alive. At times we were in dire
peril. Generally we were upheld by the knowledge that we were making
progress towards the land where we would be, but there were days and
nights when we lay hove to, drifting across the storm-whitened seas and
watching with eyes interested rather than apprehensive the uprearing
masses of water, flung to and fro by Nature in the pride of her
strength. Deep seemed the valleys when we lay between the reeling seas.
High were the hills when we perched momentarily on the tops of giant
combers. Nearly always there were gales. So small was our boat and so
great were the seas that often our sail flapped idly in the calm
between the crests of two waves. Then we would climb the next slope and
catch the full fury of the gale where the wool-like whiteness of the
breaking water surged around us. We had our moments of laughter—rare,
it is true, but hearty enough. Even when cracked lips and swollen
mouths checked the outward and visible signs of amusement we could see
a joke of the primitive kind. Man’s sense of humour is always most
easily stirred by the petty misfortunes of his neighbours, and I shall
never forget Worsley’s efforts on one occasion to place the hot
aluminium stand on top of the Primus stove after it had fallen off in
an extra heavy roll. With his frost-bitten fingers he picked it up,
dropped it, picked it up again, and toyed with it gingerly as though it
were some fragile article of lady’s wear. We laughed, or rather gurgled
with laughter.

The wind came up strong and worked into a gale from the north-west on
the third day out. We stood away to the east. The increasing seas
discovered the weaknesses of our decking. The continuous blows shifted
the box-lids and sledge-runners so that the canvas sagged down and
accumulated water. Then icy trickles, distinct from the driving sprays,
poured fore and aft into the boat. The nails that the carpenter had
extracted from cases at Elephant Island and used to fasten down the
battens were too short to make firm the decking. We did what we could
to secure it, but our means were very limited, and the water continued
to enter the boat at a dozen points. Much baling was necessary, and
nothing that we could do prevented our gear from becoming sodden. The
searching runnels from the canvas were really more unpleasant than the
sudden definite douches of the sprays. Lying under the thwarts during
watches below, we tried vainly to avoid them. There were no dry places
in the boat, and at last we simply covered our heads with our Burberrys
and endured the all-pervading water. The baling was work for the watch.
Real rest we had none. The perpetual motion of the boat made repose
impossible; we were cold, sore, and anxious. We moved on hands and
knees in the semi-darkness of the day under the decking. The darkness
was complete by 6 p.m., and not until 7 a.m. of the following day could
we see one another under the thwarts. We had a few scraps of candle,
and they were preserved carefully in order that we might have light at
meal-times. There was one fairly dry spot in the boat, under the solid
original decking at the bows, and we managed to protect some of our
biscuit from the salt water; but I do not think any of us got the taste
of salt out of our mouths during the voyage.

The difficulty of movement in the boat would have had its humorous side
if it had not involved us in so many aches and pains. We had to crawl
under the thwarts in order to move along the boat, and our knees
suffered considerably. When watch turned out it was necessary for me to
direct each man by name when and where to move, since if all hands had
crawled about at the same time the result would have been dire
confusion and many bruises. Then there was the trim of the boat to be
considered. The order of the watch was four hours on and four hours
off, three men to the watch. One man had the tiller-ropes, the second
man attended to the sail, and the third baled for all he was worth.
Sometimes when the water in the boat had been reduced to reasonable
proportions, our pump could be used. This pump, which Hurley had made
from the Flinder’s bar case of our ship’s standard compass, was quite
effective, though its capacity was not large. The man who was attending
the sail could pump into the big outer cooker, which was lifted and
emptied overboard when filled. We had a device by which the water could
go direct from the pump into the sea through a hole in the gunwale, but
this hole had to be blocked at an early stage of the voyage, since we
found that it admitted water when the boat rolled.

While a new watch was shivering in the wind and spray, the men who had
been relieved groped hurriedly among the soaked sleeping-bags and tried
to steal a little of the warmth created by the last occupants; but it
was not always possible for us to find even this comfort when we went
off watch. The boulders that we had taken aboard for ballast had to be
shifted continually in order to trim the boat and give access to the
pump, which became choked with hairs from the moulting sleeping-bags
and finneskoe. The four reindeer-skin sleeping-bags shed their hair
freely owing to the continuous wetting, and soon became quite bald in
appearance. The moving of the boulders was weary and painful work. We
came to know every one of the stones by sight and touch, and I have
vivid memories of their angular peculiarities even to-day. They might
have been of considerable interest as geological specimens to a
scientific man under happier conditions. As ballast they were useful.
As weights to be moved about in cramped quarters they were simply
appalling. They spared no portion of our poor bodies. Another of our
troubles, worth mention here, was the chafing of our legs by our wet
clothes, which had not been changed now for seven months. The insides
of our thighs were rubbed raw, and the one tube of Hazeline cream in
our medicine-chest did not go far in alleviating our pain, which was
increased by the bite of the salt water. We thought at the time that we
never slept. The fact was that we would doze off uncomfortably, to be
aroused quickly by some new ache or another call to effort. My own
share of the general unpleasantness was accentuated by a finely
developed bout of sciatica. I had become possessor of this originally
on the floe several months earlier.

Our meals were regular in spite of the gales. Attention to this point
was essential, since the conditions of the voyage made increasing calls
upon our vitality. Breakfast, at 8 a.m., consisted of a pannikin of hot
hoosh made from Bovril sledging ration, two biscuits, and some lumps of
sugar. Lunch came at 1 p.m., and comprised Bovril sledging ration,
eaten raw, and a pannikin of hot milk for each man. Tea, at 5 p.m., had
the same menu. Then during the night we had a hot drink, generally of
milk. The meals were the bright beacons in those cold and stormy days.
The glow of warmth and comfort produced by the food and drink made
optimists of us all. We had two tins of Virol, which we were keeping
for an emergency; but, finding ourselves in need of an oil-lamp to eke
out our supply of candles, we emptied one of the tins in the manner
that most appealed to us, and fitted it with a wick made by shredding a
bit of canvas. When this lamp was filled with oil it gave a certain
amount of light, though it was easily blown out, and was of great
assistance to us at night. We were fairly well off as regarded fuel,
since we had 6½ gallons of petroleum.

A severe south-westerly gale on the fourth day out forced us to heave
to. I would have liked to have run before the wind, but the sea was
very high and the _James Caird_ was in danger of broaching to and
swamping. The delay was vexatious, since up to that time we had been
making sixty or seventy miles a day, good going with our limited sail
area. We hove to under double-reefed mainsail and our little jigger,
and waited for the gale to blow itself out. During that afternoon we
saw bits of wreckage, the remains probably of some unfortunate vessel
that had failed to weather the strong gales south of Cape Horn. The
weather conditions did not improve, and on the fifth day out the gale
was so fierce that we were compelled to take in the double-reefed
mainsail and hoist our small jib instead. We put out a sea-anchor to
keep the _James Caird’s_ head up to the sea. This anchor consisted of a
triangular canvas bag fastened to the end of the painter and allowed to
stream out from the bows. The boat was high enough to catch the wind,
and, as she drifted to leeward, the drag of the anchor kept her head to
windward. Thus our boat took most of the seas more or less end on. Even
then the crests of the waves often would curl right over us and we
shipped a great deal of water, which necessitated unceasing baling and
pumping. Looking out abeam, we would see a hollow like a tunnel formed
as the crest of a big wave toppled over on to the swelling body of
water. A thousand times it appeared as though the _James Caird_ must be
engulfed; but the boat lived. The south-westerly gale had its
birthplace above the Antarctic Continent, and its freezing breath
lowered the temperature far towards zero. The sprays froze upon the
boat and gave bows, sides, and decking a heavy coat of mail. This
accumulation of ice reduced the buoyancy of the boat, and to that
extent was an added peril; but it possessed a notable advantage from
one point of view. The water ceased to drop and trickle from the
canvas, and the spray came in solely at the well in the after part of
the boat. We could not allow the load of ice to grow beyond a certain
point, and in turns we crawled about the decking forward, chipping and
picking at it with the available tools.

When daylight came on the morning of the sixth day out we saw and felt
that the _James Caird_ had lost her resiliency. She was not rising to
the oncoming seas. The weight of the ice that had formed in her and
upon her during the night was having its effect, and she was becoming
more like a log than a boat. The situation called for immediate action.
We first broke away the spare oars, which were encased in ice and
frozen to the sides of the boat, and threw them overboard. We retained
two oars for use when we got inshore. Two of the fur sleeping-bags went
over the side; they were thoroughly wet, weighing probably 40 lbs.
each, and they had frozen stiff during the night. Three men constituted
the watch below, and when a man went down it was better to turn into
the wet bag just vacated by another man than to thaw out a frozen bag
with the heat of his unfortunate body. We now had four bags, three in
use and one for emergency use in case a member of the party should
break down permanently. The reduction of weight relieved the boat to
some extent, and vigorous chipping and scraping did more. We had to be
very careful not to put axe or knife through the frozen canvas of the
decking as we crawled over it, but gradually we got rid of a lot of
ice. The _James Caird_ lifted to the endless waves as though she lived
again.

About 11 a.m. the boat suddenly fell off into the trough of the sea.
The painter had parted and the sea-anchor had gone. This was serious.
The _James Caird_ went away to leeward, and we had no chance at all of
recovering the anchor and our valuable rope, which had been our only
means of keeping the boat’s head up to the seas without the risk of
hoisting sail in a gale. Now we had to set the sail and trust to its
holding. While the _James Caird_ rolled heavily in the trough, we beat
the frozen canvas until the bulk of the ice had cracked off it and then
hoisted it. The frozen gear worked protestingly, but after a struggle
our little craft came up to the wind again, and we breathed more
freely. Skin frost-bites were troubling us, and we had developed large
blisters on our fingers and hands. I shall always carry the scar of one
of these frost-bites on my left hand, which became badly inflamed after
the skin had burst and the cold had bitten deeply.

We held the boat up to the gale during that day, enduring as best we
could discomforts that amounted to pain. The boat tossed interminably
on the big waves under grey, threatening skies. Our thoughts did not
embrace much more than the necessities of the hour. Every surge of the
sea was an enemy to be watched and circumvented. We ate our scanty
meals, treated our frost-bites, and hoped for the improved conditions
that the morrow might bring. Night fell early, and in the lagging hours
of darkness we were cheered by a change for the better in the weather.
The wind dropped, the snow-squalls became less frequent, and the sea
moderated. When the morning of the seventh day dawned there was not
much wind. We shook the reef out of the sail and laid our course once
more for South Georgia. The sun came out bright and clear, and
presently Worsley got a snap for longitude. We hoped that the sky would
remain clear until noon, so that we could get the latitude. We had been
six days out without an observation, and our dead reckoning naturally
was uncertain. The boat must have presented a strange appearance that
morning. All hands basked in the sun. We hung our sleeping-bags to the
mast and spread our socks and other gear all over the deck. Some of the
ice had melted off the _James Caird_ in the early morning after the
gale began to slacken; and dry patches were appearing in the decking.
Porpoises came blowing round the boat, and Cape pigeons wheeled and
swooped within a few feet of us. These little black-and-white birds
have an air of friendliness that is not possessed by the great circling
albatross. They had looked grey against the swaying sea during the
storm as they darted about over our heads and uttered their plaintive
cries. The albatrosses, of the black or sooty variety, had watched with
hard, bright eyes, and seemed to have a quite impersonal interest in
our struggle to keep afloat amid the battering seas. In addition to the
Cape pigeons an occasional stormy petrel flashed overhead. Then there
was a small bird, unknown to me, that appeared always to be in a fussy,
bustling state, quite out of keeping with the surroundings. It
irritated me. It had practically no tail, and it flitted about vaguely
as though in search of the lost member. I used to find myself wishing
it would find its tail and have done with the silly fluttering.

We revelled in the warmth of the sun that day. Life was not so bad,
after all. We felt we were well on our way. Our gear was drying, and we
could have a hot meal in comparative comfort. The swell was still
heavy, but it was not breaking and the boat rode easily. At noon
Worsley balanced himself on the gunwale and clung with one hand to the
stay of the mainmast while he got a snap of the sun. The result was
more than encouraging. We had done over 380 miles and were getting on
for half-way to South Georgia. It looked as though we were going to get
through.

The wind freshened to a good stiff breeze during the afternoon, and the
_James Caird_ made satisfactory progress. I had not realized until the
sunlight came how small our boat really was. There was some influence
in the light and warmth, some hint of happier days, that made us revive
memories of other voyages, when we had stout decks beneath our feet,
unlimited food at our command, and pleasant cabins for our ease. Now we
clung to a battered little boat, “alone, alone—all, all alone; alone on
a wide, wide sea.” So low in the water were we that each succeeding
swell cut off our view of the sky-line. We were a tiny speck in the
vast vista of the sea—the ocean that is open to all and merciful to
none, that threatens even when it seems to yield, and that is pitiless
always to weakness. For a moment the consciousness of the forces
arrayed against us would be almost overwhelming. Then hope and
confidence would rise again as our boat rose to a wave and tossed aside
the crest in a sparkling shower like the play of prismatic colours at
the foot of a waterfall. My double-barrelled gun and some cartridges
had been stowed aboard the boat as an emergency precaution against a
shortage of food, but we were not disposed to destroy our little
neighbours, the Cape pigeons, even for the sake of fresh meat. We might
have shot an albatross, but the wandering king of the ocean aroused in
us something of the feeling that inspired, too late, the Ancient
Mariner. So the gun remained among the stores and sleeping-bags in the
narrow quarters beneath our leaking deck, and the birds followed us
unmolested.

The eighth, ninth, and tenth days of the voyage had few features worthy
of special note. The wind blew hard during those days, and the strain
of navigating the boat was unceasing, but always we made some advance
towards our goal. No bergs showed on our horizon, and we knew that we
were clear of the ice-fields. Each day brought its little round of
troubles, but also compensation in the form of food and growing hope.
We felt that we were going to succeed. The odds against us had been
great, but we were winning through. We still suffered severely from the
cold, for, though the temperature was rising, our vitality was
declining owing to shortage of food, exposure, and the necessity of
maintaining our cramped positions day and night. I found that it was
now absolutely necessary to prepare hot milk for all hands during the
night, in order to sustain life till dawn. This meant lighting the
Primus lamp in the darkness and involved an increased drain on our
small store of matches. It was the rule that one match must serve when
the Primus was being lit. We had no lamp for the compass and during the
early days of the voyage we would strike a match when the steersman
wanted to see the course at night; but later the necessity for strict
economy impressed itself upon us, and the practice of striking matches
at night was stopped. We had one water-tight tin of matches. I had
stowed away in a pocket, in readiness for a sunny day, a lens from one
of the telescopes, but this was of no use during the voyage. The sun
seldom shone upon us. The glass of the compass got broken one night,
and we contrived to mend it with adhesive tape from the medicine-chest.
One of the memories that comes to me from those days is of Crean
singing at the tiller. He always sang while he was steering, and nobody
ever discovered what the song was. It was devoid of tune and as
monotonous as the chanting of a Buddhist monk at his prayers; yet
somehow it was cheerful. In moments of inspiration Crean would attempt
“The Wearing of the Green.”

On the tenth night Worsley could not straighten his body after his
spell at the tiller. He was thoroughly cramped, and we had to drag him
beneath the decking and massage him before he could unbend himself and
get into a sleeping-bag. A hard north-westerly gale came up on the
eleventh day (May 5) and shifted to the south-west in the late
afternoon. The sky was overcast and occasional snow-squalls added to
the discomfort produced by a tremendous cross-sea—the worst, I thought,
that we had experienced. At midnight I was at the tiller and suddenly
noticed a line of clear sky between the south and south-west. I called
to the other men that the sky was clearing, and then a moment later I
realized that what I had seen was not a rift in the clouds but the
white crest of an enormous wave. During twenty-six years’ experience of
the ocean in all its moods I had not encountered a wave so gigantic. It
was a mighty upheaval of the ocean, a thing quite apart from the big
white-capped seas that had been our tireless enemies for many days. I
shouted, “For God’s sake, hold on! It’s got us!” Then came a moment of
suspense that seemed drawn out into hours. White surged the foam of the
breaking sea around us. We felt our boat lifted and flung forward like
a cork in breaking surf. We were in a seething chaos of tortured water;
but somehow the boat lived through it, half-full of water, sagging to
the dead weight and shuddering under the blow. We baled with the energy
of men fighting for life, flinging the water over the sides with every
receptacle that came to our hands, and after ten minutes of uncertainty
we felt the boat renew her life beneath us. She floated again and
ceased to lurch drunkenly as though dazed by the attack of the sea.
Earnestly we hoped that never again would we encounter such a wave.

The conditions in the boat, uncomfortable before, had been made worse
by the deluge of water. All our gear was thoroughly wet again. Our
cooking-stove had been floating about in the bottom of the boat, and
portions of our last hoosh seemed to have permeated everything. Not
until 3 a.m., when we were all chilled almost to the limit of
endurance, did we manage to get the stove alight and make ourselves hot
drinks. The carpenter was suffering particularly, but he showed grit
and spirit. Vincent had for the past week ceased to be an active member
of the crew, and I could not easily account for his collapse.
Physically he was one of the strongest men in the boat. He was a young
man, he had served on North Sea trawlers, and he should have been able
to bear hardships better than McCarthy, who, not so strong, was always
happy.

The weather was better on the following day (May 6), and we got a
glimpse of the sun. Worsley’s observation showed that we were not more
than a hundred miles from the north-west corner of South Georgia. Two
more days with a favourable wind and we would sight the promised land.
I hoped that there would be no delay, for our supply of water was
running very low. The hot drink at night was essential, but I decided
that the daily allowance of water must be cut down to half a pint per
man. The lumps of ice we had taken aboard had gone long ago. We were
dependent upon the water we had brought from Elephant Island, and our
thirst was increased by the fact that we were now using the brackish
water in the breaker that had been slightly stove in in the surf when
the boat was being loaded. Some sea-water had entered at that time.
Thirst took possession of us. I dared not permit the allowance of water
to be increased since an unfavourable wind might drive us away from the
island and lengthen our voyage by many days. Lack of water is always
the most severe privation that men can be condemned to endure, and we
found, as during our earlier boat voyage, that the salt water in our
clothing and the salt spray that lashed our faces made our thirst grow
quickly to a burning pain. I had to be very firm in refusing to allow
any one to anticipate the morrow’s allowance, which I was sometimes
begged to do. We did the necessary work dully and hoped for the land. I
had altered the course to the east so as to make sure of our striking
the island, which would have been impossible to regain if we had run
past the northern end. The course was laid on our scrap of chart for a
point some thirty miles down the coast. That day and the following day
passed for us in a sort of nightmare. Our mouths were dry and our
tongues were swollen. The wind was still strong and the heavy sea
forced us to navigate carefully, but any thought of our peril from the
waves was buried beneath the consciousness of our raging thirst. The
bright moments were those when we each received our one mug of hot milk
during the long, bitter watches of the night. Things were bad for us in
those days, but the end was coming. The morning of May 8 broke thick
and stormy, with squalls from the north-west. We searched the waters
ahead for a sign of land, and though we could see nothing more than had
met our eyes for many days, we were cheered by a sense that the goal
was near at hand. About ten o’clock that morning we passed a little bit
of kelp, a glad signal of the proximity of land. An hour later we saw
two shags sitting on a big mass of kelp, and knew then that we must be
within ten or fifteen miles of the shore. These birds are as sure an
indication of the proximity of land as a lighthouse is, for they never
venture far to sea. We gazed ahead with increasing eagerness, and at
12.30 p.m., through a rift in the clouds, McCarthy caught a glimpse of
the black cliffs of South Georgia, just fourteen days after our
departure from Elephant Island. It was a glad moment. Thirst-ridden,
chilled, and weak as we were, happiness irradiated us. The job was
nearly done.


[Illustration: In Sight of our Goal: Nearing South Georgia]


[Illustration: Landing on South Georgia]


We stood in towards the shore to look for a landing-place, and
presently we could see the green tussock-grass on the ledges above the
surf-beaten rocks. Ahead of us and to the south, blind rollers showed
the presence of uncharted reefs along the coast. Here and there the
hungry rocks were close to the surface, and over them the great waves
broke, swirling viciously and spouting thirty and forty feet into the
air. The rocky coast appeared to descend sheer to the sea. Our need of
water and rest was well-nigh desperate, but to have attempted a landing
at that time would have been suicidal. Night was drawing near, and the
weather indications were not favourable. There was nothing for it but
to haul off till the following morning, so we stood away on the
starboard tack until we had made what appeared to be a safe offing.
Then we hove to in the high westerly swell. The hours passed slowly as
we waited the dawn, which would herald, we fondly hoped, the last stage
of our journey. Our thirst was a torment and we could scarcely touch
our food; the cold seemed to strike right through our weakened bodies.
At 5 a.m. the wind shifted to the north-west and quickly increased to
one of the worst hurricanes any of us had ever experienced. A great
cross-sea was running and the wind simply shrieked as it tore the tops
off the waves and converted the whole seascape into a haze of driving
spray. Down into valleys, up to tossing heights, straining until her
seams opened, swung our little boat, brave still but labouring heavily.
We knew that the wind and set of the sea was driving us ashore, but we
could do nothing. The dawn showed us a storm-torn ocean, and the
morning passed without bringing us a sight of the land; but at 1 p.m.,
through a rift in the flying mists, we got a glimpse of the huge crags
of the island and realized that our position had become desperate. We
were on a dead lee shore, and we could gauge our approach to the unseen
cliffs by the roar of the breakers against the sheer walls of rock. I
ordered the double-reefed mainsail to be set in the hope that we might
claw off, and this attempt increased the strain upon the boat. The
_James Caird_ was bumping heavily, and the water was pouring in
everywhere. Our thirst was forgotten in the realization of our imminent
danger, as we baled unceasingly, and adjusted our weights from time to
time; occasional glimpses showed that the shore was nearer. I knew that
Annewkow Island lay to the south of us, but our small and badly marked
chart showed uncertain reefs in the passage between the island and the
mainland, and I dared not trust it, though as a last resort we could
try to lie under the lee of the island. The afternoon wore away as we
edged down the coast, with the thunder of the breakers in our ears. The
approach of evening found us still some distance from Annewkow Island,
and, dimly in the twilight, we could see a snow-capped mountain looming
above us. The chance of surviving the night, with the driving gale and
the implacable sea forcing us on to the lee shore, seemed small. I
think most of us had a feeling that the end was very near. Just after 6
p.m., in the dark, as the boat was in the yeasty backwash from the seas
flung from this iron-bound coast, then, just when things looked their
worst, they changed for the best. I have marvelled often at the thin
line that divides success from failure and the sudden turn that leads
from apparently certain disaster to comparative safety. The wind
suddenly shifted, and we were free once more to make an offing. Almost
as soon as the gale eased, the pin that locked the mast to the thwart
fell out. It must have been on the point of doing this throughout the
hurricane, and if it had gone nothing could have saved us; the mast
would have snapped like a carrot. Our backstays had carried away once
before when iced up and were not too strongly fastened now. We were
thankful indeed for the mercy that had held that pin in its place
throughout the hurricane.

We stood off shore again, tired almost to the point of apathy. Our
water had long been finished. The last was about a pint of hairy
liquid, which we strained through a bit of gauze from the
medicine-chest. The pangs of thirst attacked us with redoubled
intensity, and I felt that we must make a landing on the following day
at almost any hazard. The night wore on. We were very tired. We longed
for day. When at last the dawn came on the morning of May 10 there was
practically no wind, but a high cross-sea was running. We made slow
progress towards the shore. About 8 a.m. the wind backed to the
north-west and threatened another blow. We had sighted in the meantime
a big indentation which I thought must be King Haakon Bay, and I
decided that we must land there. We set the bows of the boat towards
the bay and ran before the freshening gale. Soon we had angry reefs on
either side. Great glaciers came down to the sea and offered no
landing-place. The sea spouted on the reefs and thundered against the
shore. About noon we sighted a line of jagged reef, like blackened
teeth, that seemed to bar the entrance to the bay. Inside,
comparatively smooth water stretched eight or nine miles to the head of
the bay. A gap in the reef appeared, and we made for it. But the fates
had another rebuff for us. The wind shifted and blew from the east
right out of the bay. We could see the way through the reef, but we
could not approach it directly. That afternoon we bore up, tacking five
times in the strong wind. The last tack enabled us to get through, and
at last we were in the wide mouth of the bay. Dusk was approaching. A
small cove, with a boulder-strewn beach guarded by a reef, made a break
in the cliffs on the south side of the bay, and we turned in that
direction. I stood in the bows directing the steering as we ran through
the kelp and made the passage of the reef. The entrance was so narrow
that we had to take in the oars, and the swell was piling itself right
over the reef into the cove; but in a minute or two we were inside, and
in the gathering darkness the _James Caird_ ran in on a swell and
touched the beach. I sprang ashore with the short painter and held on
when the boat went out with the backward surge. When the _James Caird_
came in again three of the men got ashore, and they held the painter
while I climbed some rocks with another line. A slip on the wet rocks
twenty feet up nearly closed my part of the story just at the moment
when we were achieving safety. A jagged piece of rock held me and at
the same time bruised me sorely. However, I made fast the line, and in
a few minutes we were all safe on the beach, with the boat floating in
the surging water just off the shore. We heard a gurgling sound that
was sweet music in our ears, and, peering around, found a stream of
fresh water almost at our feet. A moment later we were down on our
knees drinking the pure, ice-cold water in long draughts that put new
life into us. It was a splendid moment.

The next thing was to get the stores and ballast out of the boat, in
order that we might secure her for the night. We carried the stores and
gear above high-water mark and threw out the bags of sand and the
boulders that we knew so well. Then we attempted to pull the empty boat
up the beach, and discovered by this effort how weak we had become. Our
united strength was not sufficient to get the _James Caird_ clear of
the water. Time after time we pulled together, but without avail. I saw
that it would be necessary to have food and rest before we beached the
boat. We made fast a line to a heavy boulder and set a watch to fend
the _James Caird_ off the rocks of the beach. Then I sent Crean round
to the left side of the cove, about thirty yards away, where I had
noticed a little cave as we were running in. He could not see much in
the darkness, but reported that the place certainly promised some
shelter. We carried the sleeping-bags round and found a mere hollow in
the rock-face, with a shingle floor sloping at a steep angle to the
sea. There we prepared a hot meal, and when the food was finished I
ordered the men to turn in. The time was now about 8 p.m., and I took
the first watch beside the _James Caird_, which was still afloat in the
tossing water just off the beach.

Fending the _James Caird_ off the rocks in the darkness was awkward
work. The boat would have bumped dangerously if allowed to ride in with
the waves that drove into the cove. I found a flat rock for my feet,
which were in a bad way owing to cold, wetness, and lack of exercise in
the boat, and during the next few hours I laboured to keep the _James
Caird_ clear of the beach. Occasionally I had to rush into the seething
water. Then, as a wave receded, I let the boat out on the alpine rope
so as to avoid a sudden jerk. The heavy painter had been lost when the
sea-anchor went adrift. The _James Caird_ could be seen but dimly in
the cove, where the high black cliffs made the darkness almost
complete, and the strain upon one’s attention was great. After several
hours had passed I found that my desire for sleep was becoming
irresistible, and at 1 a.m. I called Crean. I could hear him groaning
as he stumbled over the sharp rocks on his way down the beach. While he
was taking charge of the _James Caird_ she got adrift, and we had some
anxious moments. Fortunately, she went across towards the cave and we
secured her, unharmed. The loss or destruction of the boat at this
stage would have been a very serious matter, since we probably would
have found it impossible to leave the cove except by sea. The cliffs
and glaciers around offered no practicable path towards the head of the
bay. I arranged for one-hour watches during the remainder of the night
and then took Crean’s place among the sleeping men and got some sleep
before the dawn came.


[Illustration: [Cave Cove on South Georgia]]


[Illustration: [Surroundings of King Haakon Bay]]


The sea went down in the early hours of the morning (May 11), and after
sunrise we were able to set about getting the boat ashore, first
bracing ourselves for the task with another meal. We were all weak
still. We cut off the topsides and took out all the movable gear. Then
we waited for Byron’s “great ninth wave,” and when it lifted the _James
Caird_ in we held her and, by dint of great exertion, worked her round
broadside to the sea. Inch by inch we dragged her up until we reached
the fringe of the tussock-grass and knew that the boat was above
high-water mark. The rise of the tide was about five feet, and at
spring tide the water must have reached almost to the edge of the
tussock-grass. The completion of this job removed our immediate
anxieties, and we were free to examine our surroundings and plan the
next move. The day was bright and clear.

King Haakon Bay is an eight-mile sound penetrating the coast of South
Georgia in an easterly direction. We had noticed that the northern and
southern sides of the sound were formed by steep mountain-ranges, their
flanks furrowed by mighty glaciers, the outlets of the great ice-sheet
of the interior. It was obvious that these glaciers and the precipitous
slopes of the mountains barred our way inland from the cove. We must
sail to the head of the sound. Swirling clouds and mist-wreaths had
obscured our view of the sound when we were entering, but glimpses of
snow-slopes had given us hope that an overland journey could be begun
from that point. A few patches of very rough, tussocky land, dotted
with little tarns, lay between the glaciers along the foot of the
mountains, which were heavily scarred with scree-slopes. Several
magnificent peaks and crags gazed out across their snowy domains to the
sparkling waters of the sound.

Our cove lay a little inside the southern headland of King Haakon Bay.
A narrow break in the cliffs, which were about a hundred feet high at
this point, formed the entrance to the cove. The cliffs continued
inside the cove on each side and merged into a hill which descended at
a steep slope to the boulder beach. The slope, which carried
tussock-grass, was not continuous. It eased at two points into little
peaty swamp terraces dotted with frozen pools and drained by two small
streams. Our cave was a recess in the cliff on the left-hand end of the
beach. The rocky face of the cliff was undercut at this point, and the
shingle thrown up by the waves formed a steep slope, which we reduced
to about one in six by scraping the stones away from the inside. Later
we strewed the rough floor with the dead, nearly dry underleaves of the
tussock-grass, so as to form a slightly soft bed for our sleeping-bags.
Water had trickled down the face of the cliff and formed long icicles,
which hung down in front of the cave to the length of about fifteen
feet. These icicles provided shelter, and when we had spread our sails
below them, with the assistance of oars, we had quarters that, in the
circumstances, had to be regarded as reasonably comfortable. The camp
at least was dry, and we moved our gear there with confidence. We built
a fireplace and arranged our sleeping-bags and blankets around it. The
cave was about 8 ft. deep and 12 ft. wide at the entrance.

While the camp was being arranged Crean and I climbed the tussock slope
behind the beach and reached the top of a headland overlooking the
sound. There we found the nests of albatrosses, and, much to our
delight, the nests contained young birds. The fledgelings were fat and
lusty, and we had no hesitation about deciding that they were destined
to die at an early age. Our most pressing anxiety at this stage was a
shortage of fuel for the cooker. We had rations for ten more days, and
we knew now that we could get birds for food; but if we were to have
hot meals we must secure fuel. The store of petroleum carried in the
boat was running very low, and it seemed necessary to keep some
quantity for use on the overland journey that lay ahead of us. A
sea-elephant or a seal would have provided fuel as well as food, but we
could see none in the neighbourhood. During the morning we started a
fire in the cave with wood from the top-sides of the boat, and though
the dense smoke from the damp sticks inflamed our tired eyes, the
warmth and the prospect of hot food were ample compensation. Crean was
cook that day, and I suggested to him that he should wear his goggles,
which he happened to have brought with him. The goggles helped him a
great deal as he bent over the fire and tended the stew. And what a
stew it was! The young albatrosses weighed about fourteen pounds each
fresh killed, and we estimated that they weighed at least six pounds
each when cleaned and dressed for the pot. Four birds went into the pot
for six men, with a Bovril ration for thickening. The flesh was white
and succulent, and the bones, not fully formed, almost melted in our
mouths. That was a memorable meal. When we had eaten our fill, we dried
our tobacco in the embers of the fire and smoked contentedly. We made
an attempt to dry our clothes, which were soaked with salt water, but
did not meet with much success. We could not afford to have a fire
except for cooking purposes until blubber or driftwood had come our
way.


[Illustration: [Plan of Sleeping Berths in Cave]]


The final stage of the journey had still to be attempted. I realized
that the condition of the party generally, and particularly of McNeish
and Vincent, would prevent us putting to sea again except under
pressure of dire necessity. Our boat, moreover, had been weakened by
the cutting away of the topsides, and I doubted if we could weather the
island. We were still 150 miles away from Stromness whaling-station by
sea. The alternative was to attempt the crossing of the island. If we
could not get over, then we must try to secure enough food and fuel to
keep us alive through the winter, but this possibility was scarcely
thinkable. Over on Elephant Island twenty-two men were waiting for the
relief that we alone could secure for them. Their plight was worse than
ours. We must push on somehow. Several days must elapse before our
strength would be sufficiently recovered to allow us to row or sail the
last nine miles up to the head of the bay. In the meantime we could
make what preparations were possible and dry our clothes by taking
advantage of every scrap of heat from the fires we lit for the cooking
of our meals. We turned in early that night, and I remember that I
dreamed of the great wave and aroused my companions with a shout of
warning as I saw with half-awakened eyes the towering cliff on the
opposite side of the cove. Shortly before midnight a gale sprang up
suddenly from the north-east with rain and sleet showers. It brought
quantities of glacier-ice into the cove, and by 2 a.m. (May 12) our
little harbour was filled with ice, which surged to and fro in the
swell and pushed its way on to the beach. We had solid rock beneath our
feet and could watch without anxiety. When daylight came rain was
falling heavily, and the temperature was the highest we had experienced
for many months. The icicles overhanging our cave were melting down in
streams and we had to move smartly when passing in and out lest we
should be struck by falling lumps. A fragment weighing fifteen or
twenty pounds crashed down while we were having breakfast. We found
that a big hole had been burned in the bottom of Worsley’s reindeer
sleeping-bag during the night. Worsley had been awakened by a burning
sensation in his feet, and had asked the men near him if his bag was
all right; they looked and could see nothing wrong. We were all
superficially frostbitten about the feet, and this condition caused the
extremities to burn painfully, while at the same time sensation was
lost in the skin. Worsley thought that the uncomfortable heat of his
feet was due to the frost-bites, and he stayed in his bag and presently
went to sleep again. He discovered when he turned out in the morning
that the tussock-grass which we had laid on the floor of the cave had
smouldered outwards from the fire and had actually burned a large hole
in the bag beneath his feet. Fortunately, his feet were not harmed.

Our party spent a quiet day, attending to clothing and gear, checking
stores, eating and resting. Some more of the young albatrosses made a
noble end in our pot. The birds were nesting on a small plateau above
the right-hand end of our beach. We had previously discovered that when
we were landing from the boat on the night of May 10 we had lost the
rudder. The _James Caird_ had been bumping heavily astern as we were
scrambling ashore, and evidently the rudder was then knocked off. A
careful search of the beach and the rocks within our reach failed to
reveal the missing article. This was a serious loss, even if the voyage
to the head of the sound could be made in good weather. At dusk the ice
in the cove was rearing and crashing on the beach. It had forced up a
ridge of stones close to where the _James Caird_ lay at the edge of the
tussock-grass. Some pieces of ice were driven right up to the canvas
wall at the front of our cave. Fragments lodged within two feet of
Vincent, who had the lowest sleeping-place, and within four feet of our
fire. Crean and McCarthy had brought down six more of the young
albatrosses in the afternoon, so we were well supplied with fresh food.
The air temperature that night probably was not lower than 38° or 40°
Fahr., and we were rendered uncomfortable in our cramped sleeping
quarters by the unaccustomed warmth. Our feelings towards our
neighbours underwent a change. When the temperature was below 20° Fahr,
we could not get too close to one another—every man wanted to cuddle
against his neighbour; but let the temperature rise a few degrees and
the warmth of another man’s body ceased to be a blessing. The ice and
the waves had a voice of menace that night, but I heard it only in my
dreams.

The bay was still filled with ice on the morning of Saturday, May 13,
but the tide took it all away in the afternoon. Then a strange thing
happened. The rudder, with all the broad Atlantic to sail in and the
coasts of two continents to search for a resting-place, came bobbing
back into our cove. With anxious eyes we watched it as it advanced,
receded again, and then advanced once more under the capricious
influence of wind and wave. Nearer and nearer it came as we waited on
the shore, oars in hand, and at last we were able to seize it. Surely a
remarkable salvage! The day was bright and clear; our clothes were
drying and our strength was returning. Running water made a musical
sound down the tussock slope and among the boulders. We carried our
blankets up the hill and tried to dry them in the breeze 300 ft. above
sea-level. In the afternoon we began to prepare the _James Caird_ for
the journey to the head of King Haakon Bay. A noon observation on this
day gave our latitude as 54° 10´ 47´´ S., but according to the German
chart the position should have been 54° 12´ S. Probably Worsley’s
observation was the more accurate. We were able to keep the fire alight
until we went to sleep that night, for while climbing the rocks above
the cove I had seen at the foot of a cliff a broken spar, which had
been thrown up by the waves. We could reach this spar by climbing down
the cliff, and with a reserve supply of fuel thus in sight we could
afford to burn the fragments of the _James Caird’s_ topsides more
freely.

During the morning of this day (May 13) Worsley and I tramped across
the hills in a north-easterly direction with the object of getting a
view of the sound and possibly gathering some information that would be
useful to us in the next stage of our journey. It was exhausting work,
but after covering about 2½ miles in two hours, we were able to look
east, up the bay. We could not see very much of the country that we
would have to cross in order to reach the whaling-station on the other
side of the island. We had passed several brooks and frozen tarns, and
at a point where we had to take to the beach on the shore of the sound
we found some wreckage—an 18-ft. pine-spar (probably part of a ship’s
topmast), several pieces of timber, and a little model of a ship’s
hull, evidently a child’s toy. We wondered what tragedy that pitiful
little plaything indicated. We encountered also some gentoo penguins
and a young sea-elephant, which Worsley killed.

When we got back to the cave at 3 p.m., tired, hungry, but rather
pleased with ourselves, we found a splendid meal of stewed albatross
chicken waiting for us. We had carried a quantity of blubber and the
sea-elephant’s liver in our blouses, and we produced our treasures as a
surprise for the men. Rough climbing on the way back to camp had nearly
persuaded us to throw the stuff away, but we had held on (regardless of
the condition of our already sorely tried clothing), and had our reward
at the camp. The long bay had been a magnificent sight, even to eyes
that had dwelt on grandeur long enough and were hungry for the simple,
familiar things of everyday life. Its green-blue waters were being
beaten to fury by the north-westerly gale. The mountains, “stern peaks
that dared the stars,” peered through the mists, and between them huge
glaciers poured down from the great ice-slopes and fields that lay
behind. We counted twelve glaciers and heard every few minutes the
reverberating roar caused by masses of ice calving from the parent
streams.

On May 14 we made our preparations for an early start on the following
day if the weather held fair. We expected to be able to pick up the
remains of the sea-elephant on our way up the sound. All hands were
recovering from the chafing caused by our wet clothes during the boat
journey. The insides of our legs had suffered severely, and for some
time after landing in the cove we found movement extremely
uncomfortable. We paid our last visit to the nests of the albatrosses,
which were situated on a little undulating plateau above the cave amid
tussocks, snow-patches, and little frozen tarns. Each nest consisted of
a mound over a foot high of tussock-grass, roots, and a little earth.
The albatross lays one egg and very rarely two. The chicks, which are
hatched in January, are fed on the nest by the parent birds for almost
seven months before they take to the sea and fend for themselves. Up to
four months of age the chicks are beautiful white masses of downy
fluff, but when we arrived on the scene their plumage was almost
complete. Very often one of the parent birds was on guard near the
nest. We did not enjoy attacking these birds, but our hunger knew no
law. They tasted so very good and assisted our recuperation to such an
extent that each time we killed one of them we felt a little less
remorseful.

May 15 was a great day. We made our hoosh at 7.30 a.m. Then we loaded
up the boat and gave her a flying launch down the steep beach into the
surf. Heavy rain had fallen in the night and a gusty north-westerly
wind was now blowing, with misty showers. The _James Caird_ headed to
the sea as if anxious to face the battle of the waves once more. We
passed through the narrow mouth of the cove with the ugly rocks and
waving kelp close on either side, turned to the east, and sailed
merrily up the bay as the sun broke through the mists and made the
tossing waters sparkle around us. We were a curious-looking party on
that bright morning, but we were feeling happy. We even broke into
song, and, but for our Robinson Crusoe appearance, a casual observer
might have taken us for a picnic party sailing in a Norwegian fiord or
one of the beautiful sounds of the west coast of New Zealand. The wind
blew fresh and strong, and a small sea broke on the coast as we
advanced. The surf was sufficient to have endangered the boat if we had
attempted to land where the carcass of the sea-elephant was lying, so
we decided to go on to the head of the bay without risking anything,
particularly as we were likely to find sea-elephants on the upper
beaches. The big creatures have a habit of seeking peaceful quarters
protected from the waves. We had hopes, too, of finding penguins. Our
expectation as far as the sea-elephants were concerned was not at
fault. We heard the roar of the bulls as we neared the head of the bay,
and soon afterwards saw the great unwieldy forms of the beasts lying on
a shelving beach towards the bay-head. We rounded a high, glacier-worn
bluff on the north side, and at 12.30 p.m. we ran the boat ashore on a
low beach of sand and pebbles, with tussock growing above high-water
mark. There were hundreds of sea-elephants lying about, and our
anxieties with regard to food disappeared. Meat and blubber enough to
feed our party for years was in sight. Our landing-place was about a
mile and a half west of the north-east corner of the bay. Just east of
us was a glacier-snout ending on the beach but giving a passage towards
the head of the bay, except at high water or when a very heavy surf was
running. A cold, drizzling rain had begun to fall, and we provided
ourselves with shelter as quickly as possible. We hauled the _James
Caird_ up above highwater mark and turned her over just to the lee or
east side of the bluff. The spot was separated from the mountain-side
by a low morainic bank, rising twenty or thirty feet above sea-level.
Soon we had converted the boat into a very comfortable cabin _à la_
Peggotty, turfing it round with tussocks, which we dug up with knives.
One side of the _James Caird_ rested on stones so as to afford a low
entrance, and when we had finished she looked as though she had grown
there. McCarthy entered into this work with great spirit. A
sea-elephant provided us with fuel and meat, and that evening found a
well-fed and fairly contented party at rest in Peggotty Camp.


[Illustration: Sea Elephants on South Georgia]


[Illustration: The Cliffs we descended whilst crossing the Island]


Our camp, as I have said, lay on the north side of King Haakon Bay near
the head. Our path towards the whaling-stations led round the seaward
end of the snouted glacier on the east side of the camp and up a
snow-slope that appeared to lead to a pass in the great Allardyce
Range, which runs north-west and south-east and forms the main backbone
of South Georgia. The range dipped opposite the bay into a well-defined
pass from east to west. An ice-sheet covered most of the interior,
filling the valleys and disguising the configurations of the land,
which, indeed, showed only in big rocky ridges, peaks, and nunataks.
When we looked up the pass from Peggotty Camp the country to the left
appeared to offer two easy paths through to the opposite coast, but we
knew that the island was uninhabited at that point (Possession Bay). We
had to turn our attention farther east, and it was impossible from the
camp to learn much of the conditions that would confront us on the
overland journey. I planned to climb to the pass and then be guided by
the configuration of the country in the selection of a route eastward
to Stromness Bay, where the whaling-stations were established in the
minor bays, Leith, Husvik, and Stromness. A range of mountains with
precipitous slopes, forbidding peaks, and large glaciers lay
immediately to the south of King Haakon Bay and seemed to form a
continuation of the main range. Between this secondary range and the
pass above our camp a great snow-upland sloped up to the inland
ice-sheet and reached a rocky ridge that stretched athwart our path and
seemed to bar the way. This ridge was a right-angled offshoot from the
main ridge. Its chief features were four rocky peaks with spaces
between that looked from a distance as though they might prove to be
passes.

The weather was bad on Tuesday, May 16, and we stayed under the boat
nearly all day. The quarters were cramped but gave full protection from
the weather, and we regarded our little cabin with a great deal of
satisfaction. Abundant meals of sea-elephant steak and liver increased
our contentment. McNeish reported during the day that he had seen rats
feeding on the scraps, but this interesting statement was not verified.
One would not expect to find rats at such a spot, but there was a bare
possibility that they had landed from a wreck and managed to survive
the very rigorous conditions.

A fresh west-south-westerly breeze was blowing on the following morning
(Wednesday, May 17), with misty squalls, sleet, and rain. I took
Worsley with me on a pioneer journey to the west with the object of
examining the country to be traversed at the beginning of the overland
journey. We went round the seaward end of the snouted glacier, and
after tramping about a mile over stony ground and snow-coated debris,
we crossed some big ridges of scree and moraines. We found that there
was good going for a sledge as far as the north-east corner of the bay,
but did not get much information regarding the conditions farther on
owing to the view becoming obscured by a snow-squall. We waited a
quarter of an hour for the weather to clear but were forced to turn
back without having seen more of the country. I had satisfied myself,
however, that we could reach a good snow-slope leading apparently to
the inland ice. Worsley reckoned from the chart that the distance from
our camp to Husvik, on an east magnetic course, was seventeen
geographical miles, but we could not expect to follow a direct line.
The carpenter started making a sledge for use on the overland journey.
The materials at his disposal were limited in quantity and scarcely
suitable in quality.

We overhauled our gear on Thursday, May 18; and hauled our sledge to
the lower edge of the snouted glacier. The vehicle proved heavy and
cumbrous. We had to lift it empty over bare patches of rock along the
shore, and I realized that it would be too heavy for three men to
manage amid the snow-plains, glaciers, and peaks of the interior.
Worsley and Crean were coming with me, and after consultation we
decided to leave the sleeping-bags behind us and make the journey in
very light marching order. We would take three days’ provisions for
each man in the form of sledging ration and biscuit. The food was to be
packed in three sacks, so that each member of the party could carry his
own supply. Then we were to take the Primus lamp filled with oil, the
small cooker, the carpenter’s adze (for use as an ice-axe), and the
alpine rope, which made a total length of fifty feet when knotted. We
might have to lower ourselves down steep slopes or cross crevassed
glaciers. The filled lamp would provide six hot meals, which would
consist of sledging ration boiled up with biscuit. There were two boxes
of matches left, one full and the other partially used. We left the
full box with the men at the camp and took the second box, which
contained forty-eight matches. I was unfortunate as regarded footgear,
since I had given away my heavy Burberry boots on the floe, and had now
a comparatively light pair in poor condition. The carpenter assisted me
by putting several screws in the sole of each boot with the object of
providing a grip on the ice. The screws came out of the _James Caird_.

We turned in early that night, but sleep did not come to me. My mind
was busy with the task of the following day. The weather was clear and
the outlook for an early start in the morning was good. We were going
to leave a weak party behind us in the camp. Vincent was still in the
same condition, and he could not march. McNeish was pretty well broken
up. The two men were not capable of managing for themselves and
McCarthy must stay to look after them. He might have a difficult task
if we failed to reach the whaling station. The distance to Husvik,
according to the chart, was no more than seventeen geographical miles
in a direct line, but we had very scanty knowledge of the conditions of
the interior. No man had ever penetrated a mile from the coast of South
Georgia at any point, and the whalers I knew regarded the country as
inaccessible. During that day, while we were walking to the snouted
glacier, we had seen three wild duck flying towards the head of the bay
from the eastward. I hoped that the presence of these birds indicated
tussock-land and not snow-fields and glaciers in the interior, but the
hope was not a very bright one.

We turned out at 2 a.m. on the Friday morning and had our hoosh ready
an hour later. The full moon was shining in a practically cloudless
sky, its rays reflected gloriously from the pinnacles and crevassed ice
of the adjacent glaciers. The huge peaks of the mountains stood in bold
relief against the sky and threw dark shadows on the waters of the
sound. There was no need for delay, and we made a start as soon as we
had eaten our meal. McNeish walked about 200 yds with us; he could do
no more. Then we said good-bye and he turned back to the camp. The
first task was to get round the edge of the snouted glacier, which had
points like fingers projecting towards the sea. The waves were reaching
the points of these fingers, and we had to rush from one recess to
another when the waters receded. We soon reached the east side of the
glacier and noticed its great activity at this point. Changes had
occurred within the preceding twenty-four hours. Some huge pieces had
broken off, and the masses of mud and stone that were being driven
before the advancing ice showed movement. The glacier was like a
gigantic plough driving irresistibly towards the sea.

Lying on the beach beyond the glacier was wreckage that told of many
ill-fated ships. We noticed stanchions of teakwood, liberally carved,
that must have came from ships of the older type; iron-bound timbers
with the iron almost rusted through; battered barrels and all the usual
debris of the ocean. We had difficulties and anxieties of our own, but
as we passed that graveyard of the sea we thought of the many tragedies
written in the wave-worn fragments of lost vessels. We did not pause,
and soon we were ascending a snow-slope heading due east on the last
lap of our long trail.

The snow-surface was disappointing. Two days before we had been able to
move rapidly on hard, packed snow; now we sank over our ankles at each
step and progress was slow. After two hours’ steady climbing we were
2500 ft. above sea-level. The weather continued fine and calm, and as
the ridges drew nearer and the western coast of the island spread out
below, the bright moonlight showed us that the interior was broken
tremendously. High peaks, impassable cliffs, steep snow-slopes, and
sharply descending glaciers were prominent features in all directions,
with stretches of snow-plain over laying the ice-sheet of the interior.
The slope we were ascending mounted to a ridge and our course lay
direct to the top. The moon, which proved a good friend during this
journey, threw a long shadow at one point and told us that the surface
was broken in our path. Warned in time, we avoided a huge hole capable
of swallowing an army. The bay was now about three miles away, and the
continued roaring of a big glacier at the head of the bay came to our
ears. This glacier, which we had noticed during the stay at Peggotty
Camp, seemed to be calving almost continuously.

I had hoped to get a view of the country ahead of us from the top of
the slope, but as the surface became more level beneath our feet, a
thick fog drifted down. The moon became obscured and produced a
diffused light that was more trying than darkness, since it illuminated
the fog without guiding our steps. We roped ourselves together as a
precaution against holes, crevasses, and precipices, and I broke trail
through the soft snow. With almost the full length of the rope between
myself and the last man we were able to steer an approximately straight
course, since, if I veered to the right or the left when marching into
the blank wall of the fog, the last man on the rope could shout a
direction. So, like a ship with its “port,” “starboard,” “steady,” we
tramped through the fog for the next two hours.

Then, as daylight came, the fog thinned and lifted, and from an
elevation of about 3000 ft. we looked down on what seemed to be a huge
frozen lake with its farther shores still obscured by the fog. We
halted there to eat a bit of biscuit while we discussed whether we
would go down and cross the flat surface of the lake, or keep on the
ridge we had already reached. I decided to go down, since the lake lay
on our course. After an hour of comparatively easy travel through the
snow we noticed the thin beginnings of crevasses. Soon they were
increasing in size and showing fractures, indicating that we were
travelling on a glacier. As the daylight brightened the fog dissipated;
the lake could be seen more clearly, but still we could not discover
its east shore. A little later the fog lifted completely, and then we
saw that our lake stretched to the horizon, and realized suddenly that
we were looking down upon the open sea on the east coast of the island.
The slight pulsation at the shore showed that the sea was not even
frozen; it was the bad light that had deceived us. Evidently we were at
the top of Possession Bay, and the island at that point could not be
more than five miles across from the head of King Haakon Bay. Our rough
chart was inaccurate. There was nothing for it but to start up the
glacier again. That was about seven o’clock in the morning, and by nine
o’clock we had more than recovered our lost ground. We regained the
ridge and then struck south-east, for the chart showed that two more
bays indented the coast before Stromness. It was comforting to realize
that we would have the eastern water in sight during our journey,
although we could see there was no way around the shore line owing to
steep cliffs and glaciers. Men lived in houses lit by electric light on
the east coast. News of the outside world waited us there, and, above
all, the east coast meant for us the means of rescuing the twenty-two
men we had left on Elephant Island.




CHAPTER X
ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA


The sun rose in the sky with every appearance of a fine day, and we
grew warmer as we toiled through the soft snow. Ahead of us lay the
ridges and spurs of a range of mountains, the transverse range that we
had noticed from the bay. We were travelling over a gently rising
plateau, and at the end of an hour we found ourselves growing
uncomfortably hot. Years before, on an earlier expedition, I had
declared that I would never again growl at the heat of the sun, and my
resolution had been strengthened during the boat journey. I called it
to mind as the sun beat fiercely on the blinding white snow-slope.
After passing an area of crevasses we paused for our first meal. We dug
a hole in the snow about three feet deep with the adze and put the
Primus into it. There was no wind at the moment, but a gust might come
suddenly. A hot hoosh was soon eaten and we plodded on towards a sharp
ridge between two of the peaks already mentioned. By 11 a.m. we were
almost at the crest. The slope had become precipitous and it was
necessary to cut steps as we advanced. The adze proved an excellent
instrument for this purpose, a blow sufficing to provide a foothold.
Anxiously but hopefully I cut the last few steps and stood upon the
razor-back, while the other men held the rope and waited for my news.
The outlook was disappointing. I looked down a sheer precipice to a
chaos of crumpled ice 1500 ft. below. There was no way down for us. The
country to the east was a great snow upland, sloping upwards for a
distance of seven or eight miles to a height of over 4000 ft. To the
north it fell away steeply in glaciers into the bays, and to the south
it was broken by huge outfalls from the inland ice-sheet. Our path lay
between the glaciers and the outfalls, but first we had to descend from
the ridge on which we stood. Cutting steps with the adze, we moved in a
lateral direction round the base of a dolomite, which blocked our view
to the north. The same precipice confronted us. Away to the north-east
there appeared to be a snow-slope that might give a path to the lower
country, and so we retraced our steps down the long slope that had
taken us three hours to climb. We were at the bottom in an hour. We
were now feeling the strain of the unaccustomed marching. We had done
little walking since January and our muscles were out of tune. Skirting
the base of the mountain above us, we came to a gigantic bergschrund, a
mile and a half long and 1000 ft. deep. This tremendous gully, cut in
the snow and ice by the fierce winds blowing round the mountain, was
semicircular in form, and it ended in a gentle incline. We passed
through it, under the towering precipice of ice, and at the far end we
had another meal and a short rest. This was at 12:30 p.m. Half a pot of
steaming Bovril ration warmed us up, and when we marched again
ice-inclines at angles of 45 degrees did not look quite as formidable
as before.

Once more we started for the crest. After another weary climb we
reached the top. The snow lay thinly on blue ice at the ridge, and we
had to cut steps over the last fifty yards. The same precipice lay
below, and my eyes searched vainly for a way down. The hot sun had
loosened the snow, which was now in a treacherous condition, and we had
to pick our way carefully. Looking back, we could see that a fog was
rolling up behind us and meeting in the valleys a fog that was coming
up from the east. The creeping grey clouds were a plain warning that we
must get down to lower levels before becoming enveloped.

The ridge was studded with peaks, which prevented us getting a clear
view either to the right or to the left. The situation in this respect
seemed no better at other points within our reach, and I had to decide
that our course lay back the way we had come. The afternoon was wearing
on and the fog was rolling up ominously from the west. It was of the
utmost importance for us to get down into the next valley before dark.
We were now up 4500 ft. and the night temperature at that elevation
would be very low. We had no tent and no sleeping-bags, and our clothes
had endured much rough usage and had weathered many storms during the
last ten months. In the distance, down the valley below us, we could
see tussock-grass close to the shore, and if we could get down it might
be possible to dig out a hole in one of the lower snow-banks, line it
with dry grass, and make ourselves fairly comfortable for the night.
Back we went, and after a detour we reached the top of another ridge in
the fading light. After a glance over the top I turned to the anxious
faces of the two men behind me and said, “Come on, boys.” Within a
minute they stood beside me on the ice-ridge. The surface fell away at
a sharp incline in front of us, but it merged into a snow-slope. We
could not see the bottom clearly owing to mist and bad light, and the
possibility of the slope ending in a sheer fall occurred to us; but the
fog that was creeping up behind allowed no time for hesitation. We
descended slowly at first, cutting steps in the snow; then the surface
became softer, indicating that the gradient was less severe. There
could be no turning back now, so we unroped and slid in the fashion of
youthful days. When we stopped on a snow-bank at the foot of the slope
we found that we had descended at least 900 ft. in two or three
minutes. We looked back and saw the grey fingers of the fog appearing
on the ridge, as though reaching after the intruders into untrodden
wilds. But we had escaped.

The country to the east was an ascending snow upland dividing the
glaciers of the north coast from the outfalls of the south. We had seen
from the top that our course lay between two huge masses of crevasses,
and we thought that the road ahead lay clear. This belief and the
increasing cold made us abandon the idea of camping. We had another
meal at 6 p.m. A little breeze made cooking difficult in spite of the
shelter provided for the cooker by a hole. Crean was the cook, and
Worsley and I lay on the snow to windward of the lamp so as to break
the wind with our bodies. The meal over, we started up the long, gentle
ascent. Night was upon us, and for an hour we plodded along in almost
complete darkness, watching warily for signs of crevasses. Then about 8
p.m. a glow which we had seen behind the jagged peaks resolved itself
into the full moon, which rose ahead of us and made a silver pathway
for our feet. Along that pathway in the wake of the moon we advanced in
safety, with the shadows cast by the edges of crevasses showing black
on either side of us. Onwards and upwards through soft snow we marched,
resting now and then on hard patches which had revealed themselves by
glittering ahead of us in the white light. By midnight we were again at
an elevation of about 4000 ft. Still we were following the light, for
as the moon swung round towards the north-east, our path curved in that
direction. The friendly moon seemed to pilot our weary feet. We could
have had no better guide. If in bright daylight we had made that march
we would have followed the course that was traced for us that night.

Midnight found us approaching the edge of a great snowfield, pierced by
isolated nunataks which cast long shadows like black rivers across the
white expanse. A gentle slope to the north-east lured our
all-too-willing feet in that direction. We thought that at the base of
the slope lay Stromness Bay. After we had descended about 300 ft. a
thin wind began to attack us. We had now been on the march for over
twenty hours, only halting for our occasional meals. Wisps of cloud
drove over the high peaks to the southward, warning us that wind and
snow were likely to come. After 1 a.m. we cut a pit in the snow, piled
up loose snow around it, and started the Primus again. The hot food
gave us another renewal of energy. Worsley and Crean sang their old
songs when the Primus was going merrily. Laughter was in our hearts,
though not on our parched and cracked lips.

We were up and away again within half an hour, still downward to the
coast. We felt almost sure now that we were above Stromness Bay. A dark
object down at the foot of the slope looked like Mutton Island, which
lies off Husvik. I suppose our desires were giving wings to our
fancies, for we pointed out joyfully various landmarks revealed by the
now vagrant light of the moon, whose friendly face was cloud-swept. Our
high hopes were soon shattered. Crevasses warned us that we were on
another glacier, and soon we looked down almost to the seaward edge of
the great riven ice-mass. I knew there was no glacier in Stromness and
realized that this must be Fortuna Glacier. The disappointment was
severe. Back we turned and tramped up the glacier again, not directly
tracing our steps but working at a tangent to the south-east. We were
very tired.


[Illustration: One of the Glaciers we Crossed]


[Illustration: A Typical View in South Georgia]


At 5 a.m. we were at the foot of the rocky spurs of the range. We were
tired, and the wind that blew down from the heights was chilling us. We
decided to get down under the lee of a rock for a rest. We put our
sticks and the adze on the snow, sat down on them as close to one
another as possible, and put our arms round each other. The wind was
bringing a little drift with it and the white dust lay on our clothes.
I thought that we might be able to keep warm and have half an hour’s
rest this way. Within a minute my two companions were fast asleep. I
realized that it would be disastrous if we all slumbered together, for
sleep under such conditions merges into death. After five minutes I
shook them into consciousness again, told them that they had slept for
half an hour, and gave the word for a fresh start. We were so stiff
that for the first two or three hundred yards we marched with our knees
bent. A jagged line of peaks with a gap like a broken tooth confronted
us. This was the ridge that runs in a southerly direction from Fortuna
Bay, and our course eastward to Stromness lay across it. A very steep
slope led up to the ridge and an icy wind burst through the gap.

We went through the gap at 6 a.m. with anxious hearts as well as weary
bodies. If the farther slope had proved impassable our situation would
have been almost desperate; but the worst was turning to the best for
us. The twisted, wave-like rock formations of Husvik Harbour appeared
right ahead in the opening of dawn. Without a word we shook hands with
one another. To our minds the journey was over, though as a matter of
fact twelve miles of difficult country had still to be traversed. A
gentle snow-slope descended at our feet towards a valley that separated
our ridge from the hills immediately behind Husvik, and as we stood
gazing Worsley said solemnly, “Boss, it looks too good to be true!”
Down we went, to be checked presently by the sight of water 2500 ft.
below. We could see the little wave-ripples on the black beach,
penguins strutting to and fro, and dark objects that looked like seals
lolling lazily on the sand. This was an eastern arm of Fortuna Bay,
separated by the ridge from the arm we had seen below us during the
night. The slope we were traversing appeared to end in a precipice
above this beach. But our revived spirits were not to be damped by
difficulties on the last stage of the journey, and we camped cheerfully
for breakfast. Whilst Worsley and Crean were digging a hole for the
lamp and starting the cooker I climbed a ridge above us, cutting steps
with the adze, in order to secure an extended view of the country
below. At 6.30 a.m. I thought I heard the sound of a steam-whistle. I
dared not be certain, but I knew that the men at the whaling-station
would be called from their beds about that time. Descending to the camp
I told the others, and in intense excitement we watched the chronometer
for seven o’clock, when the whalers would be summoned to work. Right to
the minute the steam-whistle came to us, borne clearly on the wind
across the intervening miles of rock and snow. Never had any one of us
heard sweeter music. It was the first sound created by outside human
agency that had come to our ears since we left Stromness Bay in
December 1914. That whistle told us that men were living near, that
ships were ready, and that within a few hours we should be on our way
back to Elephant Island to the rescue of the men waiting there under
the watch and ward of Wild. It was a moment hard to describe. Pain and
ache, boat journeys, marches, hunger and fatigue seemed to belong to
the limbo of forgotten things, and there remained only the perfect
contentment that comes of work accomplished.

My examination of the country from a higher point had not provided
definite information, and after descending I put the situation before
Worsley and Crean. Our obvious course lay down a snow-slope in the
direction of Husvik. “Boys,” I said, “this snow-slope seems to end in a
precipice, but perhaps there is no precipice. If we don’t go down we
shall have to make a detour of at least five miles before we reach
level going. What shall it be?” They both replied at once, “Try the
slope.” So we started away again downwards. We abandoned the Primus
lamp, now empty, at the breakfast camp and carried with us one ration
and a biscuit each. The deepest snow we had yet encountered clogged our
feet, but we plodded downward, and after descending about 500 ft.,
reducing our altitude to 2000 ft. above sea-level, we thought we saw
the way clear ahead. A steep gradient of blue ice was the next
obstacle. Worsley and Crean got a firm footing in a hole excavated with
the adze and then lowered me as I cut steps until the full 50 ft. of
our alpine rope was out. Then I made a hole big enough for the three of
us, and the other two men came down the steps. My end of the rope was
anchored to the adze and I had settled myself in the hole braced for a
strain in case they slipped. When we all stood in the second hole I
went down again to make more steps, and in this laborious fashion we
spent two hours descending about 500 ft. Halfway down we had to strike
away diagonally to the left, for we noticed that the fragments of ice
loosened by the adze were taking a leap into space at the bottom of the
slope. Eventually we got off the steep ice, very gratefully, at a point
where some rocks protruded, and we could see then that there was a
perilous precipice directly below the point where we had started to cut
steps. A slide down a slippery slope, with the adze and our cooker
going ahead, completed this descent, and incidentally did considerable
damage to our much-tried trousers.

When we picked ourselves up at the bottom we were not more than 1500
ft. above the sea. The slope was comparatively easy. Water was running
beneath the snow, making “pockets” between the rocks that protruded
above the white surface. The shells of snow over these pockets were
traps for our feet; but we scrambled down, and presently came to
patches of tussock. A few minutes later we reached the sandy beach. The
tracks of some animals were to be seen, and we were puzzled until I
remembered that reindeer, brought from Norway, had been placed on the
island and now ranged along the lower land of the eastern coast. We did
not pause to investigate. Our minds were set upon reaching the haunts
of man, and at our best speed we went along the beach to another rising
ridge of tussock. Here we saw the first evidence of the proximity of
man, whose work, as is so often the ease, was one of destruction. A
recently killed seal was lying there, and presently we saw several
other bodies bearing the marks of bullet-wounds. I learned later that
men from the whaling-station at Stromness sometimes go round to Fortuna
Bay by boat to shoot seals.

Noon found us well up the slope on the other side of the bay working
east-south-east, and half an hour later we were on a flat plateau, with
one more ridge to cross before we descended into Husvik. I was leading
the way over this plateau when I suddenly found myself up to my knees
in water and quickly sinking deeper through the snow-crust. I flung
myself down and called to the others to do the same, so as to
distribute our weight on the treacherous surface. We were on top of a
small lake, snow-covered. After lying still for a few moments we got to
our feet and walked delicately, like Agag, for 200 yds., until a rise
in the surface showed us that we were clear of the lake.

At 1.30 p.m. we climbed round a final ridge and saw a little steamer, a
whaling-boat, entering the bay 2500 ft, below. A few moments later, as
we hurried forward, the masts of a sailing-ship lying at a wharf came
in sight. Minute figures moving to and fro about the boats caught our
gaze, and then we saw the sheds and factory of Stromness
whaling-station. We paused and shook hands, a form of mutual
congratulation that had seemed necessary on four other occasions in the
course of the expedition. The first time was when we landed on Elephant
Island, the second when we reached South Georgia, and the third when we
reached the ridge and saw the snow-slope stretching below on the first
day of the overland journey, then when we saw Husvik rocks.

Cautiously we started down the slope that led to warmth and comfort.
The last lap of the journey proved extraordinarily difficult. Vainly we
searched for a safe, or a reasonably safe, way down the steep ice-clad
mountain-side. The sole possible pathway seemed to be a channel cut by
water running from the upland. Down through icy water we followed the
course of this stream. We were wet to the waist, shivering, cold, and
tired. Presently our ears detected an unwelcome sound that might have
been musical under other conditions. It was the splashing of a
waterfall, and we were at the wrong end. When we reached the top of
this fall we peered over cautiously and discovered that there was a
drop of 25 or 30 ft., with impassable ice-cliffs on both sides. To go
up again was scarcely thinkable in our utterly wearied condition. The
way down was through the waterfall itself. We made fast one end of our
rope to a boulder with some difficulty, due to the fact that the rocks
had been worn smooth by the running water. Then Worsley and I lowered
Crean, who was the heaviest man. He disappeared altogether in the
falling water and came out gasping at the bottom. I went next, sliding
down the rope, and Worsley, who was the lightest and most nimble member
of the party, came last. At the bottom of the fall we were able to
stand again on dry land. The rope could not be recovered. We had flung
down the adze from the top of the fall and also the logbook and the
cooker wrapped in one of our blouses. That was all, except our wet
clothes, that we brought out of the Antarctic, which we had entered a
year and a half before with well-found ship, full equipment, and high
hopes. That was all of tangible things; but in memories we were rich.
We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We had “suffered, starved,
and triumphed, grovelled down yet grasped at glory, grown bigger in the
bigness of the whole.” We had seen God in His splendours, heard the
text that Nature renders. We had reached the naked soul of man.

Shivering with cold, yet with hearts light and happy, we set off
towards the whaling-station, now not more than a mile and a half
distant. The difficulties of the journey lay behind us. We tried to
straighten ourselves up a bit, for the thought that there might be
women at the station made us painfully conscious of our uncivilized
appearance. Our beards were long and our hair was matted. We were
unwashed and the garments that we had worn for nearly a year without a
change were tattered and stained. Three more unpleasant-looking
ruffians could hardly have been imagined. Worsley produced several
safety-pins from some corner of his garments and effected some
temporary repairs that really emphasized his general disrepair. Down we
hurried, and when quite close to the station we met two small boys ten
or twelve years of age. I asked these lads where the manager’s house
was situated. They did not answer. They gave us one look—a
comprehensive look that did not need to be repeated. Then they ran from
us as fast as their legs would carry them. We reached the outskirts of
the station and passed through the “digesting-house,” which was dark
inside. Emerging at the other end, we met an old man, who started as if
he had seen the Devil himself and gave us no time to ask any question.
He hurried away. This greeting was not friendly. Then we came to the
wharf, where the man in charge stuck to his station. I asked him if Mr.
Sorlle (the manager) was in the house.

“Yes,” he said as he stared at us.

“We would like to see him,” said I.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“We have lost our ship and come over the island,” I replied.

“You have come over the island?” he said in a tone of entire disbelief.

The man went towards the manager’s house and we followed him. I learned
afterwards that he said to Mr. Sorlle: “There are three funny-looking
men outside, who say they have come over the island and they know you.
I have left them outside.” A very necessary precaution from his point
of view.

Mr. Sorlle came out to the door and said, “Well?”

“Don’t you know me?” I said.

“I know your voice,” he replied doubtfully. “You’re the mate of the
_Daisy_.”

“My name is Shackleton,” I said.

Immediately he put out his hand and said, “Come in. Come in.”

“Tell me, when was the war over?” I asked.

“The war is not over,” he answered. “Millions are being killed. Europe
is mad. The world is mad.”


[Illustration: [Rough Memory Map of Route Across South Georgia]]


Mr. Sorlle’s hospitality had no bounds. He would scarcely let us wait
to remove our freezing boots before he took us into his house and gave
us seats in a warm and comfortable room. We were in no condition to sit
in anybody’s house until we had washed and got into clean clothes, but
the kindness of the station-manager was proof even against the
unpleasantness of being in a room with us. He gave us coffee and cakes
in the Norwegian fashion, and then showed us upstairs to the bathroom,
where we shed our rags and scrubbed ourselves luxuriously.

Mr. Sorlle’s kindness did not end with his personal care for the three
wayfarers who had come to his door. While we were washing he gave
orders for one of the whaling-vessels to be prepared at once in order
that it might leave that night for the other side of the island and
pick up the three men there. The whalers knew King Haakon Bay, though
they never worked on that side of the island. Soon we were clean again.
Then we put on delightful new clothes supplied from the station stores
and got rid of our superfluous hair. Within an hour or two we had
ceased to be savages and had become civilized men again. Then came a
splendid meal, while Mr. Sorlle told us of the arrangements he had made
and we discussed plans for the rescue of the main party on Elephant
Island.

I arranged that Worsley should go with the relief ship to show the
exact spot where the carpenter and his two companions were camped,
while I started to prepare for the relief of the party on Elephant
Island. The whaling-vessel that was going round to King Haakon Bay was
expected back on the Monday morning, and was to call at Grytviken
Harbour, the port from which we had sailed in December 1914, in order
that the magistrate resident there might be informed of the fate of the
_Endurance_. It was possible that letters were awaiting us there.
Worsley went aboard the whaler at ten o’clock that night and turned in.
The next day the relief ship entered King Haakon Bay and he reached
Peggotty Camp in a boat. The three men were delighted beyond measure to
know that we had made the crossing in safety and that their wait under
the upturned _James Caird_ was ended. Curiously enough, they did not
recognize Worsley, who had left them a hairy, dirty ruffian and had
returned his spruce and shaven self. They thought he was one of the
whalers. When one of them asked why no member of the party had come
round with the relief, Worsley said, “What do you mean?” “We thought
the Boss or one of the others would come round,” they explained.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Worsley. Then it suddenly dawned
upon them that they were talking to the man who had been their close
companion for a year and a half. Within a few minutes the whalers had
moved our bits of gear into their boat. They towed off the _James
Caird_ and hoisted her to the deck of their ship. Then they started on
the return voyage. Just at dusk on Monday afternoon they entered
Stromness Bay, where the men of the whaling-station mustered on the
beach to receive the rescued party and to examine with professional
interest the boat we had navigated across 800 miles of the stormy ocean
they knew so well.


[Illustration: Panorama of South Georgia]


When I look back at those days I have no doubt that Providence guided
us, not only across those snowfields, but across the storm-white sea
that separated Elephant Island from our landing-place on South Georgia.
I know that during that long and racking march of thirty-six hours over
the unnamed mountains and glaciers of South Georgia it seemed to me
often that we were four, not three. I said nothing to my companions on
the point, but afterwards Worsley said to me, “Boss, I had a curious
feeling on the march that there was another person with us.” Crean
confessed to the same idea. One feels “the dearth of human words, the
roughness of mortal speech” in trying to describe things intangible,
but a record of our journeys would be incomplete without a reference to
a subject very near to our hearts.




CHAPTER XI
THE RESCUE


Our first night at the whaling-station was blissful. Crean and I shared
a beautiful room in Mr. Sorlle’s house, with electric light and two
beds, warm and soft. We were so comfortable that we were unable to
sleep. Late at night a steward brought us tea, bread and butter and
cakes, and we lay in bed, revelling in the luxury of it all. Outside a
dense snow-storm, which started two hours after our arrival and lasted
until the following day, was swirling and driving about the
mountain-slopes. We were thankful indeed that we had made a place of
safety, for it would have gone hard with us if we had been out on the
mountains that night. Deep snow lay everywhere when we got up the
following morning.

After breakfast Mr. Sorlle took us round to Husvik in a motor-launch.
We were listening avidly to his account of the war and of all that had
happened while we were out of the world of men. We were like men arisen
from the dead to a world gone mad. Our minds accustomed themselves
gradually to the tales of nations in arms, of deathless courage and
unimagined slaughter, of a world-conflict that had grown beyond all
conceptions, of vast red battlefields in grimmest contrast with the
frigid whiteness we had left behind us. The reader may not realize
quite how difficult it was for us to envisage nearly two years of the
most stupendous war of history. The locking of the armies in the
trenches, the sinking of the _Lusitania_, the murder of Nurse Cavell,
the use of poison-gas and liquid fire, the submarine warfare, the
Gallipoli campaign, the hundred other incidents of the war, almost
stunned us at first, and then our minds began to compass the train of
events and develop a perspective. I suppose our experience was unique.
No other civilized men could have been as blankly ignorant of
world-shaking happenings as we were when we reached Stromness Whaling
Station.


[Illustration: The _Yelcho_]


I heard the first rumour of the _Aurora’s_ misadventures in the Ross
Sea from Mr. Sorlle. Our host could tell me very little. He had been
informed that the _Aurora_ had broken away from winter quarters in
McMurdo Sound and reached New Zealand after a long drift, and that
there was no news of the shore party. His information was indefinite as
to details, and I had to wait until I reached the Falkland Islands some
time later before getting a definite report concerning the _Aurora_.
The rumour that had reached South Georgia, however, made it more than
ever important that I should bring out the rest of the Weddell Sea
party quickly, so as to free myself for whatever effort was required on
the Ross Sea side.

When we reached Husvik that Sunday morning we were warmly greeted by
the magistrate (Mr. Bernsten), whom I knew of old, and the other
members of the little community. Moored in the harbour was one of the
largest of the whalers, the _Southern Sky_, owned by an English company
but now laid up for the winter. I had no means of getting into
communication with the owners without dangerous delay, and on my
accepting all responsibility Mr. Bernsten made arrangements for me to
take this ship down to Elephant Island. I wrote out an agreement with
Lloyd’s for the insurance of the ship. Captain Thom, an old friend of
the Expedition, happened to be in Husvik with his ship, the _Orwell_,
loading oil for use in Britain’s munition works, and he at once
volunteered to come with us in any capacity. I asked him to come as
captain of the _Southern Sky_. There was no difficulty about getting a
crew. The whalers were eager to assist in the rescue of men in
distress. They started work that Sunday to prepare and stow the ship.
Parts of the engines were ashore, but willing hands made light labour.
I purchased from the station stores all the stores and equipment
required, including special comforts for the men we hoped to rescue,
and by Tuesday morning the _Southern Sky_ was ready to sail. I feel it
is my duty as well as my pleasure to thank here the Norwegian whalers
of South Georgia for the sympathetic hands they stretched out to us in
our need. Among memories of kindness received in many lands sundered by
the seas, the recollection of the hospitality and help given to me in
South Georgia ranks high. There is a brotherhood of the sea. The men
who go down to the sea in ships, serving and suffering, fighting their
endless battle against the caprice of wind and ocean, bring into their
own horizons the perils and troubles of their brother sailormen.

The _Southern Sky_ was ready on Tuesday morning, and at nine o’clock we
steamed out of the bay, while the whistles of the whaling-station
sounded a friendly farewell. We had forgathered aboard Captain Thom’s
ship on the Monday night with several whaling captains who were
bringing up their sons to their own profession. They were “old stagers”
with faces lined and seamed by the storms of half a century, and they
were even more interested in the story of our voyage from Elephant
Island than the younger generation was. They congratulated us on having
accomplished a remarkable boat journey. I do not wish to belittle our
success with the pride that apes humility. Under Providence we had
overcome great difficulties and dangers, and it was pleasant to tell
the tale to men who knew those sullen and treacherous southern seas.

McCarthy, McNeish, and Vincent had been landed on the Monday afternoon.
They were already showing some signs of increasing strength under a
regime of warm quarters and abundant food. The carpenter looked
woefully thin after he had emerged from a bath. He must have worn a lot
of clothes when he landed from the boat, and I did not realize how he
had wasted till I saw him washed and changed. He was a man over fifty
years of age, and the strain had told upon him more than upon the rest
of us. The rescue came just in time for him.

The early part of the voyage down to Elephant Island in the _Southern
Sky_ was uneventful. At noon on Tuesday, May 23, we were at sea and
steaming at ten knots on a south-westerly course. We made good
progress, but the temperature fell very low, and the signs gave me some
cause for anxiety as to the probability of encountering ice. On the
third night out the sea seemed to grow silent. I looked over the side
and saw a thin film of ice. The sea was freezing around us and the ice
gradually grew thicker, reducing our speed to about five knots. Then
lumps of old pack began to appear among the new ice. I realized that an
advance through pack-ice was out of the question. The _Southern Sky_
was a steel-built steamer, and her structure, while strong to resist
the waves, would not endure the blows of masses of ice. So I took the
ship north, and at daylight on Friday we got clear of the pancake-ice.
We skirted westward, awaiting favourable conditions. The morning of the
28th was dull and overcast, with little wind. Again the ship’s head was
turned to the south-west, but at 3 p.m. a definite line of pack showed
up on the horizon. We were about 70 miles from Elephant Island, but
there was no possibility of taking the steamer through the ice that
barred the way. North-west again we turned. We were directly north of
the island on the following day, and I made another move south. Heavy
pack formed an impenetrable barrier.

To admit failure at this stage was hard, but the facts had to be faced.
The _Southern Sky_ could not enter ice of even moderate thickness. The
season was late, and we could not be sure that the ice would open for
many months, though my opinion was that the pack would not become fast
in that quarter even in the winter, owing to the strong winds and
currents. The _Southern Sky_ could carry coal for ten days only, and we
had been out six days. We were 500 miles from the Falkland Islands and
about 600 miles from South Georgia. So I determined that, since we
could not wait about for an opening, I would proceed to the Falklands,
get a more suitable vessel either locally or from England, and make a
second attempt to reach Elephant Island from that point.

We encountered very bad weather on the way up, but in the early
afternoon of May 31 we arrived at Port Stanley, where the cable
provided a link with the outer world. The harbour-master came out to
meet us, and after we had dropped anchor I went ashore and met the
Governor, Mr. Douglas Young. He offered me his assistance at once. He
telephoned to Mr. Harding, the manager of the Falkland Islands station,
and I learned, to my keen regret, that no ship of the type required was
available at the islands. That evening I cabled to London a message to
His Majesty the King, the first account of the loss of the _Endurance_
and the subsequent adventures of the Expedition. The next day I
received the following message from the King:

“Rejoice to hear of your safe arrival in the Falkland Islands and trust
your comrades on Elephant Island may soon be rescued.


“GEORGE R.I.”


The events of the days that followed our arrival at the Falkland
Islands I will not attempt to describe in detail. My mind was bent upon
the rescue of the party on Elephant Island at the earliest possible
moment. Winter was advancing, and I was fully conscious that the lives
of some of my comrades might be the price of unnecessary delay. A
proposal had been made to send a relief ship from England, but she
could not reach the southern seas for many weeks. In the meantime I got
into communication with the Governments of the South American Republics
by wireless and cable and asked if they had any suitable ship I could
use for a rescue. I wanted a wooden ship capable of pushing into loose
ice, with fair speed and a reasonable coal capacity. Messages of
congratulation and goodwill were reaching me from all parts of the
world, and the kindness of hundreds of friends in many lands was a very
real comfort in a time of anxiety and stress.

The British Admiralty informed me that no suitable vessel was available
in England and that no relief could be expected before October. I
replied that October would be too late. Then the British Minister in
Montevideo telegraphed me regarding a trawler named _Instituto de Pesca
No. 1_, belonging to the Uruguayan Government. She was a stout little
vessel, and the Government had generously offered to equip her with
coal, provisions, clothing, etc., and send her across to the Falkland
Islands for me to take down to Elephant Island. I accepted this offer
gladly, and the trawler was in Port Stanley on June 10. We started
south at once.

The weather was bad but the trawler made good progress, steaming
steadily at about six knots, and in the bright, clear dawn of the third
day we sighted the peaks of Elephant Island. Hope ran high; but our
ancient enemy the pack was lying in wait, and within twenty miles of
the island the trawler was stopped by an impenetrable barrier of ice.
The pack lay in the form of a crescent, with a horn to the west of the
ship stretching north. Steaming north-east, we reached another horn and
saw that the pack, heavy and dense, then trended away to the east. We
made an attempt to push into the ice, but it was so heavy that the
trawler was held up at once and began to grind in the small thick
floes, so we cautiously backed out. The propeller, going slowly, was
not damaged, though any moment I feared we might strip the blades. The
island lay on our starboard quarter, but there was no possibility of
approaching it. The Uruguayan engineer reported to me that he had three
days’ coal left, and I had to give the order to turn back. A screen of
fog hid the lower slopes of the island, and the men watching from the
camp on the beach could not have seen the ship. Northward we steamed
again, with the engines knocking badly, and after encountering a new
gale, made Port Stanley with the bunkers nearly empty and the engines
almost broken down. H.M.S. _Glasgow_ was in the port, and the British
sailors gave us a hearty welcome as we steamed in.

The Uruguayan Government offered to send the trawler to Punta Arenas
and have her dry-docked there and made ready for another effort. One of
the troubles on the voyage was that according to estimate the trawler
could do ten knots on six tons of coal a day, which would have given us
a good margin to allow for lying off the ice; but in reality, owing to
the fact that she had not been in dock for a year, she only developed a
speed of six knots on a consumption of ten tons a day. Time was
precious and these preparations would have taken too long. I thanked
the Government then for its very generous offer, and I want to say now
that the kindness of the Uruguayans at this time earned my warmest
gratitude. I ought to mention also the assistance given me by Lieut.
Ryan, a Naval Reserve officer who navigated the trawler to the
Falklands and came south on the attempt at relief. The _Instituto de
Pesca_ went off to Montevideo and I looked around for another ship.

A British mail-boat, the _Orita_ called at Port Stanley opportunely,
and I boarded her with Worsley and Crean and crossed to Punta Arenas in
the Magellan Straits. The reception we received there was heartening.
The members of the British Association of Magellanes took us to their
hearts. Mr. Allan McDonald was especially prominent in his untiring
efforts to assist in the rescue of our twenty-two companions on
Elephant Island. He worked day and night, and it was mainly due to him
that within three days they had raised a sum of £1500 amongst
themselves, chartered the schooner _Emma_ and equipped her for our use.
She was a forty-year-old oak schooner, strong and seaworthy, with an
auxiliary oil-engine.

Out of the complement of ten men all told who were manning the ship,
there were eight different nationalities; but they were all good
fellows and understood perfectly what was wanted. The Chilian
Government lent us a small steamer, the _Yelcho_, to tow us part of the
way. She could not touch ice, though, as she was built of steel.
However, on July 12 we passed her our tow-rope and proceeded on our
way. In bad weather we anchored next day, and although the wind
increased to a gale I could delay no longer, so we hove up anchor in
the early morning of the 14th. The strain on the tow-rope was too
great. With the crack of a gun the rope broke. Next day the gale
continued, and I will quote from the log of the _Emma_, which Worsley
kept as navigating officer.

“9 a.m.—Fresh, increasing gale; very rough, lumpy sea. 10 a.m.—Tow-rope
parted. 12 noon. Similar weather. 1 p.m.—Tow-rope parted again. Set
foresail and forestay-sail and steered south-east by south. 3
p.m.—_Yelcho_ hailed us and said that the ship’s bilges were full of
water (so were our decks) and they were short of coal. Sir Ernest told
them that they could return to harbour. After this the _Yelcho_ steamed
into San Sebastian Bay.”

After three days of continuous bad weather we were left alone to
attempt once more to rescue the twenty-two men on Elephant Island, for
whom by this time I entertained very grave fears.

At dawn of Friday, July 21, we were within a hundred miles of the
island, and we encountered the ice in the half-light. I waited for the
full day and then tried to push through. The little craft was tossing
in the heavy swell, and before she had been in the pack for ten minutes
she came down on a cake of ice and broke the bobstay. Then the
water-inlet of the motor choked with ice. The schooner was tossing like
a cork in the swell, and I saw after a few bumps that she was actually
lighter than the fragments of ice around her. Progress under such
conditions was out of the question. I worked the schooner out of the
pack and stood to the east. I ran her through a line of pack towards
the south that night, but was forced to turn to the north-east, for the
ice trended in that direction as far as I could see. We hove to for the
night, which was now sixteen hours long. The winter was well advanced
and the weather conditions were thoroughly bad. The ice to the
southward was moving north rapidly. The motor-engine had broken down
and we were entirely dependent on the sails. We managed to make a
little southing during the next day, but noon found us 108 miles from
the island. That night we lay off the ice in a gale, hove to, and
morning found the schooner iced up. The ropes, cased in frozen spray,
were as thick as a man’s arm, and if the wind had increased much we
would have had to cut away the sails, since there was no possibility of
lowering them. Some members of the scratch crew were played out by the
cold and the violent tossing. The schooner was about seventy feet long,
and she responded to the motions of the storm-racked sea in a manner
that might have disconcerted the most seasoned sailors.

I took the schooner south at every chance, but always the line of ice
blocked the way. The engineer, who happened to be an American, did
things to the engines occasionally, but he could not keep them running,
and, the persistent south winds were dead ahead. It was hard to turn
back a third time, but I realized we could not reach the island under
those conditions, and we must turn north in order to clear the ship of
heavy masses of ice. So we set a northerly course, and after a
tempestuous passage reached Port Stanley once more. This was the third
reverse, but I did not abandon my belief that the ice would not remain
fast around Elephant Island during the winter, whatever the arm-chair
experts at home might say. We reached Port Stanley in the schooner on
August 8, and I learned there that the ship _Discovery_ was to leave
England at once and would be at the Falkland Islands about the middle
of September. My good friend the Governor said I could settle down at
Port Stanley and take things quietly for a few weeks. The street of
that port is about a mile and a half long. It has the slaughter-house
at one end and the graveyard at the other. The chief distraction is to
walk from the slaughter-house to the graveyard. For a change one may
walk from the graveyard to the slaughter-house. Ellaline Terriss was
born at Port Stanley—a fact not forgotten by the residents, but she has
not lived there much since. I could not content myself to wait for six
or seven weeks, knowing that six hundred miles away my comrades were in
dire need. I asked the Chilian Government to send the _Yelcho_, the
steamer that had towed us before, to take the schooner across to Punta
Arenas, and they consented promptly, as they had done to every other
request of mine. So in a north-west gale we went across, narrowly
escaping disaster on the way, and reached Punta Arenas on August 14.

There was no suitable ship to be obtained. The weather was showing some
signs of improvement, and I begged the Chilian Government to let me
have the _Yelcho_ for a last attempt to reach the island. She was a
small steel-built steamer, quite unsuitable for work in the pack, but I
promised that I would not touch the ice. The Government was willing to
give me another chance, and on August 25 I started south on the fourth
attempt at relief. This time Providence favoured us. The little steamer
made a quick run down in comparatively fine weather, and I found as we
neared Elephant Island that the ice was open. A southerly gale had sent
it northward temporarily, and the _Yelcho_ had her chance to slip
through. We approached the island in a thick fog. I did not dare to
wait for this to clear, and at 10 a.m. on August 30 we passed some
stranded bergs. Then we saw the sea breaking on a reef, and I knew that
we were just outside the island. It was an anxious moment, for we had
still to locate the camp and the pack could not be trusted to allow
time for a prolonged search in thick weather; but presently the fog
lifted and revealed the cliffs and glaciers of Elephant Island. I
proceeded to the east, and at 11.40 a.m. Worsley’s keen eyes detected
the camp, almost invisible under its covering of snow. The men ashore
saw us at the same time, and we saw tiny black figures hurry to the
beach and wave signals to us. We were about a mile and a half away from
the camp. I turned the _Yelcho_ in, and within half an hour reached the
beach with Crean and some of the Chilian sailors. I saw a little figure
on a surf-beaten rock and recognized Wild. As I came nearer I called
out, “Are you all well?” and he answered, “We are all well, boss,” and
then I heard three cheers. As I drew close to the rock I flung packets
of cigarettes ashore; they fell on them like hungry tigers, for well I
knew that for months tobacco was dreamed of and talked of. Some of the
hands were in a rather bad way, but Wild had held the party together
and kept hope alive in their hearts. There was no time then to exchange
news or congratulations. I did not even go up the beach to see the
camp, which Wild assured me had been much improved. A heavy sea was
running and a change of wind might bring the ice back at any time. I
hurried the party aboard with all possible speed, taking also the
records of the Expedition and essential portions of equipment.
Everybody was aboard the _Yelcho_ within an hour, and we steamed north
at the little steamer’s best speed. The ice was open still, and nothing
worse than an expanse of stormy ocean separated us from the South
American coast.

During the run up to Punta Arenas I heard Wild’s story, and blessed
again the cheerfulness and resource that had served the party so well
during four and a half months of privation. The twenty-two men on
Elephant Island were just at the end of their resources when the
_Yelcho_ reached them. Wild had husbanded the scanty stock of food as
far as possible and had fought off the devils of despondency and
despair on that little sand-spit, where the party had a precarious
foothold between the grim ice-fields and the treacherous, ice-strewn
sea. The pack had opened occasionally, but much of the time the way to
the north had been barred. The _Yelcho_ had arrived at the right
moment. Two days earlier she could not have reached the island, and a
few hours later the pack may have been impenetrable again. Wild had
reckoned that help would come in August, and every morning he had
packed his kit, in cheerful anticipation that proved infectious, as I
have no doubt it was meant to be. One of the party to whom I had said
“Well, you all were packed up ready,” replied, “You see, boss, Wild
never gave up hope, and whenever the sea was at all clear of ice he
rolled up his sleeping-bag and said to all hands, ‘Roll up your
sleeping-bags, boys; the boss may come to-day.’” And so it came to
pass that we suddenly came out of the fog, and, from a black outlook,
in an hour all were in safety homeward bound. The food was eked out
with seal and penguin meat, limpets, and seaweed. Seals had been
scarce, but the supply of penguins had held out fairly well during the
first three months. The men were down to the last Bovril ration, the
only form of hot drink they had, and had scarcely four days’ food in
hand at the time of the rescue. The camp was in constant danger of
being buried by the snow, which drifted heavily from the heights
behind, and the men moved the accumulations with what implements they
could provide. There was danger that the camp would become completely
invisible from the sea, so that a rescue party might look for it in
vain.

“It had been arranged that a gun should be fired from the relief ship
when she got near the island,” said Wild. “Many times when the glaciers
were ‘calving,’ and chunks fell off with a report like a gun, we
thought that it was the real thing, and after a time we got to distrust
these signals. As a matter of fact, we saw the _Yelcho_ before we heard
any gun. It was an occasion one will not easily forget. We were just
assembling for lunch to the call of ‘Lunch O!’ and I was serving out
the soup, which was particularly good that day, consisting of boiled
seal’s backbone, limpets, and seaweed, when there was another hail from
Marston of ‘Ship O!’ Some of the men thought it was ‘Lunch O!’ over
again, but when there was another yell from Marston lunch had no
further attractions. The ship was about a mile and a half away and
steaming past us. A smoke-signal was the agreed sign from the shore,
and, catching up somebody’s coat that was lying about, I struck a pick
into a tin of kerosene kept for the purpose, poured it over the coat,
and set it alight. It flared instead of smoking; but that didn’t
matter, for you had already recognized the spot where you had left us
and the _Yelcho_ was turning in.”

We encountered bad weather on the way back to Punta Arenas, and the
little _Yelcho_ laboured heavily; but she had light hearts aboard. We
entered the Straits of Magellan on September 3 and reached Rio Secco at
8 a.m. I went ashore, found a telephone, and told the Governor and my
friends at Punta Arenas that the men were safe. Two hours later we were
at Punta Arenas, where we were given a welcome none of us is likely to
forget. The Chilian people were no less enthusiastic than the British
residents. The police had been instructed to spread the news that the
_Yelcho_ was coming with the rescued men, and lest the message should
fail to reach some people, the fire-alarm had been rung. The whole
populace appeared to be in the streets. It was a great reception, and
with the strain of long, anxious months lifted at last, we were in a
mood to enjoy it.


[Illustration: Arrival at Punta Arenas with the Rescued Men]


[Illustration: Frank Wild, Second in Command of the Expedition]


The next few weeks were crowded ones, but I will not attempt here to
record their history in detail. I received congratulations and messages
of friendship and good cheer from all over the world, and my heart went
out to the good people who had remembered my men and myself in the
press of terrible events on the battlefields. The Chilian Government
placed the _Yelcho_ at my disposal to take the men up to Valparaiso and
Santiago. We reached Valparaiso on September 27. Everything that could
swim in the way of a boat was out to meet us, the crews of Chilian
warships were lined up, and at least thirty thousand thronged the
streets. I lectured in Santiago on the following evening for the
British Red Cross and a Chilian naval charity. The Chilian flag and the
Union Jack were draped together, the band played the Chilian national
anthem, “God Save the King,” and the “Marseillaise,” and the Chilian
Minister for Foreign Affairs spoke from the platform and pinned an
Order on my coat. I saw the President and thanked him for the help that
he had given a British expedition. His Government had spent £4000 on
coal alone. In reply he recalled the part that British sailors had
taken in the making of the Chilian Navy.

The Chilian Railway Department provided a special train to take us
across the Andes, and I proceeded to Montevideo in order to thank
personally the President and Government of Uruguay for the help they
had given generously in the earlier relief voyages. We were entertained
royally at various spots _en route_. We went also to Buenos Ayres on a
brief call. Then we crossed the Andes again. I had made arrangements by
this time for the men and the staff to go to England. All hands were
keen to take their places in the Empire’s fighting forces. My own
immediate task was the relief of the marooned Ross Sea party, for news
had come to me of the _Aurora’s_ long drift in the Ross Sea and of her
return in a damaged condition to New Zealand. Worsley was to come with
me. We hurried northwards via Panama, steamship and train companies
giving us everywhere the most cordial and generous assistance, and
caught at San Francisco a steamer that would get us to New Zealand at
the end of November. I had been informed that the New Zealand
Government was making arrangements for the relief of the Ross Sea
party, but my information was incomplete, and I was very anxious to be
on the spot myself as quickly as possible.




CHAPTER XII
ELEPHANT ISLAND


The twenty-two men who had been left behind on Elephant Island were
under the command of Wild, in whom I had absolute confidence, and the
account of their experiences during the long four and a half months’
wait while I was trying to get help to them, I have secured from their
various diaries, supplemented by details which I obtained in
conversation on the voyage back to civilization.

The first consideration, which was even more important than that of
food, was to provide shelter. The semi-starvation during the drift on
the ice-floe, added to the exposure in the boats, and the inclemencies
of the weather encountered after our landing on Elephant Island, had
left its mark on a good many of them. Rickenson, who bore up gamely to
the last, collapsed from heart-failure. Blackborrow and Hudson could
not move. All were frost-bitten in varying degrees and their clothes,
which had been worn continuously for six months, were much the worse
for wear. The blizzard which sprang up the day that we landed at Cape
Wild lasted for a fortnight, often blowing at the rate of seventy to
ninety miles an hour, and occasionally reaching even higher figures.
The tents which had lasted so well and endured so much were torn to
ribbons, with the exception of the square tent occupied by Hurley,
James, and Hudson. Sleeping-bags and clothes were wringing wet, and the
physical discomforts were tending to produce acute mental depression.
The two remaining boats had been turned upside down with one gunwale
resting on the snow, and the other raised about two feet on rocks and
cases, and under these the sailors and some of the scientists, with the
two invalids, Rickenson and Blackborrow, found head-cover at least.
Shelter from the weather and warmth to dry their clothes was
imperative, so Wild hastened the excavation of the ice-cave in the
slope which had been started before I left.

The high temperature, however, caused a continuous stream of water to
drip from the roof and sides of the ice-cave, and as with twenty-two
men living in it the temperature would be practically always above
freezing, there would have been no hope of dry quarters for them there.
Under the direction of Wild they, therefore, collected some big flat
stones, having in many cases to dig down under the snow which was
covering the beach, and with these they erected two substantial walls
four feet high and nineteen feet apart.

“We are all ridiculously weak, and this part of the work was
exceedingly laborious and took us more than twice as long as it would
have done had we been in normal health. Stones that we could easily
have lifted at other times we found quite beyond our capacity, and it
needed two or three of us to carry some that would otherwise have been
one man’s load. Our difficulties were added to by the fact that most of
the more suitable stones lay at the farther end of the spit, some one
hundred and fifty yards away. Our weakness is best compared with that
which one experiences on getting up from a long illness; one ‘feels’
well, but physically enervated.

“The site chosen for the hut was the spot where the stove had been
originally erected on the night of our arrival. It lay between two
large boulders, which, if they would not actually form the walls of the
hut, would at least provide a valuable protection from the wind.
Further protection was provided to the north by a hill called Penguin
Hill at the end of the spit. As soon as the walls were completed and
squared off, the two boats were laid upside down on them side by side.
The exact adjustment of the boats took some time, but was of paramount
importance if our structure was to be the permanent affair that we
hoped it would be. Once in place they were securely chocked up and
lashed down to the rocks. The few pieces of wood that we had were laid
across from keel to keel, and over this the material of one of the torn
tents was spread and secured with guys to the rocks. The walls were
ingeniously contrived and fixed up by Marston. First he cut the now
useless tents into suitable lengths; then he cut the legs of a pair of
seaboots into narrow strips, and using these in much the same way that
the leather binding is put round the edge of upholstered chairs, he
nailed the tent-cloth all round the insides of the outer gunwales of
the two boats in such a way that it hung down like a valance to the
ground, where it was secured with spars and oars. A couple of
overlapping blankets made the door, superseded later by a sack-mouth
door cut from one of the tents. This consisted of a sort of tube of
canvas sewn on to the tent-cloth, through which the men crawled in or
out, tying it up as one would the mouth of a sack as soon as the man
had passed through. It is certainly the most convenient and efficient
door for these conditions that has ever been invented.


[Illustration: Our Dugout]


[Illustration: The Hut on Elephant Island]


“Whilst the side walls of the hut were being fixed, others proceeded to
fill the interstices between the stones of the end walls with snow. As
this was very powdery and would not bind well, we eventually had to
supplement it with the only spare blanket and an overcoat. All this
work was very hard on our frost-bitten fingers, and materials were very
limited.

“At last all was completed and we were invited to bring in our sodden
bags, which had been lying out in the drizzling rain for several hours;
for the tents and boats that had previously sheltered them had all been
requisitioned to form our new residence.

“We took our places under Wild’s direction. There was no squabbling for
best places, but it was noticeable that there was something in the
nature of a rush for the billets up on the thwarts of the boats.

“Rickenson, who was still very weak and ill, but very cheery, obtained
a place in the boat directly above the stove, and the sailors having
lived under the _Stancomb Wills_ for a few days while she was upside
down on the beach, tacitly claimed it as their own, and flocked up on
to its thwarts as one man. There was one ‘upstair’ billet left in this
boat, which Wild offered to Hussey and Lees simultaneously, saying that
the first man that got his bag up could have the billet. Whilst Lees
was calculating the pros and cons Hussey got his bag, and had it up
just as Lees had determined that the pros had it. There were now four
men up on the thwarts of the _Dudley Docker_, and the five sailors and
Hussey on those of the _Stancomb Wills_, the remainder disposing
themselves on the floor.”

The floor was at first covered with snow and ice, frozen in amongst the
pebbles. This was cleared out, and the remainder of the tents spread
out over the stones. Within the shelter of these cramped but
comparatively palatial quarters cheerfulness once more reigned amongst
the party. The blizzard, however, soon discovered the flaws in the
architecture of their hut, and the fine drift-snow forced its way
through the crevices between the stones forming the end walls. Jaeger
sleeping-bags and coats were spread over the outside of these walls,
packed over with snow and securely frozen up, effectively keeping out
this drift.

At first all the cooking was done outside under the lee of some rocks,
further protection being provided by a wall of provision-cases. There
were two blubber-stoves made from old oil-drums, and one day, when the
blizzard was unusually severe, an attempt was made to cook the meals
inside the hut. There being no means of escape for the pungent
blubber-smoke, the inmates had rather a bad time, some being affected
with a form of smoke-blindness similar to snow-blindness, very painful
and requiring medical attention.

A chimney was soon fitted, made by Kerr out of the tin lining of one of
the biscuit-cases, and passed through a close-fitting tin grummet sewn
into the canvas of the roof just between the keels of the two boats,
and the smoke nuisance was soon a thing of the past. Later on, another
old oil-drum was made to surround this chimney, so that two pots could
be cooked at once on the one stove. Those whose billets were near the
stove suffered from the effects of the local thaw caused by its heat,
but they were repaid by being able to warm up portions of steak and
hooshes left over from previous meals, and even to warm up those of the
less fortunate ones, for a consideration. This consisted generally of
part of the hoosh or one or two pieces of sugar.

The cook and his assistant, which latter job was taken by each man in
turn, were called about 7 a.m., and breakfast was generally ready by
about 10 a.m.

Provision-cases were then arranged in a wide circle round the stove,
and those who were fortunate enough to be next to it could dry their
gear. So that all should benefit equally by this, a sort of “General
Post” was carried out, each man occupying his place at meal-times for
one day only, moving up one the succeeding day. In this way eventually
every man managed to dry his clothes, and life began to assume a much
brighter aspect.

The great trouble in the hut was the absence of light. The canvas walls
were covered with blubber-soot, and with the snowdrifts accumulating
round the hut its inhabitants were living in a state of perpetual
night. Lamps were fashioned out of sardine-tins, with bits of surgical
bandage for wicks; but as the oil consisted of seal-oil rendered down
from the blubber, the remaining fibrous tissue being issued very
sparingly at lunch, by the by, and being considered a great delicacy,
they were more a means of conserving the scanty store of matches than
of serving as illuminants.

Wild was the first to overcome this difficulty by sewing into the
canvas wall the glass lid of a chronometer box. Later on three other
windows were added, the material in this case being some celluloid
panels from a photograph case of mine which I had left behind in a bag.
This enabled the occupants of the floor billets who were near enough to
read and sew, which relieved the monotony of the situation
considerably.

“Our reading material consisted at this time of two books of poetry,
one book of ‘Nordenskjold’s Expedition,’ one or two torn volumes of the
‘Encyclopædia Britannica,’ and a penny cookery book, owned by Marston.
Our clothes, though never presentable, as they bore the scars of nearly
ten months of rough usage, had to be continually patched to keep them
together at all.”

As the floor of the hut had been raised by the addition of loads of
clean pebbles, from which most of the snow had been removed, during the
cold weather it was kept comparatively dry. When, however, the
temperature rose to just above freezing-point, as occasionally
happened, the hut became the drainage-pool of all the surrounding
hills. Wild was the first to notice it by remarking one morning that
his sleeping-bag was practically afloat. Other men examined theirs with
a like result, so baling operations commenced forthwith. Stones were
removed from the floor and a large hole dug, and in its gloomy depths
the water could be seen rapidly rising. Using a saucepan for a baler,
they baled out over 100 gallons of dirty water. The next day 150
gallons were removed, the men taking it in turns to bale at intervals
during the night; 160 more gallons were baled out during the next
twenty-four hours, till one man rather pathetically remarked in his
diary, “This is what nice, mild, high temperatures mean to us: no
wonder we prefer the cold.” Eventually, by removing a portion of one
wall a long channel was dug nearly down to the sea, completely solving
the problem. Additional precautions were taken by digging away the snow
which surrounded the hut after each blizzard, sometimes entirely
obscuring it.

A huge glacier across the bay behind the hut nearly put an end to the
party. Enormous blocks of ice weighing many tons would break off and
fall into the sea, the disturbance thus caused giving rise to great
waves. One day Marston was outside the hut digging up the frozen seal
for lunch with a pick, when a noise “like an artillery barrage”
startled him. Looking up he saw that one of these tremendous waves,
over thirty feet high, was advancing rapidly across the bay,
threatening to sweep hut and inhabitants into the sea. A hastily
shouted warning brought the men tumbling out, but fortunately the loose
ice which filled the bay damped the wave down so much that, though it
flowed right under the hut, nothing was carried away. It was a narrow
escape, though, as had they been washed into the sea nothing could have
saved them.

Although they themselves gradually became accustomed to the darkness
and the dirt, some entries in their diaries show that occasionally they
could realize the conditions under which they were living.

“The hut grows more grimy every day. Everything is a sooty black. We
have arrived at the limit where further increments from the smoking
stove, blubber-lamps, and cooking-gear are unnoticed. It is at least
comforting to feel that we can become no filthier. Our shingle floor
will scarcely bear examination by strong light without causing even us
to shudder and express our disapprobation at its state. Oil mixed with
reindeer hair, bits of meat, sennegrass, and penguin feathers form a
conglomeration which cements the stones together. From time to time we
have a spring cleaning, but a fresh supply of flooring material is not
always available, as all the shingle is frozen up and buried by deep
rifts. Such is our Home Sweet Home.”


[Illustration: View of Interior of Hut on Elephant Island]


[Illustration: Marooned on Elephant Island]


“All joints are aching through being compelled to lie on the hard,
rubbly floor which forms our bedsteads.”

Again, later on, one writes: “Now that Wild’s window allows a shaft of
light to enter our hut, one can begin to ‘see’ things inside.
Previously one relied upon one’s sense of touch, assisted by the
remarks from those whose faces were inadvertently trodden on, to guide
one to the door. Looking down in the semi-darkness to the far end, one
observes two very small smoky flares that dimly illuminate a row of
five, endeavouring to make time pass by reading or argument. These are
Macklin, Kerr, Wordie, Hudson, and Blackborrow—the last two being
invalids.

“The centre of the hut is filled with the cases which do duty for the
cook’s bed, the meat and blubber boxes, and a mummified-looking object,
which is Lees in his sleeping-bag. The near end of the floor space is
taken up with the stove, with Wild and McIlroy on one side, and Hurley
and James on the other. Marston occupies a hammock most of the
night—and day—which is slung across the entrance. As he is large and
the entrance very small, he invariably gets bumped by those passing in
and out. His vocabulary at such times is interesting.

“In the attic, formed by the two upturned boats, live ten unkempt and
careless lodgers, who drop boots, mitts, and other articles of apparel
on to the men below. Reindeer hairs rain down incessantly day and
night, with every movement that they make in their moulting bags.
These, with penguin feathers and a little grit from the floor,
occasionally savour the hooshes. Thank heaven man is an adaptable
brute! If we dwell sufficiently long in this hut, we are likely to
alter our method of walking, for our ceiling, which is but four feet
six inches high at its highest part, compels us to walk bent double or
on all fours.

“Our doorway—Cheetham is just crawling in now, bringing a shower of
snow with him—was originally a tent entrance. When one wishes to go
out, one unties the cord securing the door, and crawls or wriggles out,
at the same time exclaiming ‘Thank goodness I’m in the open air!’ This
should suffice to describe the atmosphere inside the hut, only pleasant
when charged with the overpowering yet appetizing smell of burning
penguin steaks.

“From all parts there dangles an odd collection of blubbery garments,
hung up to dry, through which one crawls, much as a chicken in an
incubator. Our walls of tent-canvas admit as much light as might be
expected from a closed Venetian blind. It is astonishing how we have
grown accustomed to inconveniences, and tolerate, at least, habits
which a little time back were regarded with repugnance. We have no
forks, but each man has a sheath-knife and a spoon, the latter in many
cases having been fashioned from a piece of box lid. The knife serves
many purposes. With it we kill, skin, and cut up seals and penguins,
cut blubber into strips for the fire, very carefully scrape the snow
off our hut walls, and then after a perfunctory rub with an oily
penguin-skin, use it at meals. We are as regardless of our grime and
dirt as is the Esquimaux. We have been unable to wash since we left the
ship, nearly ten months ago. For one thing we have no soap or towels,
only bare necessities being brought with us; and, again, had we
possessed these articles, our supply of fuel would only permit us to
melt enough ice for drinking purposes. Had one man washed, half a dozen
others would have had to go without a drink all day. One cannot suck
ice to relieve the thirst, as at these low temperatures it cracks the
lips and blisters the tongue. Still, we are all very cheerful.”

During the whole of their stay on Elephant Island the weather was
described by Wild as “simply appalling.” Stranded as they were on a
narrow, sandy beach surrounded by high mountains, they saw little of
the scanty sunshine during the brief intervals of clear sky. On most
days the air was full of snowdrift blown from the adjacent heights.
Elephant Island being practically on the outside edge of the pack, the
winds which passed over the relatively warm ocean before reaching it
clothed it in a “constant pall of fog and snow.”

On April 25, the day after I left for South Georgia, the island was
beset by heavy pack-ice, with snow and a wet mist. Next day was calmer,
but on the 27th, to quote one of the diaries, they experienced “the
most wretched weather conceivable. Raining all night and day, and
blowing hard. Wet to the skin.” The following day brought heavy fog and
sleet, and a continuance of the blizzard. April ended with a terrific
windstorm which nearly destroyed the hut. The one remaining tent had to
be dismantled, the pole taken down, and the inhabitants had to lie flat
all night under the icy canvas. This lasted well into May, and a
typical May day is described as follows: “A day of terrific winds,
threatening to dislodge our shelter. The wind is a succession of
hurricane gusts that sweep down the glacier immediately
south-south-west of us. Each gust heralds its approach by a low
rumbling which increases to a thunderous roar. Snow, stones, and gravel
are flying about, and any gear left unweighted by very heavy stones is
carried away to sea.”

Heavy bales of sennegrass, and boxes of cooking-gear, were lifted
bodily in the air and carried away out of sight. Once the wind carried
off the floor-cloth of a tent which six men were holding on to and
shaking the snow off. These gusts often came with alarming suddenness;
and without any warning. Hussey was outside in the blizzard digging up
the day’s meat, which had frozen to the ground, when a gust caught him
and drove him down the spit towards the sea. Fortunately, when he
reached the softer sand and shingle below high-water mark, he managed
to stick his pick into the ground and hold on with both hands till the
squall had passed.

On one or two rare occasions they had fine, calm, clear days. The glow
of the dying sun on the mountains and glaciers filled even the most
materialistic of them with wonder and admiration. These days were
sometimes succeeded by calm, clear nights, when, but for the cold, they
would have stayed out on the sandy beach all night.

About the middle of May a terrific blizzard sprang up, blowing from
sixty to ninety miles an hour, and Wild entertained grave fears for
their hut. One curious feature noted in this blizzard was the fact that
huge ice-sheets as big as window-panes, and about a quarter of an inch
thick, were being hurled about by the wind, making it as dangerous to
walk about outside as if one were in an avalanche of splintered glass.
Still, these winds from the south and south-west, though invariably
accompanied by snow and low temperatures, were welcome in that they
drove the pack-ice away from the immediate vicinity of the island, and
so gave rise on each occasion to hopes of relief. North-east winds, on
the other hand, by filling the bays with ice and bringing thick misty
weather, made it impossible to hope for any ship to approach them.

Towards the end of May a period of dead calm set in, with ice closely
packed all round the island. This gave place to north-east winds and
mist, and at the beginning of June came another south-west blizzard,
with cold driving snow. “The blizzard increased to terrific gusts
during the night, causing us much anxiety for the safety of our hut.
There was little sleep, all being apprehensive of the canvas roof
ripping off, and the boats being blown out to sea.”

Thus it continued, alternating between south-west blizzards, when they
were all confined to the hut, and north-east winds bringing cold, damp,
misty weather.

On June 25 a severe storm from north-west was recorded, accompanied by
strong winds and heavy seas, which encroached upon their little sandy
beach up to within four yards of their hut.

Towards the end of July and the beginning of August they had a few
fine, calm, clear days. Occasional glimpses of the sun, with high
temperatures, were experienced, after south-west winds had blown all
the ice away, and the party, their spirits cheered by Wild’s unfailing
optimism, again began to look eagerly for the rescue ship.

The first three attempts at their rescue unfortunately coincided with
the times when the island was beset with ice, and though on the second
occasion we approached close enough to fire a gun, in the hope that
they would hear the sound and know that we were safe and well, yet so
accustomed were they to the noise made by the calving of the adjacent
glacier that either they did not hear or the sound passed unnoticed. On
August 16 pack was observed on the horizon, and next day the bay was
filled with loose ice, which soon consolidated. Soon afterwards huge
old floes and many bergs drifted in. “The pack appears as dense as we
have ever seen it. No open water is visible, and ‘ice-blink’ girdles
the horizon. The weather is wretched—a stagnant calm of air and ocean
alike, the latter obscured by dense pack through which no swell can
penetrate, and a wet mist hangs like a pall over land and sea. The
silence is oppressive. There is nothing to do but to stay in one’s
sleeping-bag, or else wander in the soft snow and become thoroughly
wet.” Fifteen inches of snow fell in the next twenty-four hours, making
over two feet between August 18 and 21. A slight swell next day from
the north-east ground up the pack-ice, but this soon subsided, and the
pack became consolidated once more. On August 27 a strong
west-south-west wind sprang up and drove all this ice out of the bay,
and except for some stranded bergs left a clear ice-free sea through
which we finally made our way from Punta Arenas to Elephant Island.

As soon as I had left the island to get help for the rest of the
Expedition, Wild set all hands to collect as many seals and penguins as
possible, in case their stay was longer than was at first anticipated.
A sudden rise in temperature caused a whole lot to go bad and become
unfit for food, so while a fair reserve was kept in hand too much was
not accumulated.

At first the meals, consisting mostly of seal meat with one hot drink
per day, were cooked on a stove in the open. The snow and wind, besides
making it very unpleasant for the cook, filled all the cooking-pots
with sand and grit, so during the winter the cooking was done inside
the hut.

A little Cerebos salt had been saved, and this was issued out at the
rate of three-quarters of an ounce per man per week. Some of the
packets containing the salt had broken, so that all did not get the
full ration. On the other hand, one man dropped his week’s ration on
the floor of the hut, amongst the stones and dirt. It was quickly
collected, and he found to his delight that he had enough now to last
him for three weeks. Of course it was not _all_ salt. The hot drink
consisted at first of milk made from milk-powder up to about
one-quarter of its proper strength. This was later on diluted still
more, and sometimes replaced by a drink made from a pea-soup-like
packing from the Bovril sledging rations. For midwinter’s day
celebrations, a mixture of one teaspoonful of methylated spirit in a
pint of hot water, flavoured with a little ginger and sugar, served to
remind some of cock-tails and _Veuve Cliquot_.

At breakfast each had a piece of seal or half a penguin breast.
Luncheon consisted of one biscuit on three days a week, nut-food on
Thursdays, bits of blubber, from which most of the oil had been
extracted for the lamps, on two days a week, and nothing on the
remaining day. On this day breakfast consisted of a half-strength
sledging ration. Supper was almost invariably seal and penguin, cut up
very finely and fried with a little seal blubber.

There were occasionally very welcome variations from this menu. Some
paddies—a little white bird not unlike a pigeon—were snared with a loop
of string, and fried, with one water-sodden biscuit, for lunch. Enough
barley and peas for one meal all round of each had been saved, and when
this was issued it was a day of great celebration. Sometimes, by
general consent, the luncheon biscuit would be saved, and, with the
next serving of biscuit, was crushed in a canvas bag into a powder and
boiled, with a little sugar, making a very satisfying pudding. When
blubber was fairly plentiful there was always a saucepan of cold water,
made from melting down the pieces of ice which had broken off from the
glacier, fallen into the sea, and been washed ashore, for them to
quench their thirst in. As the experience of Arctic explorers tended to
show that sea-water produced a form of dysentery, Wild was rather
diffident about using it. Penguin carcasses boiled in one part of
sea-water to four of fresh were a great success, though, and no
ill-effects were felt by anybody.


[Illustration: Elephant Island]


[Illustration: The Rescue Ship Sighted]


The ringed penguins migrated north the day after we landed at Cape
Wild, and though every effort was made to secure as large a stock of
meat and blubber as possible, by the end of the month the supply was so
low that only one hot meal a day could be served. Twice the usual
number of penguin steaks were cooked at breakfast, and the ones
intended for supper were kept hot in the pots by wrapping up in coats,
etc. “Clark put our saucepanful in his sleeping-bag to-day to keep it
hot, and it really was a great success in spite of the extra helping of
reindeer hairs that it contained. In this way we can make ten penguin
skins do for one day.”

Some who were fortunate enough to catch penguins with fairly large
undigested fish in their gullets used to warm these up in tins hung on
bits of wire round the stove.

“All the meat intended for hooshes is cut up inside the hut, as it is
too cold outside. As the boards which we use for the purpose are also
used for cutting up tobacco, when we still have it, a definite flavour
is sometimes imparted to the hoosh, which, if anything, improves it.”

Their diet was now practically all meat, and not too much of that, and
all the diaries bear witness to their craving for carbohydrates, such
as flour, oatmeal, etc. One man longingly speaks of the cabbages which
grow on Kerguelen Island. By June 18 there were only nine hundred lumps
of sugar left, _i.e._, just over forty pieces each. Even my readers
know what shortage of sugar means at this very date, but from a
different cause. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that
all their thoughts and conversation should turn to food, past and
future banquets, and second helpings that had been once refused.

A census was taken, each man being asked to state just what he would
like to eat at that moment if he were allowed to have anything that he
wanted. All, with but one exception, desired a suet pudding of some
sort—the “duff” beloved of sailors. Macklin asked for many returns of
scrambled eggs on hot buttered toast. Several voted for “a prodigious
Devonshire dumpling,” while Wild wished for “any old dumpling so long
as it was a large one.” The craving for carbohydrates, such as flour
and sugar, and for fats was very real. Marston had with him a small
penny cookery book. From this he would read out one recipe each night,
so as to make them last. This would be discussed very seriously, and
alterations and improvements suggested, and then they would turn into
their bags to dream of wonderful meals that they could never reach. The
following conversation was recorded in one diary:

“WILD: ‘Do you like doughnuts?’

“McILROY: ‘Rather!’

“WILD: ‘Very easily made, too. I like them cold with a little jam.’

“McILROY: ‘Not bad; but how about a huge omelette?’

“WILD: ‘Fine!’ (with a deep sigh).

“Overhead, two of the sailors are discussing, some extraordinary
mixture of hash, apple-sauce, beer, and cheese. Marston is in his
hammock reading from his penny cookery book. Farther down, some one
eulogizes Scotch shortbread. Several of the sailors are talking of
spotted dog, sea-pie, and Lockhart’s with great feeling. Some one
mentions nut-food, whereat the conversation becomes general, and we all
decide to buy one pound’s worth of it as soon as we get to
civilization, and retire to a country house to eat it undisturbed. At
present we really mean it, too!”

Midwinter’s day, the great Polar festival, was duly observed. A
“magnificent breakfast” of sledging ration hoosh, full strength and
well boiled to thicken it, with hot milk was served. Luncheon consisted
of a wonderful pudding, invented by Wild, made of powdered biscuit
boiled with twelve pieces of mouldy nut-food. Supper was a very finely
cut seal hoosh flavoured with sugar.

After supper they had a concert, accompanied by Hussey on his
“indispensable banjo.” This banjo was the last thing to be saved off
the ship before she sank, and I took it with us as a mental tonic. It
was carried all the way through with us, and landed on Elephant Island
practically unharmed, and did much to keep the men cheerful. Nearly
every Saturday night such a concert was held, when each one sang a song
about some other member of the party. If that other one objected to
some of the remarks, a worse one was written for the next week.

The cook, who had carried on so well and for so long, was given a rest
on August 9, and each man took it in turns to be cook for one week. As
the cook and his “mate” had the privilege of scraping out the
saucepans, there was some anxiety to secure the job, especially amongst
those with the larger appetites. “The last of the methylated spirit was
drunk on August 12, and from then onwards the King’s health,
‘sweethearts and wives,’ and ‘the Boss and crew of the _Caird_,’ were
drunk in hot water and ginger every Saturday night.”

The penguins and seals which had migrated north at the beginning of
winter had not yet returned, or else the ice-foot, which surrounded the
spit to a thickness of six feet, prevented them from coming ashore, so
that food was getting short. Old seal-bones, that had been used once
for a meal and then thrown away, were dug up and stewed down with
sea-water. Penguin carcasses were treated likewise. Limpets were
gathered from the pools disclosed between the rocks below high tide,
after the pack-ice had been driven away. It was a cold job gathering
these little shell-fish, as for each one the whole hand and arm had to
be plunged into the icy water, and many score of these small creatures
had to be collected to make anything of a meal. Seaweed boiled in
sea-water was used to eke out the rapidly diminishing stock of seal and
penguin meat. This did not agree with some of the party. Though it was
acknowledged to be very tasty it only served to increase their
appetite—a serious thing when there was nothing to satisfy it with! One
man remarked in his diary: “We had a sumptuous meal to-day—nearly five
ounces of solid food each.”

It is largely due to Wild, and to his energy, initiative, and resource,
that the whole party kept cheerful all along, and, indeed, came out
alive and so well. Assisted by the two surgeons, Drs. McIlroy and
Macklin, he had ever a watchful eye for the health of each one. His
cheery optimism never failed, even when food was very short and the
prospect of relief seemed remote. Each one in his diary speaks with
admiration of him. I think without doubt that all the party who were
stranded on Elephant Island owe their lives to him. The demons of
depression could find no foothold when he was around; and, not content
with merely “telling,” he was “doing” as much as, and very often more
than, the rest. He showed wonderful capabilities of leadership and more
than justified the absolute confidence that I placed in him. Hussey,
with his cheeriness and his banjo, was another vital factor in chasing
away any tendency to downheartedness.

Once they were settled in their hut, the health of the party was quite
good. Of course, they were all a bit weak, some were light-headed, all
were frost-bitten, and others, later, had attacks of heart failure.
Blackborrow, whose toes were so badly frost-bitten in the boats, had to
have all five amputated while on the island. With insufficient
instruments and no proper means of sterilizing them, the operation,
carried out as it was in a dark, grimy hut, with only a blubber-stove
to keep up the temperature and with an outside temperature well below
freezing, speaks volumes for the skill and initiative of the surgeons.
I am glad to be able to say that the operation was very successful, and
after a little treatment ashore, very kindly given by the Chilian
doctors at Punta Arenas, he has now completely recovered and walks with
only a slight limp. Hudson, who developed bronchitis and hip disease,
was practically well again when the party was rescued. All trace of the
severe frost-bites suffered in the boat journey had disappeared, though
traces of recent superficial ones remained on some. All were naturally
weak when rescued, owing to having been on such scanty rations for so
long, but all were alive and very cheerful, thanks to Frank Wild.

August 30, 1916, is described in their diaries as a “day of wonders.”
Food was very short, only two days’ seal and penguin meat being left,
and no prospect of any more arriving. The whole party had been
collecting limpets and seaweed to eat with the stewed seal bones. Lunch
was being served by Wild, Hurley and Marston waiting outside to take a
last long look at the direction from which they expected the ship to
arrive. From a fortnight after I had left, Wild would roll up his
sleeping-bag each day with the remark, “Get your things ready, boys,
the Boss may come to-day.” And sure enough, one day the mist opened and
revealed the ship for which they had been waiting and longing and
hoping for over four months. “Marston was the first to notice it, and
immediately yelled out ‘Ship O!’ The inmates of the hut mistook it for
a call of ‘Lunch O!’ so took no notice at first. Soon, however, we
heard him pattering along the snow as fast as he could run, and in a
gasping, anxious voice, hoarse with excitement, he shouted, ‘Wild,
there’s a ship! Hadn’t we better light a flare?’ We all made one dive
for our narrow door. Those who could not get through tore down the
canvas walls in their hurry and excitement. The hoosh-pot with our
precious limpets and seaweed was kicked over in the rush. There, just
rounding the island which had previously hidden her from our sight, we
saw a little ship flying the Chilian flag.

“We tried to cheer, but excitement had gripped our vocal chords.
Macklin had made a rush for the flagstaff, previously placed in the
most conspicuous position on the ice-slope. The running-gear would not
work, and the flag was frozen into a solid, compact mass so he tied his
jersey to the top of the pole for a signal.

“Wild put a pick through our last remaining tin of petrol, and soaking
coats, mitts, and socks with it, carried them to the top of Penguin
Hill at the end of our spit, and soon, they were ablaze.

“Meanwhile most of us had gathered on the foreshore watching with
anxious eyes for any signs that the ship had seen us, or for any
answering signals. As we stood and gazed she seemed to turn away as if
she had not seen us. Again and again we cheered, though our feeble
cries could certainly not have carried so far. Suddenly she stopped, a
boat was lowered, and we could recognize Sir Ernest’s figure as he
climbed down the ladder. Simultaneously we burst into a cheer, and then
one said to the other, ‘Thank God, the Boss is safe.’ For I think that
his safety was of more concern to us than was our own.

“Soon the boat approached near enough for the Boss, who was standing up
in the bows, to shout to Wild, ‘Are you all well?’ To which he replied,
‘All safe, all well,’ and we could see a smile light up the Boss’s face
as he said, ‘Thank God!’

“Before he could land he threw ashore handsful of cigarettes and
tobacco; and these the smokers, who for two months had been trying to
find solace in such substitutes as seaweed, finely chopped pipe-bowls,
seal meat, and sennegrass, grasped greedily.

“Blackborrow, who could not walk, had been carried to a high rock and
propped up in his sleeping-bag, so that he could view the wonderful
scene.

“Soon we were tumbling into the boat, and the Chilian sailors, laughing
up at us, seemed as pleased at our rescue as we were. Twice more the
boat returned, and within an hour of our first having sighted the boat
we were heading northwards to the outer world from which we had had no
news since October 1914, over twenty-two months before. We are like men
awakened from a long sleep. We are trying to acquire suddenly the
perspective which the rest of the world has acquired gradually through
two years of war. There are many events which have happened of which we
shall never know.

“Our first meal, owing to our weakness and the atrophied state of our
stomachs, proved disastrous to a good many. They soon recovered though.
Our beds were just shake-downs on cushions and settees, though the
officer on watch very generously gave up his bunk to two of us. I think
we got very little sleep that night. It was just heavenly to lie and
listen to the throb of the engines, instead of to the crack of the
breaking floe, the beat of the surf on the ice-strewn shore, or the
howling of the blizzard.

“We intend to keep August 30 as a festival for the rest of our lives.”

You readers can imagine my feelings as I stood in the little cabin
watching my rescued comrades feeding.


[Illustration: “All Safe! All Well!”]


[Illustration: View through a Cave on Elephant Island]




CHAPTER XIII
THE ROSS SEA PARTY


I now turn to the fortunes and misfortunes of the Ross Sea Party and
the _Aurora_. In spite of extraordinary difficulties occasioned by the
breaking out of the _Aurora_ from her winter quarters before sufficient
stores and equipment had been landed, Captain Æneas Mackintosh and the
party under his command achieved the object of this side of the
Expedition. For the depot that was the main object of the Expedition
was laid in the spot that I had indicated, and if the transcontinental
party had been fortunate enough to have crossed they would have found
the assistance, in the shape of stores, that would have been vital to
the success of their undertaking. Owing to the dearth of stores,
clothing, and sledging equipment, the depot party was forced to travel
more slowly and with greater difficulty than would have otherwise been
the case. The result was that in making this journey the greatest
qualities of endurance, self-sacrifice, and patience were called for,
and the call was not in vain, as you reading the following pages will
realize. It is more than regrettable that after having gone through
those many months of hardship and toil, Mackintosh and Hayward should
have been lost. Spencer-Smith during those long days, dragged by his
comrades on the sledge, suffering but never complaining, became an
example to all men. Mackintosh and Hayward owed their lives on that
journey to the unremitting care and strenuous endeavours of Joyce,
Wild, and Richards, who, also scurvy-stricken but fitter than their
comrades, dragged them through the deep snow and blizzards on the
sledges. I think that no more remarkable story of human endeavour has
been revealed than the tale of that long march which I have collated
from various diaries. Unfortunately, the diary of the leader of this
side of the Expedition was lost with him. The outstanding feature of
the Ross Sea side was the journey made by these six men. The earlier
journeys for the first year did not produce any sign of the qualities
of leadership amongst the others. Mackintosh was fortunate for the long
journey in that he had these three men with him: Ernest Wild, Richards,
and Joyce.

Before proceeding with the adventures of this party I want to make
clear in these pages how much I appreciate the assistance I received
both in Australia and New Zealand, especially in the latter dominion.
And amongst the many friends there it is not invidious on my part to
lay special stress on the name of Leonard Tripp, who has been my
mentor, counsellor, and friend for many years, and who, when the
Expedition was in precarious and difficult circumstances, devoted his
energy, thought, and gave his whole time and advice to the best
interests of our cause. I also must thank Edward Saunders, who for the
second time has greatly helped me in preparing an Expedition record for
publication.

To the Dominion Government I tender my warmest thanks. To the people of
New Zealand, and especially to those many friends—too numerous to
mention here—who helped us when our fortunes were at a low ebb, I wish
to say that their kindness is an ever-green memory to me. If ever a man
had cause to be grateful for assistance in dark days, I am he.

The _Aurora_, under the command of Captain Æneas Mackintosh, sailed
from Hobart for the Ross Sea on December 24, 1914. The ship had
refitted in Sydney, where the State and Federal Governments had given
generous assistance, and would be able, if necessary, to spend two
years in the Antarctic. My instructions to Captain Mackintosh, in
brief, were to proceed to the Ross Sea, make a base at some convenient
point in or near McMurdo Sound, land stores and equipment, and lay
depots on the Great Ice Barrier in the direction of the Beardmore
Glacier for the use of the party that I expected to bring overland from
the Weddell Sea coast. This programme would involve some heavy
sledging, but the ground to be covered was familiar, and I had not
anticipated that the work would present any great difficulties. The
_Aurora_ carried materials for a hut, equipment for landing and
sledging parties, stores and clothing of all the kinds required, and an
ample supply of sledges. There were also dog teams and one of the
motor-tractors. I had told Captain Mackintosh that it was possible the
transcontinental journey would be attempted in the 1914–15 season in
the event of the landing on the Weddell Sea coast proving unexpectedly
easy, and it would be his duty, therefore, to lay out depots to the
south immediately after his arrival at his base. I had directed him to
place a depot of food and fuel-oil at lat. 80° S. in 1914–15, with
cairns and flags as guides to a sledging party approaching from the
direction of the Pole. He would place depots farther south in the
1915–16 season.

The _Aurora_ had an uneventful voyage southwards. She anchored off the
sealing-huts at Macquarie Island on Christmas Day, December 25. The
wireless station erected by Sir Douglas Mawson’s Australian Antarctic
Expedition could be seen on a hill to the north-west with the
Expedition’s hut at the base of the hill. This hut was still occupied
by a meteorological staff, and later in the day the meteorologist, Mr.
Tulloch, came off to the ship and had dinner aboard. The _Aurora_ had
some stores for the Macquarie Island party, and these were sent ashore
during succeeding days in the boats. The landing-place was a rough,
kelp-guarded beach, where lay the remains of the New Zealand barque
_Clyde_. Macquarie Island anchorages are treacherous, and several ships
engaged in the sealing and whaling trade have left their bones on the
rocky shores, where bask great herds of seals and sea-elephants. The
_Aurora_ sailed from the island on December 31, and three days later
they sighted the first iceberg, a tabular berg rising 250 ft. above the
sea. This was in lat. 62° 44´ S., long. 169° 58´ E. The next day, in
lat. 64° 27´ 38´´ S., the _Aurora_ passed through the first belt of
pack-ice. At 9 a.m. on January 7, Mount Sabine, a mighty peak of the
Admiralty Range, South Victoria Land, was sighted seventy-five miles
distant.

It had been proposed that a party of three men should travel to Cape
Crozier from winter quarters during the winter months in order to
secure emperor penguins’ eggs. The ship was to call at Cape Crozier,
land provisions, and erect a small hut of fibro-concrete sheets for the
use of this party. The ship was off the Cape on the afternoon of
January 9, and a boat put off with Stenhouse, Cope, Joyce, Ninnis,
Mauger, and Aitken to search for a landing-place. “We steered in
towards the Barrier,” wrote Stenhouse, “and found an opening leading
into a large bight which jutted back to eastward into the Barrier. We
endeavoured without success to scale the steep ice-foot under the
cliffs, and then proceeded up the bay. Pulling along the edge of
perpendicular ice, we turned into a bay in the ice-cliff and came to a
cul-de-sac, at the head of which was a grotto. At the head of the
grotto and on a ledge of snow were perched some adelie penguins. The
beautiful green and blue tints in the ice-colouring made a picture as
unreal as a stage setting. Coming back along the edge of the bight
towards the land, we caught and killed one penguin, much to the
surprise of another, which ducked into a niche in the ice and, after
much squawking, was extracted with a boat-hook and captured. We
returned to our original landing, and were fortunate in our time, for
no sooner had we cleared the ledge where Ninnis had been hanging in his
endeavour to catch the penguin than the barrier calved and a piece
weighing hundreds of tons toppled over into the sea.

“Since we left the ship a mist had blown up from the south, and when we
arrived back at the entrance to the bay the ship could be but dimly
seen. We found a slope on the ice-foot, and Joyce and I managed, by
cutting steps, to climb up to a ledge of debris between the cliffs and
the ice, which we thought might lead to the vicinity of the emperor
penguin rookery. I sent the boat back to the ship to tell the captain
of our failure to find a spot where we could depot the hut and stores,
and then, with Joyce, set out to walk along the narrow land between the
cliffs and the ice to the southward in hopes of finding the rookery. We
walked for about a mile along the foot of the cliffs, over undulating
paths, sometimes crawling carefully down a gully and then over rocks
and debris which had fallen from the steep cliffs which towered above
us, but we saw no signs of a rookery or any place where a rookery could
be. Close to the cliffs and separated from them by the path on which we
travelled, the Barrier in its movement towards the sea had broken and
showed signs of pressure. Seeing a turn in the cliffs ahead, which we
thought might lead to better prospects, we trudged on, and were
rewarded by a sight which Joyce admitted as being the grandest he had
ever witnessed. The Barrier had come into contact with the cliffs and,
from where we viewed it, it looked as if icebergs had fallen into a
tremendous cavern and lay jumbled together in wild disorder. Looking
down into that wonderful picture one realized a little the
‘eternalness’ of things.

“We had not long to wait, and, much as we wished to go ahead, had to
turn back. I went into a small crevasse; no damage. Arriving back at
the place where we left the boat we found it had not returned, so sat
down under an overhang and smoked and enjoyed the sense of loneliness.
Soon the boat appeared out of the mist, and the crew had much news for
us. After we left the ship the captain manœuvred her in order to get
close to the Barrier, but, unfortunately, the engines were loath to be
reversed when required to go astern and the ship hit the Barrier end
on. The Barrier here is about twenty feet high, and her jib-boom took
the weight and snapped at the cap. When I returned Thompson was busy
getting the broken boom and gear aboard. Luckily the cap was not broken
and no damage was done aloft, but it was rather a bad introduction to
the Antarctic. There is no place to land the Cape Crozier hut and
stores, so we must build a hut in the winter here, which will mean so
much extra sledging from winter quarters. Bad start, good finish! Joyce
and I went aloft to the crow’s-nest, but could see no opening in the
Barrier to eastward where a ship might enter and get farther south.”

Mackintosh proceeded into McMurdo Sound. Heavy pack delayed the ship
for three days, and it was not until January 16 that she reached a
point off Cape Evans, where he landed ten tons of coal and ninety-eight
cases of oil. During succeeding days Captain Mackintosh worked the
_Aurora_ southward, and by January 24 he was within nine miles of Hut
Point. There he made the ship fast to sea-ice, then breaking up
rapidly, and proceeded to arrange sledging parties. It was his
intention to direct the laying of the depots himself and to leave his
first officer, Lieut. J. R. Stenhouse, in command of the _Aurora_, with
instructions to select a base and land a party.

The first objective was Hut Point, where stands the hut erected by the
_Discovery_ expedition in 1902. An advance party, consisting of Joyce
(in charge), Jack, and Gaze, with dogs and fully loaded sledges, left
the ship on January 24; Mackintosh, with Wild and Smith, followed the
next day; and a supporting party, consisting of Cope (in charge),
Stevens, Ninnis, Haywood, Hooke, and Richards, left the ship on January
30. The first two parties had dog teams. The third party took with it
the motor-tractor, which does not appear to have given the good service
that I had hoped to get from it. These parties had a strenuous time
during the weeks that followed. The men, fresh from shipboard, were not
in the best of training, and the same was true of the dogs. It was
unfortunate that the dogs had to be worked so early after their arrival
in the Antarctic. They were in poor condition and they had not learned
to work together as teams. The result was the loss of many of the dogs,
and this proved a serious matter in the following season. Captain
Mackintosh’s record of the sledging in the early months of 1915 is
fairly full. It will not be necessary here to follow the fortunes of
the various parties in detail, for although the men were facing
difficulties and dangers, they were on well-travelled ground, which has
been made familiar to most readers by the histories of earlier
Expeditions.

Captain Mackintosh and his party left the _Aurora_ on the evening of
January 25. They had nine dogs and one heavily loaded sledge, and
started off briskly to the accompaniment of a cheer from their
shipmates. The dogs were so eager for exercise after their prolonged
confinement aboard the ship that they dashed forward at their best
speed, and it was necessary for one man to sit upon the sledge in order
to moderate the pace. Mackintosh had hoped to get to Hut Point that
night, but luck was against him. The weather broke after he had
travelled about five miles, and snow, which completely obscured all
landmarks, sent him into camp on the sea-ice. The weather was still
thick on the following morning, and the party, making a start after
breakfast, missed its way. “We shaped a course where I imagined Hut
Point to be,” wrote Captain Mackintosh in his diary, “but when the
sledge-meter showed thirteen miles fifty yards, which is four miles in
excess of the distance from the slip to Hut Point, I decided to halt
again. The surface was changing considerably and the land was still
obscured. We have been travelling over a thick snow surface, in which
we sink deeply, and the dogs are not too cheerful about it.” They
started again at noon on January 27, when the weather had cleared
sufficiently to reveal the land, and reached Hut Point at 4 p.m. The
sledge-meter showed that the total distance travelled had been over
seventeen miles. Mackintosh found in the hut a note from Joyce, who had
been there on the 25th, and who reported that one of his dogs had been
killed in a fight with its companions. The hut contained some stores
left there by earlier Expeditions. The party stayed there for the
night. Mackintosh left a note for Stenhouse directing him to place
provisions in the hut in case the sledging parties did not return in
time to be taken off by the ship. Early next morning Joyce reached the
hut. He had encountered bad ice and had come back to consult with
Mackintosh regarding the route to be followed. Mackintosh directed him
to steer out towards Black Island in crossing the head of the Sound
beyond Hut Point.

Mackintosh left Hut Point on January 28. He had taken some additional
stores, and he mentions that the sledge now weighed 1200 lbs. This was
a heavy load, but the dogs were pulling well and he thought it
practicable. He encountered difficulty almost at once after descending
the slope from the point to the sea-ice, for the sledge stuck in soft
snow and the party had to lighten the load and relay until they reached
a better surface. They were having trouble with the dogs, which did not
pull cheerfully, and the total distance covered in the day was under
four miles. The weather was warm and the snow consequently was soft.
Mackintosh had decided that it would be best to travel at night. A fall
of snow held up the party throughout the following day, and they did
not get away from their camp until shortly before midnight. “The
surface was abominably soft,” wrote Mackintosh. “We harnessed ourselves
on to the sledge and with the dogs made a start, but we had a struggle
to get off. We had not gone very far when in deeper snow we stopped
dead. Try as we would, no movement could be produced. Reluctantly we
unloaded and began the tedious task of relaying. The work, in spite of
the lighter load on the sledge, proved terrific for ourselves and for
the dogs. We struggled for four hours, and then set camp to await the
evening, when the sun would not be so fierce and the surface might be
better. I must say I feel somewhat despondent, as we are not getting on
as well as I expected, nor do we find it as easy as one would gather
from reading.”

The two parties met again that day. Joyce also had been compelled to
relay his load, and all hands laboured strenuously and advanced slowly.
They reached the edge of the Barrier on the night of January 30 and
climbed an easy slope to the Barrier surface, about thirty feet above
the sea-ice. The dogs were showing signs of fatigue, and when
Mackintosh camped at 6.30 a.m. on January 31, he reckoned that the
distance covered in twelve and a half hours had been about two and a
half miles. The men had killed a seal at the edge of the sea-ice and
placed the meat on a cairn for future use. One dog, having refused to
pull, had been left behind with a good feed of meat, and Mackintosh
hoped the animal would follow. The experiences of the party during the
days that followed can be indicated by some extracts from Mackintosh’s
diary.

“_Sunday, January_ 31.—Started off this afternoon at 3 p.m. Surface too
dreadful for words. We sink into snow at times up to our knees, the
dogs struggling out of it panting and making great efforts. I think the
soft snow must be accounted for by a phenomenally fine summer without
much wind. After proceeding about 1000 yds. I spotted some poles on our
starboard side. We shaped course for these and found Captain Scott’s
Safety Camp. We unloaded a relay here and went back with empty sledge
for the second relay. It took us four hours to do just this short
distance. It is exasperating. After we had got the second load up we
had lunch. Then we dug round the poles, while snow fell, and after
getting down about three feet we came across, first, a bag of oats,
lower down two cases of dog-biscuit—one with a complete week’s ration,
the other with seal meat. A good find. About forty paces away we found
a venesta-lid sticking out of the snow. Smith scraped round this with
his ice-axe and presently discovered one of the motor-sledges Captain
Scott used. Everything was just as it had been left, the petrol-tank
partly filled and apparently undeteriorated. We marked the spot with a
pole. The snow clearing, we proceeded with a relay. We got only half a
mile, still struggling in deep snow, and then went back for the second
load. We can still see the cairn erected at the Barrier edge and a
black spot which we take to be the dog.

“_February_ 1.—We turned out at 7.30 p.m., and after a meal broke camp.
We made a relay of two and a half miles. The sledge-meter stopped
during this relay. Perhaps that is the cause of our mileage not
showing. We covered seven and a half miles in order to bring the load
two and a half miles. After lunch we decided, as the surface was
getting better, to make a shot at travelling with the whole load. It
was a back-breaking job. Wild led the team, while Smith and I pulled in
harness. The great trouble is to get the sledge started after the many
unavoidable stops. We managed to cover one mile. This even is better
than relaying. We then camped—the dogs being entirely done up, poor
brutes.

“_February_ 2.—We were awakened this afternoon, while in our bags, by
hearing Joyce’s dogs barking. They have done well and have caught us
up. Joyce’s voice was heard presently, asking us the time. He is
managing the full load. We issued a challenge to race him to the Bluff,
which he accepted. When we turned out at 6.30 p.m. his camp was seen
about three miles ahead. About 8 p.m., after our hoosh, we made a
start, and reached Joyce’s camp at 1 a.m. The dogs had been pulling
well, seeing the camp ahead, but when we arrived off it they were not
inclined to go on. After a little persuasion and struggle we got off,
but not for long. This starting business is terrible work. We have to
shake the sledge and its big load while we shout to the dogs to start.
If they do not pull together it is useless. When we get the sledge
going we are on tenter-hooks lest it stop again on the next soft slope,
and this often occurs. Sledging is real hard work; but we are getting
along.”

The surface was better on February 2, and the party covered six miles
without relaying. They camped in soft snow, and when they started the
next day they were two hours relaying over one hundred and fifty yards.
Then they got into Joyce’s track and found the going better. Mackintosh
overtook Joyce on the morning of February 4 and went ahead, his party
breaking trail during the next march. They covered ten miles on the
night of the 4th. One dog had “chucked his hand in” on the march, and
Mackintosh mentions that he intended to increase the dogs’ allowance of
food. The surface was harder, and during the night of February 5
Mackintosh covered eleven miles twenty-five yards, but he finished with
two dogs on the sledge. Joyce was travelling by day, so that the
parties passed one another daily on the march.

A blizzard came from the south on February 10 and the parties were
confined to their tents for over twenty-four hours. The weather
moderated on the morning of the next day, and at 11 a.m. Mackintosh
camped beside Joyce and proceeded to rearrange the parties. One of his
dogs had died on the 9th, and several others had ceased to be worth
much for pulling. He had decided to take the best dogs from the two
teams and continue the march with Joyce and Wild, while Smith, Jack,
and Gaze went back to Hut Point with the remaining dogs. This involved
the adjustment of sledge-loads in order that the proper supplies might
be available for the depots. He had eight dogs and Smith had five. A
depot of oil and fuel was laid at this point and marked by a cairn with
a bamboo pole rising ten feet above it. The change made for better
progress. Smith turned back at once, and the other party went ahead
fairly rapidly, the dogs being able to haul the sledge without much
assistance from the men. The party built a cairn of snow after each
hour’s travelling to serve as guides to the depot and as marks for the
return journey. Another blizzard held the men up on February 13, and
they had an uncomfortable time in their sleeping-bags owing to low
temperature.

During succeeding days the party plodded forward. They were able to
cover from five to twelve miles a day, according to the surface and
weather. They built the cairns regularly and checked their route by
taking bearings of the mountains to the west. They were able to cover
from five to twelve miles a day, the dogs pulling fairly well. They
reached lat. 80° S. on the afternoon of February 20. Mackintosh had
hoped to find a depot laid in that neighbourhood by Captain Scott, but
no trace of it was seen. The surface had been very rough during the
afternoon, and for that reason the depot to be laid there was named
Rocky Mountain Depot. The stores were to be placed on a substantial
cairn, and smaller cairns were to be built at right angles to the depot
as a guide to the overland party. “As soon as breakfast was over,”
wrote Mackintosh the next day, “Joyce and Wild went off with a light
sledge and the dogs to lay out the cairns and place flags to the
eastward, building them at every mile. The outer cairn had a large flag
and a note indicating the position of the depot. I remained behind to
get angles and fix our position with the theodolite. The temperature
was very low this morning, and handling the theodolite was not too warm
a job for the fingers. My whiskers froze to the metal while I was
taking a sight. After five hours the others arrived back. They had
covered ten miles, five miles out and five miles back. During the
afternoon we finished the cairn, which we have built to a height of
eight feet. It is a solid square erection which ought to stand a good
deal of weathering, and on top we have placed a bamboo pole with a
flag, making the total height twenty-five feet. Building the cairn was
a fine warming job, but the ice on our whiskers often took some ten
minutes thawing out. To-morrow we hope to lay out the cairns to the
westward, and then to shape our course for the Bluff.”

The weather, became bad again during the night. A blizzard kept the men
in their sleeping-bags on February 21, and it was not until the
afternoon of the 23rd that Mackintosh and Joyce made an attempt to lay
out the cairns to the west. They found that two of the dogs had died
during the storm, leaving seven dogs to haul the sledge. They marched a
mile and a half to the westward and built a cairn, but the weather was
very thick and they did not think it wise to proceed farther. They
could not see more than a hundred yards and the tent was soon out of
sight. They returned to the camp, and stayed there until the morning of
February 24, when they started the return march with snow still
falling. “We did get off from our camp,” says Mackintosh, “but had only
proceeded about four hundred yards when the fog came on so thick that
we could scarcely see a yard ahead, so we had to pitch the tent again,
and are now sitting inside hoping the weather will clear. We are going
back with only ten days’ provisions, so it means pushing on for all we
are worth. These stoppages are truly annoying. The poor dogs are
feeling hungry; they eat their harness or any straps that may be about.
We can give them nothing beyond their allowance of three biscuits each
as we are on bare rations ourselves; but I feel sure they require more
than one pound a day. That is what they are getting now.... After lunch
we found it a little clearer, but a very bad light. We decided to push
on. It is weird travelling in this light. There is no contrast or
outline; the sky and the surface are one, and we cannot discern
undulations, which we encounter with disastrous results. We picked up
the first of our outward cairns. This was most fortunate. After passing
a second cairn everything became blotted out, and so we were forced to
camp, after covering 4 miles 703 yds. The dogs are feeling the pangs of
hunger and devouring everything they see. They will eat anything except
rope. If we had not wasted those three days we might have been able to
give them a good feed at the Bluff depot, but now that is impossible.
It is snowing hard.”

The experiences of the next few days were unhappy. Another blizzard
brought heavy snow and held the party up throughout the 25th and 26th.
“Outside is a scene of chaos. The snow, whirling along with the wind,
obliterates everything. The dogs are completely buried, and only a
mound with a ski sticking up indicates where the sledge is. We long to
be off, but the howl of the wind shows how impossible it is. The
sleeping-bags are damp and sticky, so are our clothes. Fortunately, the
temperature is fairly high and they do not freeze. One of the dogs gave
a bark and Joyce went out to investigate. He found that Major, feeling
hungry, had dragged his way to Joyce’s ski and eaten off the leather
binding. Another dog has eaten all his harness, canvas, rope, leather,
brass, and rivets. I am afraid the dogs will not pull through; they all
look thin and these blizzards do not improve matters.... We have a
week’s provisions and one hundred and sixty miles to travel. It appears
that we will have to get another week’s provisions from the depot, but
don’t wish it. Will see what luck to-morrow. Of course, at Bluff we can
replenish.”


[Illustration: The Aurora]


[Illustration: Ice Stalactites at the Entrance to a Cave on Elephant
Island]


“We are now reduced to one meal in the twenty-four hours,” wrote
Mackintosh a day later. “This going without food keeps us colder. It is
a rotten, miserable time. It is bad enough having this wait, but we
have also the wretched thought of having to use the provisions already
depot-ed, for which we have had all this hard struggle.” The weather
cleared on the 27th, and in the afternoon Mackintosh and Joyce went
back to the depot, while Wild remained behind to build a cairn and
attempt to dry the sleeping-bags in the sun. The stores left at the
depot had been two and a quarter tins of biscuit (42 lbs. to the tin),
rations for three men for three weeks in bags, each intended to last
one week, and three tins of oil. Mackintosh took one of the weekly bags
from the depot and returned to the camp. The party resumed the homeward
journey the next morning, and with a sail on the sledge to take
advantage of the southerly breeze, covered nine miles and a half during
the day. But the dogs had reached almost the limit of their endurance;
three of them fell out, unable to work longer, while on the march. That
evening, for the first time since leaving the _Aurora_, the men saw the
sun dip to the horizon in the south, a reminder that the Antarctic
summer was nearing its close.

The remaining four dogs collapsed on March 2. “After lunch we went off
fairly well for half an hour. Then Nigger commenced to wobble about,
his legs eventually giving under him. We took him out of his harness
and let him travel along with us, but he has given us all he can, and
now can only lie down. After Nigger, my friend Pompey collapsed. The
drift, I think, accounts a good deal for this. Pompey has been splendid
of late, pulling steadily and well. Then Scotty, the last dog but one,
gave up. They are all lying down in our tracks. They have a painless
death, for they curl up in the snow and fall into a sleep from which
they will never wake. We are left with one dog, Pinkey. He has not been
one of the pullers, but he is not despised. We can afford to give him
plenty of biscuit. We must nurse him and see if we cannot return with
one dog at least. We are now pulling ourselves, with the sail (the
floor-cloth of the tent) set and Pinkey giving a hand. At one stage a
terrific gust came along and capsized the sledge. The sail was blown
off the sledge, out of its guys, and we prepared to camp, but the wind
fell again to a moderate breeze, so we repaired the sledge and
proceeded.

“It is blowing hard this evening, cold too. Another wonderful sunset.
Golden colours illuminate the sky. The moon casts beautiful rays in
combination with the more vivid ones from the dipping sun. If all was
as beautiful as the scene we could consider ourselves in some paradise,
but it is dark and cold in the tent and I shiver in a frozen
sleeping-bag. The inside fur is a mass of ice, congealed from my
breath. One creeps into the bag, toggles up with half-frozen fingers,
and hears the crackling of the ice. Presently drops of thawing ice are
falling on one’s head. Then comes a fit of shivers. You rub yourself
and turn over to warm the side of the bag which has been uppermost. A
puddle of water forms under the body. After about two hours you may
doze off, but I always wake with the feeling that I have not slept a
wink.”

The party made only three and a half miles on March 3. They were
finding the sledge exceedingly heavy to pull, and Mackintosh decided to
remove the outer runners and scrape the bottom. These runners should
have been taken off before the party started, and the lower runners
polished smooth. He also left behind all spare gear, including
dog-harness in order to reduce weight, and found the lighter sledge
easier to pull. The temperature that night was –28° Fahr., the lowest
recorded during the journey up to that time. “We are struggling along
at a mile an hour,” wrote Mackintosh on the 5th. “It is a very hard
pull, the surface being very sticky. Pinkey still accompanies us. We
hope we can get him in. He is getting all he wants to eat. So he
ought.” The conditions of travel changed the next day. A southerly wind
made possible the use of the sail, and the trouble was to prevent the
sledge bounding ahead over rough sastrugi and capsizing. The handling
of ropes and the sail caused many frost-bites, and occasionally the men
were dragged along the surface by the sledge. The remaining dog
collapsed during the afternoon and had to be left behind. Mackintosh
did not feel that he could afford to reduce the pace. The sledge-meter,
had got out of order, so the distance covered in the day was not
recorded. The wind increased during the night, and by the morning of
the 7th was blowing with blizzard force. The party did not move again
until the morning of the 8th. They were still finding the sledge very
heavy and were disappointed at their slow progress, their marches being
six to eight miles a day. On the 10th they got the Bluff Peak in line
with Mount Discovery. My instructions had been that the Bluff depot
should be laid on this line, and as the depot had been placed north of
the line on the outward journey, owing to thick weather making it
impossible to pick up the landmarks, Mackintosh intended now to move
the stores to the proper place. He sighted the depot flag about four
miles away, and after pitching camp at the new depot site, he went
across with Joyce and Wild and found the stores as he had left them.

“We loaded the sledge with the stores, placed the large mark flag on
the sledge, and proceeded back to our tent, which was now out of sight.
Indeed it was not wise to come out as we did without tent or bag. We
had taken the chance, as the weather had promised fine. As we proceeded
it grew darker and darker, and eventually we were travelling by only
the light of stars, the sun having dipped. After four and a half hours
we sighted the little green tent. It was hard pulling the last two
hours and weird travelling in the dark. We have put in a good day,
having had fourteen hours’ solid marching. We are now sitting in here
enjoying a very excellent thick hoosh. A light has been improvised out
of an old tin with methylated spirit.”

The party spent the next day in their sleeping-bags, while a blizzard
raged outside. The weather was fine again on March 12, and they built a
cairn for the depot. The stores placed on this cairn comprised a six
weeks’ supply of biscuit and three weeks’ full ration for three men,
and three tins of oil. Early in the afternoon the men resumed their
march northwards and made three miles before camping. “Our bags are
getting into a bad state,” wrote Mackintosh, “as it is some time now
since we have had an opportunity of drying them. We use our bodies for
drying socks and such-like clothing, which we place inside our jerseys
and produce when required. Wild carries a regular wardrobe in this
position, and it is amusing to see him searching round the back of his
clothes for a pair of socks. Getting away in the mornings is our
bitterest time. The putting on of the finneskoe is a nightmare, for
they are always frozen stiff, and we have a great struggle to force our
feet into them. The icy sennegrass round one’s fingers is another
punishment that causes much pain. We are miserable until we are
actually on the move, then warmth returns with the work. Our
conversation now is principally conjecture as to what can have happened
to the other parties. We have various ideas.”

Saturday, March 13, was another day spent in the sleeping-bags. A
blizzard was raging and everything was obscured. The men saved food by
taking only one meal during the day, and they felt the effect of the
short rations in lowered vitality. Both Joyce and Wild had toes
frost-bitten while in their bags and found difficulty in getting the
circulation restored. Wild suffered particularly in this way and his
feet were very sore. The weather cleared a little the next morning, but
the drift began again before the party could break camp, and another
day had to be spent in the frozen bags.

The march was resumed on March 15. “About 11 p.m. last night the
temperature commenced to get lower and the gale also diminished. The
lower temperature caused the bags, which were moist, to freeze hard. We
had no sleep and spent the night twisting and turning. The morning
brought sunshine and pleasure, for the hot hoosh warmed our bodies and
gave a glow that was most comforting. The sun was out, the weather fine
and clear but cold. At 8.30 a.m. we made a start. We take a long time
putting on our finneskoe, although we get up earlier to allow for this.
This morning we were over four hours’ getting away. We had a fine
surface this morning for marching, but we did not make much headway. We
did the usual four miles before lunch. The temperature was –23° Fahr. A
mirage made the sastrugi appear to be dancing like some ice-goblins.
Joyce calls them ‘dancing jimmies.’ After lunch we travelled well, but
the distance for the day was only 7 miles 400 yds. We are blaming our
sledge-meter for the slow rate of progress. It is extraordinary that on
the days when we consider we are making good speed we do no more than
on days when we have a tussle.”

“_March_ 15.—The air temperature this morning was –35° Fahr. Last night
was one of the worst I have ever experienced. To cap everything, I
developed toothache, presumably as a result of frost-bitten cheek. I
was in positive agony. I groaned and moaned, got the medicine-chest,
but could find nothing there to stop the pain. Joyce, who had wakened
up, suggested methylated spirit, so I damped some cotton-wool, then
placed it in the tooth, with the result that I burnt the inside of my
mouth. All this time my fingers, being exposed (it must have been at
least 50° below zero), were continually having to be brought back.
After putting on the methylated spirit I went back to the bag, which,
of course, was frozen stiff. I wriggled and moaned till morning brought
relief by enabling me to turn out. Joyce and Wild both had a bad night,
their feet giving them trouble. My feet do not affect me so much as
theirs. The skin has peeled off the inside of my mouth, exposing a raw
sore, as the result of the methylated spirit. My tooth is better
though. We have had to reduce our daily ration. Frost-bites are
frequent in consequence. The surface became very rough in the
afternoon, and the light, too, was bad owing to cumulus clouds being
massed over the sun. We are continually falling, for we are unable to
distinguish the high and low parts of the sastrugi surface. We are
travelling on our ski. We camped at 6 p.m. after travelling 6 miles 100
yds. I am writing this sitting up in the bag. This is the first
occasion I have been able to do thus for some time, for usually the
cold has penetrated through everything should one have the bag open.
The temperature is a little higher to-night, but still it is –21° Fahr.
(53° of frost). Our matches, among other things, are running short, and
we have given up using any except for lighting the Primus.”

The party found the light bad again the next day. After stumbling on
ski among the sastrugi for two hours, the men discarded the ski and
made better progress; but they still had many falls, owing to the
impossibility of distinguishing slopes and irregularities in the grey,
shadowless surface of the snow. They made over nine and a half miles
that day, and managed to cover ten miles on the following day, March
18, one of the best marches of the journey. “I look forward to seeing
the ship. All of us bear marks of our tramp. Wild takes first place.
His nose is a picture for _Punch_ to be jealous of; his ears, too, are
sore, and one big toe is a black sore. Joyce has a good nose and many
minor sores. My jaw is swollen from the frost-bite I got on the cheek,
and I also have a bit of nose.... We have discarded the ski, which we
hitherto used, and travel in the finneskoe. This makes the sledge go
better but it is not so comfortable travelling as on ski. We
encountered a very high, rough sastrugi surface, most remarkably high,
and had a cold breeze in our faces during the march. Our beards and
moustaches are masses of ice. I will take care I am clean-shaven next
time I come out. The frozen moustache makes the lobes of the nose
freeze more easily than they would if there was no ice alongside
them.... I ask myself why on earth one comes to these parts of the
earth. Here we are, frostbitten in the day, frozen at night. What a
life!” The temperature at 1 p.m. that day was –23° Fahr., _i.e._ 55° of
frost.

The men camped abreast of “Corner Camp,” where they had been on
February 1, on the evening of March 19. The next day, after being
delayed for some hours by bad weather, they turned towards Castle Rock
and proceeded across the disturbed area where the Barrier impinges upon
the land. Joyce put his foot through the snow-covering of a fairly
large crevasse, and the course had to be changed to avoid this danger.
The march for the day was only 2 miles 900 yds. Mackintosh felt that
the pace was too slow, but was unable to quicken it owing to the bad
surfaces. The food had been cut down to close upon half-rations, and at
this reduced rate the supply still in hand would be finished in two
days. The party covered 7 miles 570 yds. on the 21st, and the hoosh
that night was “no thicker than tea.”

“The first thought this morning was that we must do a good march,”
wrote Mackintosh on March 22. “Once we can get to Safety Camp (at the
junction of the Barrier with the sea-ice) we are right. Of course, we
can as a last resort abandon the sledge and take a run into Hut Point,
about twenty-two miles away.... We have managed quite a respectable
forenoon march. The surface was hard, so we took full advantage of it.
With our low food the cold is penetrating. We had lunch at 1 p.m., and
then had left over one meal at full rations and a small quantity of
biscuits. The temperature at lunch-time was –6° Fahr. Erebus is
emitting large volumes of smoke, travelling in a south-easterly
direction, and a red glare is also discernible. After lunch we again
accomplished a good march, the wind favouring us for two hours. We are
anxiously looking out for Safety Camp.” The distance for the day was 8
miles 1525 yds.

“_March_ 23, 1915.—No sooner had we camped last night than a blizzard
with drift came on and has continued ever since. This morning finds us
prisoners. The drift is lashing into the sides of the tent and
everything outside is obscured. This weather is rather alarming, for if
it continues we are in a bad way. We have just made a meal of cocoa
mixed with biscuit-crumbs. This has warmed us up a little, but on empty
stomachs the cold is penetrating.”

The weather cleared in the afternoon, but too late for the men to move
that day. They made a start at 7 a.m. on the 24th after a meal of cocoa
and biscuit-crumbs.

“We have some biscuit-crumbs in the bag and that is all. Our start was
made under most bitter circumstances, all of us being attacked by
frost-bites. It was an effort to bare hands for an instant. After much
rubbing and ‘bringing back’ of extremities we started. Wild is a mass
of bites, and we are all in a bad way. We plugged on, but warmth would
not come into our bodies. We had been pulling about two hours when
Joyce’s smart eyes picked up a flag. We shoved on for all we were
worth, and as we got closer, sure enough, the cases of provisions
loomed up. Then what feeds we promised to give ourselves. It was not
long before we were putting our gastronomic capabilities to the test.
Pemmican was brought down from the depot, with oatmeal to thicken it,
as well as sugar. While Wild was getting the Primus lighted he called
out to us that he believed his ear had gone. This was the last piece of
his face left whole—nose, cheeks, and neck all having bites. I went
into the tent and had a look. The ear was a pale green. I quickly put
the palm of my hand to it and brought it round. Then his fingers went,
and to stop this and bring back the circulation he put them over the
lighted Primus, a terrible thing to do. As a result he was in agony.
His ear was brought round all right, and soon the hot hoosh sent warmth
tingling through us. We felt like new beings. We simply ate till we
were full, mug after mug. After we had been well satisfied, we replaced
the cases we had pulled down from the depot and proceeded towards the
Gap. Just before leaving Joyce discovered a note left by Spencer-Smith
and Richards. This told us that both the other parties had returned to
the Hut and apparently all was well. So that is good. When we got to
the Barrier-edge we found the ice-cliff on to the newly formed sea-ice
not safe enough to bear us, so we had to make a detour along the
Barrier-edge and, if the sea ice was not negotiable, find a way up by
Castle Rock. At 7 p.m., not having found any suitable place to descend
to the sea-ice we camped. To-night we have the Primus going and warming
our frozen selves. I hope to make Hut Point to-morrow.”

Mackintosh and his companions broke camp on the morning of March 25,
with the thermometer recording 55° of frost, and, after another futile
search for a way down the ice-cliff to the sea-ice, they proceeded
towards Castle Rock. While in this course they picked up sledge-tracks,
and, following these, they found a route down to the sea-ice.
Mackintosh decided to depot the sledge on top of a well-marked
undulation and proceed without gear. A short time later the three men,
after a scramble over the cliffs of Hut Point, reached the door of the
hut.

“We shouted. No sound. Shouted again, and presently a dark object
appeared. This turned out to be Cope, who was by himself. The other
members of the party had gone out to fetch the gear off their sledge,
which they also had left. Cope had been laid up, so did not go with
them. We soon were telling each other’s adventures, and we heard then
how the ship had called here on March 11 and picked up Spencer-Smith,
Richards, Ninnis, Hooke, and Gaze, the present members here being Cope,
Hayward, and Jack. A meal was soon prepared. We found here even a
blubber-fire, luxurious, but what a state of dirt and grease! However,
warmth and food are at present our principal objects. While we were
having our meal Jack and Hayward appeared.... Late in the evening we
turned into dry bags. As there are only three bags here, we take it in
turns to use them. Our party have the privilege.... I got a letter here
from Stenhouse giving a summary of his doings since we left him. The
ship’s party also have not had a rosy time.”

Mackintosh learned here that Spencer-Smith, Jack, and Gaze, who had
turned back on February 10, had reached Hut Point without difficulty.
The third party, headed by Cope, had also been out on the Barrier but
had not done much. This party had attempted to use the motor-tractor,
but had failed to get effective service from the machine and had not
proceeded far afield. The motor was now lying at Hut Point.
Spencer-Smith’s party and Cope’s party had both returned to Hut Point
before the end of February.

The six men now at Hut Point were cut off from the winter quarters of
the Expedition at Cape Evans by the open water of McMurdo Sound.
Mackintosh naturally was anxious to make the crossing and get in touch
with the ship and the other members of the shore party; but he could
not make a move until the sea-ice became firm, and, as events occurred,
he did not reach Cape Evans until the beginning of June. He went out
with Cope and Hayward on March 29 to get his sledge and brought it as
far as Pram Point, on the south side of Hut Point. He had to leave the
sledge there owing to the condition of the sea-ice. He and his
companions lived an uneventful life under primitive conditions at the
hut. The weather was bad, and though the temperatures recorded were
low, the young sea-ice continually broke away. The blubber-stove in use
at the hut seemed to have produced soot and grease in the usual large
quantities, and the men and their clothing suffered accordingly. The
whites of their eyes contrasted vividly with the dense blackness of
their skins. Wild and Joyce had a great deal of trouble with their
frost-bites. Joyce had both feet blistered, his knees were swollen, and
his hands also were blistered. Jack devised some blubber-lamps, which
produced an uncertain light and much additional smoke. Mackintosh
records that the members of the party were contented enough but
“unspeakably dirty,” and he writes longingly of baths and clean
clothing. The store of seal-blubber ran low early in April, and all
hands kept a sharp look-out for seals. On April 15 several seals were
seen and killed. The operations of killing and skinning made worse the
greasy and blackened clothes of the men. It is to be regretted that
though there was a good deal of literature available, especially on
this particular district, the leaders of the various parties had not
taken advantage of it and so supplemented their knowledge. Joyce and
Mackintosh of course had had previous Antarctic experience: but it was
open to all to have carefully studied the detailed instructions
published in the books of the three last Expeditions in this quarter.




CHAPTER XIV
WINTERING IN McMURDO SOUND


The _Aurora_, after picking up six men at Hut Point on March 11, had
gone back to Cape Evans. The position chosen for the winter quarters of
the _Aurora_ was at Cape Evans, immediately off the hut erected by
Captain Scott on his last Expedition. The ship on March 14 lay about
forty yards off shore, bows seaward. Two anchors had been taken ashore
and embedded in heavy stone rubble, and to these anchors were attached
six steel hawsers. The hawsers held the stern, while the bow was
secured by the ordinary ship’s anchors. Later, when the new ice had
formed round the _Aurora_, the cable was dragged ashore over the smooth
surface and made fast. The final moorings thus were six hawsers and one
cable astern, made fast to the shore anchors, and two anchors with
about seventy fathoms of cable out forward. On March 23 Mr. Stenhouse
landed a party consisting of Stevens, Spencer-Smith, Gaze, and Richards
in order that they might carry out routine observations ashore. These
four men took up their quarters in Captain Scott’s hut. They had been
instructed to kill seals for meat and blubber. The landing of stores,
gear, and coal did not proceed at all rapidly, it being assumed that
the ship would remain at her moorings throughout the winter. Some tons
of coal were taken ashore during April, but most of it stayed on the
beach, and much of it was lost later when the sea-ice went out. This
shore party was in the charge of Stevens, and his report, handed to me
much later, gives a succinct account of what occurred, from the point
of view of the men at the hut:

“CAPE EVANS, ROSS ISLAND, _July_ 30, 1915.


“On the 23rd March, 1915, a party consisting of Spencer-Smith,
Richards, and Gaze was landed at Cape Evans Hut in my charge.
Spencer-Smith received independent instructions to devote his time
exclusively to photography. I was verbally instructed that the main
duty of the party was to obtain a supply of seals for food and fuel.
Scientific work was also to be carried on.

“Meteorological instruments were at once installed, and experiments
were instituted on copper electrical thermometers in order to
supplement our meagre supply of instruments and enable observations of
earth, ice, and sea temperatures to be made. Other experimental work
was carried on, and the whole of the time of the scientific members of
the party was occupied. All seals seen were secured. On one or two
occasions the members of the shore party were summoned to work on board
ship.

“In general the weather was unsettled, blizzards occurring frequently
and interrupting communication with the ship across the ice. Only
small, indispensable supplies of stores and no clothes were issued to
the party on shore. Only part of the scientific equipment was able to
be transferred to the shore, and the necessity to obtain that prevented
some members of the party landing all their personal gear.

“The ship was moored stern on to the shore, at first well over one
hundred yards from it. There were two anchors out ahead and the vessel
was made fast to two others sunk in the ground ashore by seven wires.
The strain on the wires was kept constant by tightening up from time to
time such as became slack, and easing cables forward, and in this way
the ship was brought much closer inshore. A cable was now run out to
the south anchor ashore, passed onboard through a fair-lead under the
port end of the bridge, and made fast to bollards forward. Subsequent
strain due to ice and wind pressure on the ship broke three of the
wires. Though I believe it was considered on board that the ship was
secure, there was still considerable anxiety felt. The anchors had held
badly before, and the power of the ice-pressure on the ship was
uncomfortably obvious.

“Since the ship had been moored the bay had frequently frozen over, and
the ice had as frequently gone out on account of blizzards. The ice
does not always go out before the wind has passed its maximum. It
depends on the state of tides and currents; for the sea-ice has been
seen more than once to go out bodily when a blizzard had almost
completely calmed down.

“On the 6th May the ice was in and people passed freely between the
shore and the ship. At 11 p.m. the wind was south, backing to
south-east, and blew at forty miles per hour. The ship was still in her
place. At 3 a.m. on the 7th the wind had not increased to any extent,
but ice and ship had gone. As she was not seen to go we are unable to
say whether the vessel was damaged. The shore end of the cable was bent
twice sharply, and the wires were loose. On the afternoon of the 7th
the weather cleared somewhat, but nothing was seen of the ship. The
blizzard only lasted some twelve hours. Next day the wind became
northerly, but on the 10th there was blowing the fiercest blizzard we
have so far experienced from the south-east. Nothing has since been
seen or heard of the ship, though a look-out was kept.

“Immediately the ship went as accurate an inventory as possible of all
stores ashore was made, and the rate of consumption of food-stuffs so
regulated that they would last ten men for not less than one hundred
weeks. Coal had already been used with the utmost economy. Little could
be done to cut down the consumption, but the transference to the
neighbourhood of the hut of such of the coal landed previously by the
ship as was not lost was pushed on. Meat also was found to be very
short; it was obvious that neither it nor coal could be made to last
two years, but an evidently necessary step in the ensuing summer would
be the ensuring of an adequate supply of meat and blubber, for
obtaining which the winter presented little opportunity. Meat and coal
were, therefore, used with this consideration in mind, as required but
as carefully as possible.

“A. STEVENS.”


The men ashore did not at once abandon hope of the ship returning
before the Sound froze firmly. New ice formed on the sea whenever the
weather was calm, and it had been broken up and taken out many times by
the blizzards. During the next few days eager eyes looked seaward
through the dim twilight of noon, but the sea was covered with a dense
black mist and nothing was visible. A northerly wind sprang up on May 8
and continued for a few hours, but it brought no sign of the ship, and
when on May 10 the most violent blizzard yet experienced by the party
commenced, hope grew slender. The gale continued for three days, the
wind attaining a velocity of seventy miles an hour. The snowdrift was
very thick and the temperature fell to –20° Fahr. The shore party took
a gloomy view of the ship’s chances of safety among the ice-floes of
the Ross Sea under such conditions.

Stevens and his companions made a careful survey of their position and
realized that they had serious difficulties to face. No general
provisions and no clothing of the kind required for sledging had been
landed from the ship. Much of the sledging gear was also aboard.
Fortunately, the hut contained both food and clothing, left there by
Captain Scott’s Expedition. The men killed as many seals as possible
and stored the meat and blubber. June 2 brought a welcome addition to
the party in the form of the men who had been forced to remain at Hut
Point until the sea-ice became firm. Mackintosh and those with him had
incurred some risk in making the crossing, since open water had been
seen on their route by the Cape Evans party only a short time before.
There were now ten men at Cape Evans—namely, Mackintosh, Spencer-Smith,
Joyce, Wild, Cope, Stevens, Hayward, Gaze, Jack, and Richards. The
winter had closed down upon the Antarctic and the party would not be
able to make any move before the beginning of September. In the
meantime they overhauled the available stores and gear, made plans for
the work of the forthcoming spring and summer, and lived the severe but
not altogether unhappy life of the polar explorer in winter quarters.
Mackintosh, writing on June 5, surveyed his position:

“The decision of Stenhouse to make this bay the wintering place of the
ship was not reached without much thought and consideration of all
eventualities. Stenhouse had already tried the Glacier Tongue and other
places, but at each of them the ship had been in an exposed and
dangerous position. When this bay was tried the ship withstood several
severe blizzards, in which the ice remained in on several occasions.
When the ice did go out the moorings held. The ship was moored bows
north. She had both anchors down forward and two anchors buried astern,
to which the stern moorings were attached with seven lengths of wire.
Taking all this into account, it was quite a fair judgment on his part
to assume that the ship would be secure here. The blizzard that took
the ship and the ice out of the bay was by no means as severe as others
she had weathered. The accident proves again the uncertainty of
conditions in these regions. I only pray and trust that the ship and
those aboard are safe. I am sure they will have a thrilling story to
tell when we see them.”

The _Aurora_ could have found safe winter quarters farther up McMurdo
Sound, towards Hut Point, but would have run the risk of being frozen
in over the following summer, and I had given instructions to
Mackintosh before he went south that this danger must be avoided.

“Meanwhile we are making all preparations here for a prolonged stay.
The shortage of clothing is our principal hardship. The members of the
party from Hut Point have the clothes we wore when we left the ship on
January 25. We have been without a wash all that time, and I cannot
imagine a dirtier set of people. We have been attempting to get a wash
ever since we came back, but owing to the blow during the last two days
no opportunity has offered. All is working smoothly here, and every one
is taking the situation very philosophically. Stevens is in charge of
the scientific staff and is now the senior officer ashore. Joyce is in
charge of the equipment and has undertaken to improvise clothes out of
what canvas can be found here. Wild is working with Joyce. He is a
cheerful, willing soul. Nothing ever worries or upsets him, and he is
ever singing or making some joke or performing some amusing prank.
Richards has taken over the keeping of the meteorological log. He is a
young Australian, a hard, conscientious worker, and I look forward to
good results from his endeavours. Jack, another young Australian, is
his assistant. Hayward is the handy man, being responsible for the
supply of blubber. Gaze, another Australian, is working in conjunction
with Hayward. Spencer-Smith, the _padre_, is in charge of photography,
and, of course, assists in the general routine work. Cope is the
medical officer.

“The routine here is as follows: Four of us, myself, Stevens, Richards,
and Spencer-Smith, have breakfast at 7 a.m. The others are called at 9
a.m., and their breakfast is served. Then the table is cleared, the
floor is swept, and the ordinary work of the day is commenced. At 1
p.m. we have what we call ‘a counter lunch,’ that is, cold food and
cocoa. We work from 2 p.m. till 5 p.m. After 5 p.m. people can do what
they like. Dinner is at 7. The men play games, read, write up diaries.
We turn in early, since we have to economize fuel and light.
Night-watches are kept by the scientific men, who have the privilege of
turning in during the day. The day after my arrival here I gave an
outline of our situation and explained the necessity for economy in the
use of fuel, light, and stores, in view of the possibility that we may
have to stay here for two years.... We are not going to commence work
for the sledging operations until we know more definitely the fate of
the _Aurora_. I dare not think any disaster has occurred.”

During the remaining days of June the men washed and mended clothes,
killed seals, made minor excursions in the neighbourhood of the hut,
and discussed plans for the future. They had six dogs, two being
bitches without experience of sledging. One of these bitches had given
birth to a litter of pups, but she proved a poor mother and the young
ones died. The animals had plenty of seal meat and were tended
carefully.

Mackintosh called a meeting of all hands on June 26 for the discussion
of the plans he had made for the depot-laying expedition to be
undertaken during the following spring and summer.

“I gave an outline of the position and invited discussion from the
members. Several points were brought up. I had suggested that one of
our party should remain behind for the purpose of keeping the
meteorological records and laying in a supply of meat and blubber. This
man would be able to hand my instructions to the ship and pilot a party
to the Bluff. It had been arranged that Richards should do this.
Several objected on the ground that the whole complement would be
necessary, and, after the matter had been put to the vote, it was
agreed that we should delay the decision until the parties had some
practical work and we had seen how they fared. The shortage of clothing
was discussed, and Joyce and Wild have agreed to do their best in this
matter. October sledging (on the Barrier) was mentioned as being too
early, but is to be given a trial. These were the most important points
brought up, and it was mutually and unanimously agreed that we could do
no more.... I know we are doing our best.”


[Illustration: A Newly-frozen Lead]


[Illustration: The Ross Sea Party]


The party was anxious to visit Cape Royds, north of Cape Evans, but at
the end of June open water remained right across the Sound and a
crossing was impossible. At Cape Royds is the hut used by the
Shackleton Expedition of 1907–1909, and the stores and supplies it
contains might have proved very useful. Joyce and Wild made finneskoe
(fur boots) from spare sleeping-bags. Mackintosh mentions that the
necessity of economizing clothing and footgear prevented the men taking
as much exercise as they would otherwise have done. A fair supply of
canvas and leather had been found in the hut, and some men tried their
hands at making shoes. Many seals had been killed and brought in, and
the supply of meat and blubber was ample for present needs.

During July Mackintosh made several trips northwards on the sea-ice,
but found always that he could not get far. A crack stretched roughly
from Inaccessible Island to the Barne Glacier, and the ice beyond
looked weak and loose. The improving light told of the returning sun.
Richards and Jack were weighing out stores in readiness for the
sledging expeditions. Mackintosh, from the hill behind the hut, saw
open water stretching westward from Inaccessible Island on August 1,
and noted that probably McMurdo Sound was never completely frozen over.
A week later the extent of the open water appeared to have increased,
and the men began to despair of getting to Cape Royds. Blizzards were
frequent and persistent. A few useful articles were found in the
neighbourhood of the hut as the light improved, including some
discarded socks and underwear, left by members of the Scott Expedition,
and a case of candied peel, which was used for cakes. A small fire
broke out in the hut on August 12. The acetylene-gas lighting plant
installed in the hut by Captain Scott had been rigged, and one day it
developed a leak. A member of the party searched for the leak with a
lighted candle, and the explosion that resulted fired some woodwork.
Fortunately the outbreak was extinguished quickly. The loss of the hut
at this stage would have been a tragic incident.

Mackintosh and Stevens paid a visit to Cape Royds on August 13. They
had decided to attempt the journey over the Barne Glacier, and after
crossing a crevassed area they got to the slopes of Cape Barne and
thence down to the sea-ice. They found this ice to be newly formed, but
sufficiently strong for their purpose, and soon reached the Cape Royds
hut.

“The outer door of the hut we found to be off,” wrote Mackintosh. “A
little snow had drifted into the porch, but with a shovel, which we
found outside, this was soon cleared away. We then entered, and in the
centre of the hut found a pile of snow and ice, which had come through
the open ventilator in the roof of the hut. We soon closed this.
Stevens prepared a meal while I cleared the ice and snow away from the
middle of the hut. After our meal we commenced taking an inventory of
the stores inside. Tobacco was our first thought. Of this we found one
tin of Navy Cut and a box of cigars. Soap, too, which now ensures us a
wash and clean clothes when we get back. We then began to look round
for a sleeping-bag. No bags were here, however, but on the improvised
beds of cases we found two mattresses, an old canvas screen, and two
blankets. We took it in turns to turn in. Stevens started first, while
I kept the fire going. No coal or blubber was here, so we had to use
wood, which, while keeping the person alongside it warm, did not raise
the temperature of the hut over freezing-point. Over the stove in a
conspicuous place we found a notice by Scott’s party that parties using
the hut should leave the dishes clean.”

Mackintosh and Stevens stayed at the Cape Royds hut over the next day
and made a thorough examination of the stores there. They found outside
the hut a pile of cases containing meats, flour, dried vegetables, and
sundries, at least a year’s supply for a party of six. They found no
new clothing, but made a collection of worn garments, which could be
mended and made serviceable. Carrying loads of their spoils, they set
out for Cape Evans on the morning of August 15 across the sea-ice. Very
weak ice barred the way and they had to travel round the coast. They
got back to Cape Evans in two hours. During their absence Wild and Gaze
had climbed Inaccessible Island, Gaze having an ear badly frost-bitten
on the journey. The tobacco was divided among the members of the party.
A blizzard was raging the next day, and Mackintosh congratulated
himself on having chosen the time for his trip fortunately.

The record of the remaining part of August is not eventful. All hands
were making preparations for the sledging, and were rejoicing in the
increasing daylight. The party tried the special sledging ration
prepared under my own direction, and “all agreed it was excellent both
in bulk and taste.” Three emperor penguins, the first seen since the
landing, were caught on August 19. By that time the returning sun was
touching with gold the peaks of the Western Mountains and throwing into
bold relief the massive form of Erebus. The volcano was emitting a
great deal of smoke, and the glow of its internal fires showed
occasionally against the smoke-clouds above the crater. Stevens,
Spencer-Smith, and Cope went to Cape Royds on the 20th, and were still
there when the sun made its first appearance over Erebus on the 26th.
Preceding days had been cloudy, and the sun, although above the
horizon, had not been visible.

“The morning broke clear and fine,” wrote Mackintosh. “Over Erebus the
sun’s rays peeped through the massed cumulus and produced the most
gorgeous cloud effects. The light made us all blink and at the same
time caused the greatest exuberance of spirits. We felt like men
released from prison. I stood outside the hut and looked at the truly
wonderful scenery all round. The West Mountains were superb in their
wild grandeur. The whole outline of peaks, some eighty or ninety
distant, showed up, stencilled in delicate contrast to the sky-line.
The immense ice-slopes shone white as alabaster against dark shadows.
The sky to the west over the mountains was clear, except for low-lying
banks at the foot of the slopes round about Mount Discovery. To the
south hard streaks of stratus lay heaped up to 30 degrees above the
horizon.... Then Erebus commenced to emit volumes of smoke, which rose
hundreds of feet and trailed away in a north-westerly direction. The
southern slopes of Erebus were enveloped in a mass of cloud.” The party
from Cape Royds returned that afternoon, and there was disappointment
at their report that no more tobacco had been found.

The sledging of stores to Hut Point, in preparation for the
depot-laying journeys on the Barrier, was to begin on September 1.
Mackintosh, before that date, had discussed plans fully with the
members of his party. He considered that sufficient sledging provisions
were available at Cape Evans, the supply landed from the ship being
supplemented by the stores left by the Scott Expedition of 1912–13 and
the Shackleton Expedition of 1907–09. The supply of clothing and tents
was more difficult. Garments brought from the ship could be
supplemented by old clothing found at Hut Point and Cape Evans. The
Burberry wind-proof outer garments were old and in poor order for the
start of a season’s sledging. Old sleeping-bags had been cut up to make
finneskoe (fur boots) and mend other sleeping-bags. Three tents were
available, one sound one landed from the _Aurora_, and two old ones
left by Captain Scott. Mackintosh had enough sledges, but the
experience of the first journey with the dogs had been unfortunate, and
there were now only four useful dogs left. They did not make a full
team and would have to be used merely as an auxiliary to man-haulage.

The scheme adopted by Mackintosh, after discussion with the members of
his party, was that nine men, divided into three parties of three each,
should undertake the sledging. One man would be left at Cape Evans to
continue the meteorological observations during the summer. The
motor-tractor, which had been left at Hut Point, was to be brought to
Cape Evans and, if possible, put into working order. Mackintosh
estimated that the provisions required for the consumption of the depot
parties, and for the depots to be placed southward to the foot of the
Beardmore Glacier, would amount to 4000 lbs. The first depot was to be
placed off Minna Bluff, and from there southward a depot was to be
placed on each degree of latitude. The final depot would be made at the
foot of the Beardmore Glacier. The initial task would be the haulage of
stores from Cape Evans to Hut Point, a distance of 13 miles. All the
sledging stores had to be taken across, and Mackintosh proposed to
place additional supplies there in case a party, returning late from
the Barrier, had to spend winter months at Hut Point.

The first party, consisting of Mackintosh, Richards, and Spencer-Smith,
left Cape Evans on September 1 with 600 lbs. of stores on one sledge,
and had an uneventful journey to Hut Point. They pitched a tent
half-way across the bay, on the sea-ice, and left it there for the use
of the various parties during the month. At Hut Point they cleared the
snow from the motor-tractor and made some preliminary efforts to get it
into working order. They returned to Cape Evans on the 3rd. The second
trip to Hut Point was made by a party of nine, with three sledges. Two
sledges, man-hauled, were loaded with 1278 lbs. of stores, and a
smaller sledge, drawn by the dogs, carried the sleeping-bags. This
party encountered a stiff southerly breeze, with low temperature, and,
as the men were still in rather soft condition, they suffered much from
frost bites. Joyce and Gaze both had their heels badly blistered.
Mackintosh’s face suffered, and other men had fingers and ears
“bitten.” When they returned Gaze had to travel on a sledge, since he
could not set foot to the ground. They tried to haul the motor to Cape
Evans on this occasion, but left it for another time after covering a
mile or so. The motor was not working and was heavy to pull.

Eight men made the third journey to Hut Point, Gaze and Jack remaining
behind. They took 660 lbs. of oil and 630 lbs. of stores. From Hut
Point the next day (September 14) the party proceeded with loaded
sledges to Safety Camp, on the edge of the Barrier. This camp would be
the starting-point for the march over the Barrier to the Minna Bluff
depot. They left the two sledges, with 660 lbs. of oil and 500 lbs. of
oatmeal, sugar, and sundries, at Safety Camp and returned to Hut Point.
The dogs shared the work on this journey. The next day Mackintosh and
his companions took the motor to Cape Evans, hauling it with its
grip-wheels mounted on a sledge. After a pause due to bad weather, a
party of eight men took another load to Hut Point on September 24, and
on to Safety Camp the next day. They got back to Cape Evans on the
26th. Richards meanwhile had overhauled the motor and given it some
trial runs on the sea-ice. But he reported that the machine was not
working satisfactorily, and Mackintosh decided not to persevere with
it.

“Everybody is up to his eyes in work,” runs the last entry in the
journal left by Mackintosh at Cape Evans. “All gear is being
overhauled, and personal clothing is having the last stitches. We have
been improvising shoes to replace the finneskoe, of which we are badly
short. Wild has made an excellent shoe out of an old horse-rug he found
here, and this is being copied by other men. I have made myself a pair
of mitts out of an old sleeping-bag. Last night I had a bath, the
second since being here.... I close this journal to-day (September 30)
and am packing it with my papers here. To-morrow we start for Hut
Point. Nine of us are going on the sledge party for laying
depots—namely, Stevens, Spencer-Smith, Joyce, Wild, Cope, Hayward,
Jack, Richards, and myself. Gaze, who is still suffering from bad feet,
is remaining behind and will probably be relieved by Stevens after our
first trip. With us we take three months’ provisions to leave at Hut
Point. I continue this journal in another book, which I keep with me.”

The nine men reached Hut Point on October 1. They took the last loads
with them. Three sledges and three tents were to be taken on to the
Barrier, and the parties were as follows:

No. 1: Mackintosh, Spencer-Smith, and Wild; No. 2: Joyce, Cope, and
Richards; No. 3: Jack, Hayward, and Gaze. On October 3 and 4 some
stores left at Half-Way Camp were brought in, and other stores were
moved on to Safety Camp. Bad weather delayed the start of the
depot-laying expedition from Hut Point until October 9.




CHAPTER XV
LAYING THE DEPOTS


Mackintosh’s account of the depot-laying journeys undertaken by his
parties in the summer of 1915–16 unfortunately is not available. The
leader of the parties kept a diary, but he had the book with him when
he was lost on the sea-ice in the following winter. The narrative of
the journeys has been compiled from the notes kept by Joyce, Richards,
and other members of the parties, and I may say here that it is a
record of dogged endeavour in the face of great difficulties and
serious dangers. It is always easy to be wise after the event, and one
may realize now that the use of the dogs, untrained and soft from
shipboard inactivity, on the comparatively short journey undertaken
immediately after the landing in 1915 was a mistake. The result was the
loss of nearly all the dogs before the longer and more important
journeys of 1915–16 were undertaken. The men were sledging almost
continuously during a period of six months; they suffered from
frost-bite, scurvy, snow-blindness, and the utter weariness of
overtaxed bodies. But the they placed the depots in the required
positions, and if the Weddell Sea party had been able to make the
crossing of the Antarctic continent, the stores and fuel would have
been waiting for us where we expected to find them.

The position on October 9 was that the nine men at Hut Point had with
them the stores required for the depots and for their own maintenance
throughout the summer. The remaining dogs were at Cape Evans with Gaze,
who had a sore heel and had been replaced temporarily by Stevens in the
sledging party. A small quantity of stores had been conveyed already to
Safety Camp on the edge of the Barrier beyond Hut Point. Mackintosh
intended to form a large depot off Minna Bluff, seventy miles out from
Hut Point. This would necessitate several trips with heavy loads. Then
he would use the Bluff depot as a base for the journey to Mount Hope,
at the foot of the Beardmore Glacier, where the final depot was to be
laid.

The party left Hut Point on the morning of October 9, the nine men
hauling on one rope and trailing three loaded sledges. They reached
Safety Camp in the early afternoon, and, after repacking the sledges
with a load of about 2000 lbs., they began the journey over the
Barrier. The pulling proved exceedingly heavy, and they camped at the
end of half a mile. It was decided next day to separate the sledges,
three men to haul each sledge. Mackintosh hoped that better progress
could be made in this way. The distance for the day was only four
miles, and the next day’s journey was no better. Joyce mentions that he
had never done harder pulling, the surface being soft, and the load
amounting to 220 lbs. per man. The new arrangement was not a success,
owing to differences in hauling capacity and inequalities in the
loading of the sledges; and on the morning of the 12th, Mackintosh,
after consultation, decided to push forward with Wild and
Spencer-Smith, hauling one sledge and a relatively light load, and
leave Joyce and the remaining five men to bring two sledges and the
rest of the stores at their best pace. This arrangement was maintained
on the later journeys. The temperatures were falling below –30° Fahr.
at some hours, and, as the men perspired freely while hauling their
heavy loads in the sun, they suffered a great deal of discomfort in the
damp and freezing clothes at night. Joyce cut down his load on the 13th
by depot-ing some rations and spare clothing, and made better progress.
He was building snow-cairns as guide-posts for use on the return
journey. He mentions passing some large crevasses during succeeding
days. Persistent head winds with occasional drift made the conditions
unpleasant and caused many frost-bites. When the surface was hard, and
the pulling comparatively easy, the men slipped and fell continually,
“looking much like classical dancers.”

On the 20th a northerly wind made possible the use of a sail, and
Joyce’s party made rapid progress. Jack sighted a bamboo pole during
the afternoon; and Joyce found that marked a depot he had laid for my
own “Farthest South” party in 1908. He dug down in the hope of finding
some stores, but the depot had been cleared. The party reached the
Bluff depot on the evening of the 21st and found that Mackintosh had
been there on the 19th. Mackintosh had left 178 lbs. of provisions, and
Joyce left one sledge and 273 lbs. of stores. The most interesting
incident of the return journey was the discovery of a note left by Mr.
Cherry Garrard for Captain Scott on March 19, 1912, only a few days
before the latter perished at his camp farther south. An upturned
sledge at this point was found to mark a depot of dog-biscuit and
motor-oil, laid by one of Captain Scott’s parties. Joyce reached Safety
Camp on the afternoon of the 27th, and, after dumping all spare gear,
pushed on to Hut Point in a blizzard. The sledges nearly went over a
big drop at the edge of the Barrier, and a few moments later Stevens
dropped down a crevasse to the length of his harness.

“Had a tough job getting him up, as we had no alpine rope and had to
use harness,” wrote Joyce. “Got over all right and had a very hard pull
against wind and snow, my face getting frost-bitten as I had to keep
looking up to steer. We arrived at the hut about 7.30 p.m. after a very
hard struggle. We found the Captain and his party there. They had been
in for three days. Gaze was also there with the dogs. We soon had a
good feed and forgot our hard day’s work.”

Mackintosh decided to make use of the dogs on the second journey to the
Bluff depot. He thought that with the aid of the dogs heavier loads
might be hauled. This plan involved the dispatch of a party to Cape
Evans to get dog-pemmican. Mackintosh himself, with Wild and
Spencer-Smith, started south again on October 29. Their sledge
overturned on the slope down to the sea-ice, and the rim of their
tent-spread was broken. The damage did not appear serious, and the
party soon disappeared round Cape Armitage. Joyce remained in charge at
Hut Point, with instructions to get dog food from Cape Evans and make a
start south as soon as possible. He sent Stevens, Hayward, and Cope to
Cape Evans the next day, and busied himself with the repair of
sledging-gear. Cope, Hayward, and Gaze arrived back from Cape Evans on
November 1, Stevens having stayed at the base. A blizzard delayed the
start southward, and the party did not get away until November 5. The
men pulled in harness with the four dogs, and, as the surface was soft
and the loads on the two sledges were heavy, the advance was slow. The
party covered 5 miles 700 yards on the 6th, 4 miles 300 yards on the
7th, and 8 miles 1800 yards on the 9th, with the aid of a light
northerly wind. They passed on the 9th a huge bergstrom, with a drop of
about 70 feet from the flat surface of the Barrier. Joyce thought that
a big crevasse had caved in. “We took some photographs,” wrote Joyce.
“It is a really extraordinary fill-in of ice, with cliffs of blue ice
about 70 feet high, and heavily crevassed, with overhanging
snow-curtains. One could easily walk over the edge coming from the
north in thick weather.” Another bergstrom, with crevassed ice around
it, was encountered on the 11th. Joyce reached the Bluff depot on the
evening of the 14th and found that he could leave 624 lbs. of
provisions. Mackintosh had been there several days earlier and had left
188 lbs. of stores.

Joyce made Hut Point again on November 20 after an adventurous day. The
surface was good in the morning and he pushed forward rapidly. About
10.30 a.m. the party encountered heavy pressure-ice with crevasses, and
had many narrow escapes. “After lunch we came on four crevasses quite
suddenly. Jack fell through. We could not alter course, or else we
should have been steering among them, so galloped right across. We were
going so fast that the dogs that went through were jerked out. It came
on very thick at 2 p.m. Every bit of land was obscured, and it was hard
to steer. Decided to make for Hut Point, and arrived at 6.30 p.m.,
after doing twenty-two miles, a very good performance. I had a bad
attack of snow-blindness and had to use cocaine. Hayward also had a bad
time. I was laid up and had to keep my eyes bandaged for three days.
Hayward, too.” The two men were about again on November 24, and the
party started south on its third journey to the Bluff on the 25th.
Mackintosh was some distance ahead, but the two parties met on the 28th
and had some discussion as to plans. Mackintosh was proceeding to the
Bluff depot with the intention of taking a load of stores to the depot
placed on lat. 80° S. in the first season’s sledging. Joyce, after
depositing his third load at the Bluff, would return to Hut Point for a
fourth and last load, and the parties would then join forces for the
journey southward to Mount Hope.

Joyce left 729 lbs. at the Bluff depot on December 2, reached Hut Point
on December 7, and, after allowing dogs and men a good rest, he moved
southward again on December 13. This proved to be the worst journey the
party had made. The men had much trouble with crevasses, and they were
held up by blizzards on December 16, 18, 19, 22, 23, 26, and 27. They
spent Christmas Day struggling through soft snow against an icy wind
and drift. The party reached the Bluff depot on December 28, and found
that Mackintosh, who had been much delayed by the bad weather, had gone
south two days earlier on his way to the 80° S. depot. He had not made
much progress and his camp was in sight. He had left instructions for
Joyce to follow him. The Bluff depot was now well stocked. Between 2800
and 2900 lbs. of provisions had been dragged to the depot for the use
of parties working to the south of this point. This quantity was in
addition to stores placed there earlier in the year.

Joyce left the Bluff depot on December 29, and the parties were
together two days later. Mackintosh handed Joyce instructions to
proceed with his party to lat. 81° S and place a depot there. He was
then to send three men back to Hut Point and proceed to lat. 82° S.,
where he would lay another depot. Then if provisions permitted he would
push south as far as lat. 83°. Mackintosh himself was reinforcing the
depot at lat. 80° S. and would then carry on southward. Apparently his
instructions to Joyce were intended to guard against the contingency of
the parties failing to meet. The dogs were hauling well, and though
their number was small they were of very great assistance. The parties
were now ninety days out from Cape Evans, and “all hands were feeling
fit.”

The next incident of importance was the appearance of a defect in one
of the two Primus lamps used by Joyce’s party. The lamps had all seen
service with one or other of Captain Scott’s parties, and they had not
been in first-class condition when the sledging commenced. The
threatened failure of a lamp was a matter of grave moment, since a
party could not travel without the means of melting snow and preparing
hot food. If Joyce took a faulty lamp past the 80° S. depot, his whole
party might have to turn back at lat. 81° S., and this would imperil
the success of the season’s sledging. He decided, therefore, to send
three men back from the 80° S. depot, which he reached on January 6,
1916. Cope, Gaze, and Jack were the men to return. They took the
defective Primus and a light load, and by dint of hard travelling,
without the aid of dogs, they reached Cape Evans on January 16.

Joyce, Richards, and Hayward went forward with a load of 1280 lbs.,
comprising twelve weeks’ sledging rations, dog food and depot supplies,
in addition to the sledging-gear. They built cairns at short intervals
as guides to the depots. Joyce was feeding the dogs well and giving
them a hot hoosh every third night. “It is worth it for the wonderful
amount of work they are doing. If we can keep them to 82° S. I can
honestly say it is through their work we have got through.” On January
8 Mackintosh joined Joyce, and from that point the parties, six men
strong, went forward together. They marched in thick weather during
January 10, 11, and 12, keeping the course by means of cairns, with a
scrap of black cloth on top of each one. It was possible, by keeping
the cairns in line behind the sledges and building new ones as old ones
disappeared, to march on an approximately straight line. On the evening
of the 12th they reached lat. 81° S., and built a large cairn for the
depot. The stores left here were three weeks’ rations for the ordinary
sledging unit of three men. This quantity would provide five days’
rations for twelve men, half for the use of the overland party, and
half for the depot party on its return journey.

The party moved southwards again on January 13 in bad weather.

“After a little consultation we decided to get under way,” wrote Joyce.
“Although the weather is thick, and snow is falling, it is worth while
to make the effort. A little patience with the direction and the
cairns, even if one has to put them up 200 yds. apart, enables us to
advance, and it seems that this weather will never break. We have cut
up an old pair of trousers belonging to Richards to place on the sides
of the cairns, so as to make them more prominent. It was really
surprising to find how we got on in spite of the snow and the pie-crust
surface. We did 5 miles 75 yds. before lunch. The dogs are doing
splendidly. I really don’t know how we should manage if it were not for
them.... The distance for the day was 10 miles 720 yds., a splendid
performance considering surface and weather.”

The weather cleared on the 14th; and the men were able to get bearings
from the mountains to the westward. They advanced fairly rapidly during
succeeding days, the daily distances being from ten to twelve miles,
and reached lat. 82° S. on the morning of January 18. The depot here,
like the depot at 81° S., contained five days’ provisions for twelve
men. Mackintosh was having trouble with the Primus lamp in his tent,
and this made it inadvisable to divide the party again. It was decided,
therefore, that all should proceed, and that the next and last depot
should be placed on the base of Mount Hope, at the foot of the
Beardmore Glacier, in lat. 83° 30´ S. The party proceeded at once and
advanced five miles beyond the depot before camping on the evening of
the 18th.

The sledge loads were now comparatively light, and on the 19th the
party covered 13 miles 700 yds. A new trouble was developing, for
Spencer-Smith was suffering from swollen and painful legs, and was
unable to do much pulling. Joyce wrote on the 21st that Smith was
worse, and that Mackintosh was showing signs of exhaustion. A mountain
that he believed to be Mount Hope could be seen right ahead, over
thirty miles away. Spencer-Smith, who had struggled forward gamely and
made no unnecessary complaints, started with the party the next morning
and kept going until shortly before noon. Then he reported his
inability to proceed, and Mackintosh called a halt. Spencer-Smith
suggested that he should be left with provisions and a tent while the
other members of the party pushed on to Mount Hope, and pluckily
assured Mackintosh that the rest would put him right and that he would
be ready to march when they returned. The party agreed, after a brief
consultation, to adopt this plan. Mackintosh felt that the depot must
be laid, and that delay would be dangerous. Spencer-Smith was left with
a tent, one sledge, and provisions, and told to expect the returning
party in about a week. The tent was made as comfortable as possible
inside, and food was placed within the sick man’s reach. Spencer-Smith
bade his companions a cheery good-bye after lunch, and the party was
six or seven miles away before evening. Five men had to squeeze into
one tent that night, but with a minus temperature they did not object
to being crowded.

On January 23 a thick fog obscured all landmarks, and as bearings of
the mountains were now necessary the party had to camp at 11 a.m.,
after travelling only four miles. The thick weather continued over the
24th, and the men did not move again until the morning of the 25th.
They did 17¾ miles that day, and camped at 6 p.m. on the edge of “the
biggest ice-pressure” Joyce had ever seen. They were steering in
towards the mountains and were encountering the tremendous congestion
created by the flow of the Beardmore Glacier into the barrier ice.

“We decided to keep the camp up,” ran Joyce’s account of the work done
on January 26. “Skipper, Richards, and myself roped ourselves together,
I taking the lead, to try and find a course through this pressure. We
came across very wide crevasses, went down several, came on top of a
very high ridge, and such a scene! Imagine thousands of tons of ice
churned up to a depth of about 300 ft. We took a couple of photographs,
then carried on to the east. At last we found a passage through, and
carried on through smaller crevasses to Mount Hope, or we hoped it was
the mountain by that name. We can see a great glacier ahead which we
take for the Beardmore, which this mountain is on, but the position on
the chart seems wrong. [It was not.—E.H.S.] We nearly arrived at the
ice-foot when Richards saw something to the right, which turned out to
be two of Captain Scott’s sledges, upright, but three-quarters buried
in snow. Then we knew for certain this was the place we had struggled
to get to. So we climbed the glacier on the slope and went up about one
and a quarter miles, and saw the great Beardmore Glacier stretching to
the south. It is about twenty-five miles wide—a most wonderful sight.
Then we returned to our camp, which we found to be six miles away. We
left at 8 a.m. and arrived back at 3 p.m., a good morning’s work. We
then had lunch. About 4 p.m. we got under way and proceeded with the
two sledges and camped about 7 o’clock. Wild, Hayward and myself then
took the depot up the Glacier, a fortnight’s provisions. We left it
lashed to a broken sledge and put up a large flag. I took two
photographs of it. We did not arrive back until 10.30 p.m. It was
rather a heavy pull up. I was very pleased to see our work completed at
last.... Turned in 12 o’clock. The distance done during day 22 miles.”

The party remained in camp until 3.30 p.m. on the 27th, owing to a
blizzard with heavy snow. Then they made a start in clearer weather and
got through the crevassed area before camping at 7 p.m. Joyce was
suffering from snow-blindness. They were now homeward bound, with 365
miles to go. They covered 16½ miles on the 28th, with Joyce absolutely
blind and hanging to the harness for guidance, “but still pulling his
whack.” They reached Spencer-Smith’s camp the next afternoon and found
him in his sleeping-bag, quite unable to walk. Joyce’s diary of this
date contains a rather gloomy reference to the outlook, since he
guessed that Mackintosh also would be unable to make the homeward
march. “The dogs are still keeping fit,” he added. “If they will only
last to 80° S. we shall then have enough food to take them in, and then
if the ship is in I guarantee they will live in comfort the remainder
of their lives.”

No march could be made on the 30th, since a blizzard was raging. The
party made 8 miles on the 31st, with Spencer-Smith on one of the
sledges in his sleeping-bag. The sufferer was quite helpless, and had
to be lifted and carried about, but his courage did not fail him. His
words were cheerful even when his physical suffering and weakness were
most pronounced. The distance for February 1 was 13 miles. The next
morning the party abandoned one sledge in order to lighten the load,
and proceeded with a single sledge, Spencer-Smith lying on top of the
stores and gear. The distance for the day was 15½ miles. They picked up
the 82° S. depot on February 3, and took one week’s provisions, leaving
two weeks’ rations for the overland party. Joyce, Wild, Richards, and
Hayward were feeling fit. Mackintosh was lame and weak; Spencer-Smith’s
condition was alarming. The party was being helped by strong southerly
winds, and the distances covered were decidedly good. The sledge-meter
recorded 15 miles 1700 yds. on February 4, 17 miles 1400 yds. on the
5th, 18 miles 1200 yds. on the 6th, and 13 miles 1000 yds. on the 7th,
when the 81° S. depot was picked up at 10.30 a.m., and one week’s
stores taken, two weeks’ rations being left.

The march to the next depot, at 80° S., was uneventful. The party made
good marches in spite of bad surfaces and thick weather, and reached
the depot late in the afternoon of February 12. The supply of stores at
this depot was ample, and the men took a fortnight’s rations
(calculated on a three-man basis), leaving nearly four weeks’ rations.
Spencer-Smith seemed a little better, and all hands were cheered by the
rapid advance. February 14, 15, and 16 were bad days, the soft surface
allowing the men to sink to their knees at times. The dogs had a rough
time, and the daily distances fell to about eight miles. Mackintosh’s
weakness was increasing. Then on the 18th, when the party was within
twelve miles of the Bluff depot, a furious blizzard made travelling
impossible. This blizzard raged for five days. Rations were reduced on
the second day, and the party went on half-rations the third day.

“Still blizzarding,” wrote Joyce on the 20th. “Things are serious, what
with our patient and provisions running short. Dog provisions are
nearly out, and we have to halve their rations. We are now on one cup
of hoosh among the three of us, with one biscuit and six lumps of
sugar. The most serious of calamities is that our oil is running out.
We have plenty of tea, but no fuel to cook it with.” The men in
Mackintosh’s tent were in no better plight. Mackintosh himself was in a
bad way. He was uncertain about his ability to resume the march, but
was determined to try.

“Still blizzarding,” wrote Joyce again on the 21st. “We are lying in
pools of water made by our bodies through staying in the same place for
such a long time. I don’t know what we shall do if this does not ease.
It has been blowing continuously without a lull. The food for to-day
was one cup of pemmican amongst three of us, one biscuit each, and two
cups of tea among the three.” The kerosene was exhausted, but Richards
improvised a lamp by pouring some spirit (intended for priming the
oil-lamp) into a mug, lighting it, and holding another mug over it. It
took half an hour to heat a mug of melted snow in this way. “Same old
thing, no ceasing of this blizzard,” was Joyce’s note twenty-four hours
later. “Hardly any food left except tea and sugar. Richards, Hayward,
and I, after a long talk, decided to get under way to-morrow in any
case, or else we shall be sharing the fate of Captain Scott and his
party. The other tent seems to be very quiet, but now and again we hear
a burst of song from Wild, so they are in the land of the living. We
gave the dogs the last of their food to-night, so we shall have to
push, as a great deal depends on them.” Further quotations from Joyce’s
diary tell their own story.

“_February_ 23, _Wednesday_.—About 11 o’clock saw a break in the clouds
and the sun showing. Decided to have the meal we kept for getting under
way. Sang out to the Skipper’s party that we should shift as soon as we
had a meal. I asked Wild, and found they had a bag of oatmeal, some
Bovril cubes, one bag of chocolate, and eighteen biscuits, so they are
much better off than we are. After we had our meal we started to dig
out our sledge, which we found right under. It took us two hours, and
one would hardly credit how weak we were. Two digs of the shovel and we
were out of breath. This was caused through our lying up on practically
no food. After getting sledge out we took it around to the Skipper’s
tent on account of the heavy sastrugi, which was very high. Got under
way about 2.20. Had to stop very often on account of sail, etc. About
3.20 the Skipper, who had tied himself to the rear of the sledge, found
it impossible to proceed. So after a consultation with Wild and party,
decided to pitch their tent, leaving Wild to look after the Skipper and
Spencer-Smith, and make the best of our way to the depot, which is
anything up to twelve miles away. So we made them comfortable and left
them about 3.40. I told Wild I should leave as much as possible and get
back 26th or 27th, weather permitting, but just as we left them it came
on to snow pretty hard, sun going in, and we found even with the four
dogs we could not make more than one-half to three-quarters of a mile
an hour. The surface is so bad that sometimes you go in up to your
waist; still in spite of all this we carried on until 6.35. Camped in a
howling blizzard. I found my left foot badly frost-bitten. Now after
this march we came into our banquet—one cup of tea and half a biscuit.
Turned in at 9 o’clock. Situation does not look very cheerful. This is
really the worst surface I have ever come across in all my journeys
here.”

Mackintosh had stayed on his feet as long as was humanly possible. The
records of the outward journey show clearly that he was really unfit to
continue beyond the 82° S. depot, and other members of the party would
have liked him to have stayed with Spencer-Smith at lat. 83° S. But the
responsibility for the work to be done was primarily his, and he would
not give in. He had been suffering for several weeks from what he
cheerfully called “a sprained leg,” owing to scurvy. He marched for
half an hour on the 23rd before breaking down, but had to be supported
partly by Richards. Spencer-Smith was sinking. Wild, who stayed in
charge of the two invalids, was in fairly good condition. Joyce,
Richards, and Hayward, who had undertaken the relief journey, were all
showing symptoms of scurvy, though in varying degrees. Their legs were
weak, their gums swollen. The decision that the invalids, with Wild,
should stay in camp from February 24, while Joyce’s party pushed
forward to Bluff depot, was justified fully by the circumstances.
Joyce, Richards, and Hayward had difficulty in reaching the depot with
a nearly empty sledge. An attempt to make their journey with two
helpless men might have involved the loss of the whole party.

“_February_ 24, _Thursday_.—Up at 4:30; had one cup of tea, half
biscuit; under way after 7. Weather, snowing and blowing like
yesterday. Richards, laying the cairns had great trouble in getting the
compass within 10° on account of wind. During the forenoon had to stop
every quarter of an hour on account of our breath. Every time the
sledge struck a drift she stuck in (although only 200 lbs.), and in
spite of three men and four dogs we could only shift her with the 1—2—3
haul. I wonder if this weather will ever clear up. Camped in an
exhausted condition about 12.10. Lunch, half cup of weak tea and
quarter biscuit, which took over half an hour to make. Richards and
Hayward went out of tent to prepare for getting under way, but the
force of wind and snow drove them back. The force of wind is about
seventy to eighty miles per hour. We decided to get the sleeping-bags
in, which took some considerable time. The worst of camping is the poor
dogs and our weak condition, which means we have to get out of our wet
sleeping-bags and have another half cup of tea without working for it.
With scrapings from dog-tank it is a very scanty meal. This is the
second day the dogs have been without food, and if we cannot soon pick
up depot and save the dogs it will be almost impossible to drag our two
invalids back the one hundred miles which we have to go. The wind
carried on with unabating fury until 7 o’clock, and then came a lull.
We at once turned out, but found it snowing so thickly that it was
impossible to proceed on account of our weakness. No chance must we
miss. Turned in again. Wind sprang up again with heavy drift 8.30. In
spite of everything my tent-mates are very cheerful and look on the
bright side of everything. After a talk we decided to wait and turned
in. It is really wonderful what dreams we have, especially of food.
Trusting in Providence for fine weather to-morrow.

“_February_ 25, _Friday_.—Turned out 4.45. Richards prepared our usual
banquet, half cup of tea, quarter biscuit, which we relished. Under way
at 7, carried on, halting every ten minutes or quarter of an hour.
Weather, snowing and blowing same as yesterday. We are in a very weak
state, but we cannot give in. We often talk about poor Captain Scott
and the blizzard that finished him and party. If we had stayed in our
tent another day I don’t think we should have got under way at all, and
we would have shared the same fate. But if the worst comes we have made
up our minds to carry on and die in harness. If any one were to see us
on trek they would be surprised, three men staggering on with four
dogs, very weak; practically empty sledge with fair wind and just
crawling along; our clothes are all worn out, finneskoe and sleeping
bags torn. Tent is our worst point, all torn in front, and we are
afraid to camp on account of it, as it is too cold to mend it. We
camped for our grand lunch at noon. After five hours’ struggling I
think we did about three miles. After lunch sat in our tent talking
over the situation. Decided to get under way again as soon as there is
any clearance. Snowing and blowing, force about fifty or sixty miles an
hour.

“_February_ 26, _Saturday_.—Richards went out 1.10 a.m. and found it
clearing a bit, so we got under way as soon as possible, which was 2.10
a.m. About 2.35 Richards sighted depot, which seemed to be right on top
of us. I suppose we camped no more than three-quarters of a mile from
it. The dogs sighted it, which seemed to electrify them. They had new
life and started to run, but we were so weak that we could not go more
than 200 yds. and then spell. I think another day would have seen us
off. Arrived at depot 3.25; found it in a dilapidated condition, cases
all about the place. I don’t suppose there has ever been a weaker party
arrive at any depot, either north or south. After a hard struggle got
our tent up and made camp. Then gave the dogs a good feed of pemmican.
If ever dogs saved the lives of any one they have saved ours. Let us
hope they will continue in good health, so that we can get out to our
comrades. I started on our cooking. Not one of us had any appetite,
although we were in the land of plenty, as we call this depot; plenty
of biscuit, etc., but we could not eat. I think it is the reaction, not
only in arriving here, but also finding no news of the ship, which was
arranged before we left. We all think there has been a calamity there.
Let us hope for the best. We decided to have rolled-oats and milk for a
start, which went down very well, and then a cup of tea. How cheery the
Primus sounds. It seems like coming out of a thick London fog into a
drawing-room. After a consultation we decided to have a meal of
pemmican in four hours, and so on, until our weakness was gone.
_Later_.—Still the same weather. We shall get under way and make a
forced march back as soon as possible. I think we shall get stronger
travelling and feeding well. _Later_.—Weather will not permit us to
travel yet. Mended our torn tent with food-bags. This took four hours.
Feeding the dogs every four hours, and Richards and Hayward built up
depot. It is really surprising to find it takes two men to lift a
50-lb. case; it only shows our weakness. Weather still the same; force
of wind at times about seventy to ninety miles an hour; really
surprising how this can keep on so long.

“_February_ 27, _Sunday_.—Wind continued with fury the whole night.
Expecting every minute to have the tent blown off us. Up 5 o’clock;
found it so thick one could not get out of the tent. We are still very
weak, but think we can do the twelve miles to our comrades in one long
march. If only it would clear up for just one day we would not mind.
This is the longest continuous blizzard I have ever been in. We have
not had a travelling day for eleven days, and the amount of snow that
has fallen is astonishing. _Later_.—Had a meal 10.30 and decided to get
under way in spite of the wind and snow. Under way 12 o’clock. We have
three weeks’ food on sledge, about 160 lbs., and one week’s dog-food,
50 lbs. The whole weight, all told, about 600 lbs., and also taking an
extra sledge to bring back Captain Mackintosh. To our surprise we could
not shift the sledges. After half an hour we got about ten yards. We
turned the sledge up and scraped runners; it went a little better
after. I am afraid our weakness is much more than we think. Hayward is
in rather a bad way about his knees, which are giving him trouble and
are very painful; we will give him a good massage when we camp. The
dogs have lost all heart in pulling; they seem to think that going
south again is no good to them; they seem to just jog along, and one
cannot do more. I don’t suppose our pace is more than one-half or
three-quarters of a mile per hour. The surface is rotten, snow up to
one’s knees, and what with wind and drift a very bad outlook. Lunched
about 4.30. Carried on until 11.20, when we camped. It was very dark
making our dinner, but soon got through the process. Then Richards
spent an hour or so in rubbing Hayward with methylated spirits, which
did him a world of good. If he were to break up now I should not know
what to do. Turned in about 1.30. It is now calm, but overcast with
light falling snow.

“_February_ 28, _Monday_.—Up at 6 o’clock; can just see a little
sky-line. Under way at 9 o’clock. The reason of delay, had to mend
finneskoe, which are in a very dilapidated condition. I got my feet
badly frost-bitten yesterday. About 11 o’clock came on to snow,
everything overcast. We ought to reach our poor boys in three or four
hours, but Fate wills otherwise, as it came on again to blizzard force
about 11.45. Camped at noon. I think the party must be within a very
short distance, but we cannot go on as we might pass them, and as we
have not got any position to go on except compass. _Later_.—Kept on
blizzarding all afternoon and night.

“_February_ 29, _Tuesday_.—Up at 5 o’clock; still very thick. It
cleared up a little to the south about 8 o’clock, when Richards sighted
something black to the north of us, but could not see properly what it
was. After looking round sighted camp to the south, so we got under way
as soon as possible. Got up to the camp about 12.45, when Wild came out
to meet us. We gave him a cheer, as we fully expected to find all down.
He said he had taken a little exercise every day; they had not any food
left. The Skipper then came out of the tent, very weak and as much as
he could do to walk. He said, ‘I want to thank you for saving our
lives.’ I told Wild to go and give them a feed and not to eat too much
at first in case of reaction, as I am going to get under way as soon as
they have had a feed. So we had lunch, and the Skipper went ahead to
get some exercise, and after an hour’s digging out got everything ready
for leaving. When we lifted Smith we found he was in a great hole which
he had melted through. This party had been in one camp for twelve days.
We got under way and picked the Skipper up; he had fallen down, too
weak to walk. We put him on the sledge we had brought out, and we
camped about 8 o’clock. I think we did about three miles, rather good
with two men on the sledges and Hayward in a very bad way. I don’t
think there has been a party, either north or south, in such straits,
three men down and three of us very weak; but the dogs seem to have new
life since we turned north. I think they realize they are homeward
bound. I am glad we kept them, even when we were starving. I knew they
would have to come in at the finish. We have now to look forward to
southerly winds for help, which I think we shall get at this time of
year. Let us hope the temperature will keep up, as our sleeping-bags
are wet through and worn out, and all our clothes full of holes, and
finneskoe in a dilapidated condition; in fact, one would not be out on
a cold day in civilization with the rotten clothes we have on. Turned
in 11 o’clock, wet through, but in a better frame of mind. Hope to try
and reach the depot to-morrow, even if we have to march overtime.


[Illustration: Mackintosh and Spencer-Smith being dragged on the
sledge]


[Illustration: “The Rudder was bent over to Starboard and Smashed”]


“_March_ 1, _Wednesday_.—Turned out usual time; a good south wind, but,
worse luck, heavy drift. Set sail; put the Skipper on rear sledge. The
temperature has gone down and it is very cold. Bluff in sight. We are
making good progress, doing a good mileage before lunch. After lunch a
little stronger wind. Hayward still hanging on to sledge; Skipper fell
off twice. Reached depot 5.45. When camping found we had dropped our
tent-poles, so Richards went back a little way and spotted them through
the binoculars about half a mile off, and brought them back. Hayward
and I were very cold by that time, the drift very bad. Moral: See
everything properly secured. We soon had our tent up, cooked our dinner
in the dark, and turned in about 10 o’clock.

“_March_ 2, _Thursday_.—Up as usual. Strong south-west wind with heavy
drift. Took two weeks’ provisions from the depot. I think that will
last us through, as there is another depot about fifty miles north from
here; I am taking the outside course on account of the crevasses, and
one cannot take too many chances with two men on sledges and one
crippled. Under way about 10 o’clock; lunched noon in a heavy drift;
took an hour to get the tents up, etc., the wind being so heavy. Found
sledges buried under snow after lunch, took some time to get under way.
Wind and drift very heavy; set half-sail on the first sledge and under
way about 3.30. The going is perfect; sometimes sledges overtaking us.
Carried on until 8 o’clock, doing an excellent journey for the day;
distance about eleven or twelve miles. Gives one a bit of heart to
carry on like this; only hope we can do this all the way. Had to cook
our meals in the dark, but still we did not mind. Turned in about 11
o’clock, pleased with ourselves, although we were wet through with
snow, as it got through all the holes in our clothes, and the
sleeping-bags are worse than awful.

“_March_ 3, _Friday_.—Up the usual time. It has been blowing a raging
blizzard all night. Found to our disgust utterly impossible to carry
on. Another few hours of agony in these rotten bags. _Later_.—Blizzard
much heavier. Amused myself mending finneskoe and Burberrys, mitts and
socks. Had the Primus while this operation was in force. Hoping for a
fine day to-morrow.

“_March_ 4, _Saturday_.—Up 5.20. Still blizzarding, but have decided to
get under way as we will have to try and travel through everything, as
Hayward is getting worse, and one doesn’t know who is the next. No
mistake it is scurvy, and the only possible cure is fresh food. I
sincerely hope the ship is in; if not we shall get over the hills by
Castle Rock, which is rather difficult and will delay another couple of
days. Smith is still cheerful; he has hardly moved for weeks and he has
to have everything done for him. Got under way 9.35. It took some two
hours to dig out dogs and sledges, as they were completely buried. It
is the same every morning now. Set sail, going along pretty fair.
Hayward gets on sledge now and again. Lunched as usual; sledges got
buried again at lunch-time. It takes some time to camp now, and in this
drift it is awful. In the afternoon wind eased a bit and drift went
down. Found it very hard pulling with the third man on sledge, as
Hayward has been on all the afternoon. Wind veered two points to south,
so we had a fair wind. An hour before we camped Erebus and Terror
showing up, a welcome sight. Only hope wind will continue. Drift is
worst thing to contend with as it gets into our clothes, which are wet
through now. Camped 8 o’clock. Cooked in the dark, and turned in in our
wet sleeping-bags about 10 o’clock. Distance about eight or nine miles.

“_March_ 5, _Sunday_.—Turned out 6.15. Overslept a little; very tired
after yesterday. Sun shining brightly and no wind. It seemed strange
last night, no flapping of tent in one’s ears. About 8.30 came on to
drift again. Under way 9.20, both sails set. Sledge going hard,
especially in soft places. If Hayward had not broken down we should not
feel the weight so much. Lunch 12.45. Under way at 3. Wind and drift
very heavy. A good job it is blowing some, or else we should have to
relay. All land obscured. Distance about ten or eleven miles, a very
good performance. Camped 7.10 in the dark. Patients not in the best of
trim. I hope to get in, bar accidents, in four days.

“_March_ 6, _Monday_.—Under way 9.20. Picked up thirty-two mile depot
11 o’clock. Going with a fair wind in the forenoon, which eased
somewhat after lunch and so caused very heavy work in pulling. It seems
to me we shall have to depot someone if the wind eases at all. Distance
during day about eight miles.

“_March_ 7, _Tuesday_.—Under way 9 o’clock. Although we turn out at 5
it seems a long time to get under way. There is double as much work to
do now with our invalids. This is the calmest day we have had for
weeks. The sun is shining and all land in sight. It is very hard going.
Had a little breeze about 11 o’clock, set sail, but work still very,
very heavy. Hayward and Skipper going on ahead with sticks, very slow
pace, but it will buck them up and do them good. If one could only get
some fresh food! About 11 o’clock decided to camp and overhaul sledges
and depot all gear except what is actually required. Under way again at
2, but surface being so sticky did not make any difference. After a
consultation the Skipper decided to stay behind in a tent with three
weeks’ provisions whilst we pushed on with Smith and Hayward. It seems
hard, only about thirty miles away, and yet cannot get any assistance.
Our gear is absolutely rotten, no sleep last night, shivering all night
in wet bags. I wonder what will be the outcome of it all after our
struggle. Trust in Providence. Distance about three and a half miles.

“_March_ 8, _Wednesday_.—Under way 9.20. Wished the Skipper good-bye;
took Smith and Hayward on. Had a fair wind, going pretty good. Hope to
arrive in Hut Point in four days. Lunched at No. 2 depot. Distance
about four and a half miles. Under way as usual after lunch; head wind,
going very heavy. Carried on until 6.30. Distance about eight or nine
miles.

“_March_ 9, _Thursday_.—Had a very bad night, cold intense. Temperature
down to —29° all night. At 4 a.m. Spencer-Smith called out that he was
feeling queer. Wild spoke to him. Then at 5.45 Richards suddenly said,
‘I think he has gone.’ Poor Smith, for forty days in pain he had been
dragged on the sledge, but never grumbled or complained. He had a
strenuous time in his wet bag, and the jolting of the sledge on a very
weak heart was not too good for him. Sometimes when we lifted him on
the sledge he would nearly faint, but during the whole time he never
complained. Wild looked after him from the start. We buried him in his
bag at 9 o’clock at the following position: Ereb. 184°—Obs. Hill 149°.
We made a cross of bamboos, and built a mound and cairn, with
particulars. After that got under way with Hayward on sledge. Found
going very hard, as we had a northerly wind in our faces, with a
temperature below 20°. What with frost-bites, etc., we are all
suffering. Even the dogs seem like giving in; they do not seem to take
any interest in their work. We have been out much too long, and nothing
ahead to cheer us up but a cold, cheerless hut. We did about two and a
half miles in the forenoon; Hayward toddling ahead every time we had a
spell. During lunch the wind veered to the south with drift, just right
to set sail. We carried on with Hayward on sledge and camped in the
dark about 8 o’clock. Turned in at 10, weary, worn, and sad. Hoping to
reach depot to-morrow.

“_March_ 10, _Friday_.—Turned out as usual. Beam wind, going pretty
fair, very cold. Came into very soft snow about 3; arrived at Safety
Camp 5 o’clock. Got to edge of Ice Barrier; found passage over in a bay
full of seals. Dogs got very excited; had a job to keep them away. By
the glass it looked clear right to Cape Armitage, which is four and a
half miles away. Arrived there 8 o’clock, very dark and bad light.
Found open water. Turned to climb slopes against a strong
north-easterly breeze with drift. Found a place about a mile away, but
we were so done up that it took until 11.30 to get gear up. This slope
was about 150 yds. up, and every three paces we had to stop and get
breath. Eventually camped and turned in about 2 o’clock. I think this
is the worst day I ever spent. What with the disappointment of not
getting round the Point, and the long day and the thought of getting
Hayward over the slopes, it is not very entertaining for sleep.

“_March_ 11, _Saturday_.—Up at 7 o’clock; took binoculars and went over
the slope to look around the Cape. To my surprise found the open water
and pack at the Cape only extended for about a mile. Came down and gave
the boys the good news. I think it would take another two hard days to
get over the hills, and we are too weak to do much of that, as I am
afraid of another collapsing. Richards and Wild climbed up to look at
the back of the bay and found the ice secure. Got under way 10.30, went
round the Cape and found ice; very slushy, but continued on. No turning
now; got into hard ice shortly after, eventually arriving at Hut Point
about 3 o’clock. It seems strange after our adventures to arrive back
at the old hut. This place has been standing since we built it in 1901,
and has been the starting-point of a few expeditions since. When we
were coming down the bay I could fancy the _Discovery_ there when Scott
arrived from his Farthest South in 1902, the ship decorated rainbow
fashion, and Lieutenant Armitage giving out the news that Captain Scott
had got to 82° 17´ S. We went wild that day. But now our homecoming is
quite different. Hut half-full of snow through a window being left open
and drift getting in; but we soon got it shipshape and Hayward in. I
had the fire going and plenty of vegetables on, as there was a fair
supply of dried vegetables. Then after we had had a feed, Richards and
Wild went down the bay and killed a couple of seals. I gave a good menu
of seal meat at night, and we turned in about 11 o’clock, full—too
full, in fact. As there is no news here of the ship, and we cannot see
her, we surmise she has gone down with all hands. I cannot see there is
any chance of her being afloat or she would be here. I don’t know how
the Skipper will take it.

“_March_ 12, _Sunday_.—Heard groans proceeding from the sleeping-bags
all night; all hands suffering from over-eating. Hayward not very well.
Turned out 8 o’clock. Good breakfast—porridge, seal, vegetables, and
coffee; more like a banquet to us. After breakfast Richards and Wild
killed a couple of seals whilst I made the hut a bit comfy. Hayward can
hardly move. All of us in a very bad state, but we must keep up
exercise. My ankles and knees badly swollen, gums prominent. Wild, very
black around joints, and gums very black. Richards about the best off.
After digging hut out I prepared food which I think will keep the
scurvy down. The dogs have lost their lassitude and are quite frisky,
except Oscar, who is suffering from over-feeding. After a strenuous
day’s work turned in 10 o’clock.

“_March_ 13, _Monday_.—Turned out 7 o’clock. Carried on much the same
as yesterday, bringing in seal blubber and meat. Preparing for
departure to-morrow; hope every one will be all right. Made new dog
harness and prepared sledges. In afternoon cooked sufficient seal meat
for our journey out and back, and same for dogs. Turned in 10 o’clock,
feeling much better.

“_March_ 14, _Tuesday_.—A beautiful day. Under way after lunch. One
would think, looking at our party, that we were the most ragged lot one
could meet in a day’s march; all our clothes past mending, our faces as
black as niggers’—a sort of crowd one would run away from. Going pretty
good. As soon as we rounded Cape Armitage a dead head wind with a
temperature of –18° Fahr., so we are not in for a pleasant time.
Arrived at Safety Camp 6 o’clock, turned in 8.30, after getting
everything ready.

“_March_ 15, _Wednesday_.—Under way as usual. Nice calm day. Had a very
cold night, temperature going down to –30° Fahr. Going along at a
rattling good rate; in spite of our swollen limbs we did about fifteen
miles. Very cold when we camped; temperature –20° Fahr. Turned in 9
o’clock.

“_March_ 16, _Thursday_.—Up before the sun, 4.45 a.m. Had a very cold
night, not much sleep. Under way early. Going good. Passed Smith’s
grave 10.45 a.m. and had lunch at depot. Saw Skipper’s camp just after,
and looking through glass found him outside tent, much to the joy of
all hands, as we expected him to be down. Picked him up 4.15 p.m. Broke
the news of Smith’s death and no ship. I gave him the date of the 17th
to look out for our returning, so he had a surprise. We struck his camp
and went north for about a mile and camped. We gave the Skipper a
banquet of seal, vegetables, and black currant jam, the feed of his
life. He seems in a bad way. I hope to get him in in three days, and I
think fresh food will improve him. We turned in 8 o’clock. Distance
done during day sixteen miles.

“_March_ 17, _Friday_.—Up at 5 o’clock. Under way 8 a.m. Skipper
feeling much better after feeding him up. Lunched a few yards past
Smith’s grave. Had a good afternoon, going fair. Distance about sixteen
miles. Very cold night, temperature –30° Fahr. What with wet bags and
clothes, rotten.

“_March_ 18, _Saturday_.—Turned out 5 o’clock. Had rather a cold night.
Temperature –29° Fahr. Surface very good. The Skipper walked for a
little way, which did him good. Lunched as usual. Pace good. After
lunch going good. Arrived at Safety Camp 4.10 p.m. To our delight found
the sea-ice in the same condition and arrived at Hut Point at 7
o’clock. Found Hayward still about same. Set to, made a good dinner,
and all hands seem in the best of spirits. Now we have arrived and got
the party in, it remains to themselves to get better. Plenty of
exercise and fresh food ought to do miracles. We have been out 160
days, and done a distance of 1561 miles, a good record. I think the
irony of fate was poor Smith going under a day before we got in. I
think we shall all soon be well. Turned in 10.30 p.m. Before turning in
Skipper shook us by the hand with great emotion, thanking us for saving
his life.”

Richards, summarizing the work of the parties, says that the journeys
made between September 1 and March 18, a period of 160 days, totalled
1561 miles. The main journey, from Hut Point to Mount Hope and return,
was 830 miles.

“The equipment,” he adds, “was old at the commencement of the season,
and this told severely at the later stages of the journey. Three Primus
lamps gave out on the journeys, and the old tent brought back by one of
the last parties showed rents several feet in length. This hampered the
travelling in the long blizzards. Finneskoe were also in pieces at the
end, and time had frequently to be lost through repairs to clothing
becoming imperative. This account would not be complete without some
mention of the unselfish service rendered by Wild to his two ill
tent-mates. From the time he remained behind at the long blizzard till
the death of Spencer-Smith he had two helpless men to attend to, and
despite his own condition he was ever ready, night or day, to minister
to their wants. This, in a temperature of –30° Fahr. at times, was no
light task.

“Without the aid of four faithful friends, Oscar, Con, Gunner, and
Towser, the party could never have arrived back. These dogs from
November 5 accompanied the sledging parties, and, although the pace was
often very slow, they adapted themselves well to it. Their endurance
was fine. For three whole days at one time they had not a scrap of
food, and this after a period on short rations. Though they were feeble
towards the end of the trip, their condition usually was good, and
those who returned with them will ever remember the remarkable service
they rendered.

“The first indication of anything wrong with the general health of the
party occurred at about lat. 82° 30´ S., when Spencer-Smith complained
of stiffness in the legs and discolouration. He attributed this to
holes in his windproof clothing. At lat. 83° S., when he gave way, it
was thought that the rest would do him good. About the end of January
Captain Mackintosh showed very serious signs of lameness. At this time
his party had been absent from Hut Point, and consequently from fresh
food, about three months.

“On the journey back Spencer-Smith gradually became weaker, and for
some time before the end was in a very weak condition indeed. Captain
Mackintosh, by great efforts, managed to keep his feet until the long
blizzard was encountered. Here it was that Hayward was first found to
be affected with the scurvy, his knees being stiff. In his case the
disease took him off his feet very suddenly, apparently causing the
muscles of his legs to contract till they could be straightened hardly
more than a right angle. He had slight touches in the joints of the
arms. In the cases of Joyce, Wild, and Richards, joints became stiff
and black in the rear, but general weakness was the worst symptom
experienced. Captain Mackintosh’s legs looked the worst in the party.”

The five men who were now at Hut Point found quickly that some of the
winter months must be spent there. They had no news of the ship, and
were justified in assuming that she had not returned to the Sound,
since if she had some message would have been awaiting them at Hut
Point, if not farther south. The sea-ice had broken and gone north
within a mile of the point, and the party must wait until the new ice
became firm as far as Cape Evans. Plenty of seal meat was available, as
well as dried vegetables, and the fresh food improved the condition of
the patients very rapidly. Richards massaged the swollen joints and
found that this treatment helped a good deal. Before the end of March
Mackintosh and Hayward, the worst sufferers, were able to take
exercise. By the second week of April Mackintosh was free of pain,
though the backs of his legs were still discoloured.

A tally of the stores at the hut showed that on a reasonable allowance
the supply would last till the middle of June. Richards and Wild killed
many seals, so that there was no scarcity of meat and blubber. A few
penguins were also secured. The sole means of cooking food and heating
the hut was an improvised stove of brick, covered with two sheets of
iron. This had been used by the former Expedition. The stove emitted
dense smoke and often made the hut very uncomfortable, while at the
same time it covered the men and all their gear with clinging and
penetrating soot. Cleanliness was out of the question, and this
increased the desire of the men to get across to Cape Evans. During
April the sea froze in calm weather, but winds took the ice out again.
On April 23 Joyce walked four miles to the north, partly on young ice
two inches thick, and he thought then that the party might be able to
reach Cape Evans within a few days. But a prolonged blizzard took the
ice out right up to the Point, so that the open water extended at the
end of April right up to the foot of Vinie’s Hill. Then came a spell of
calm weather, and during the first week of May the sea-ice formed
rapidly. The men made several short trips over it to the north. The sun
had disappeared below the horizon in the middle of April, and would not
appear again for over four months.

The disaster that followed is described by both Richards and Joyce.
“And now a most regrettable incident occurred,” wrote Richards. “On the
morning of May 8, before breakfast, Captain Mackintosh asked Joyce what
he thought of his going to Cape Evans with Hayward. Captain Mackintosh
considered the ice quite safe, and the fine morning no doubt tempted
him to exchange the quarters at the hut for the greater comfort and
better food at Cape Evans.” (Mackintosh naturally would be anxious to
know if the men at Cape Evans were well and had any news of the ship.)
“He was strongly urged at the time not to take the risk, as it was
pointed out that the ice, although firm, was very young, and that a
blizzard was almost sure to take part of it out to sea.”

However, at about 1 p.m., with the weather apparently changing for the
worse, Mackintosh and Hayward left, after promising to turn back if the
weather grew worse. The last sight the watching party on the hill
gained of them was when they were about a mile away, close to the
shore, but apparently making straight for Cape Evans. At 3 p.m. a
moderate blizzard was raging, which later increased in fury, and the
party in the hut had many misgivings for the safety of the absent men.

On May 10, the first day possible, the three men left behind walked
over new ice to the north to try and discover some trace as to the fate
of the others. The footmarks were seen clearly enough raised up on the
ice, and the track was followed for about two miles in a direction
leading to Cape Evans. Here they ended abruptly, and in the dim light a
wide stretch of water, very lightly covered with ice, was seen as far
as the eye could reach. It was at once evident that part of the ice
over which they had travelled had gone out to sea.

The whole party had intended, if the weather had held good, to have
attempted the passage across with the full moon about May 16. On the
date on which Mackintosh and Hayward left it was impossible that a
sledge should travel the distance over the sea-ice owing to the sticky
nature of the surface. Hence their decision to go alone and leave the
others to follow with the sledge and equipment when the surface should
improve. That they had actually been lost was learned only on July 15,
on which date the party from Hut Point arrived at Cape Evans.

The entry in Joyce’s diary shows that he had very strong forebodings of
disaster when Mackintosh and Hayward left. He warned them not to go, as
the ice was still thin and the weather was uncertain. Mackintosh seems
to have believed that he and Hayward, travelling light, could get
across to Cape Evans quickly before the weather broke, and if the
blizzard had come two or three hours later they probably would have
been safe. The two men carried no sleeping-bags and only a small meal
of chocolate and seal meat.

The weather during June was persistently bad. No move had been possible
on May 16, the sea-ice being out, and Joyce decided to wait until the
next full moon. When this came the weather was boisterous, and so it
was not until the full moon of July that the journey to Cape Evans was
made. During June and July seals got very scarce, and the supply of
blubber ran short.

Meals consisted of little but seal meat and porridge. The small stock
of salt was exhausted, but the men procured two and a half pounds by
boiling down snow taken from the bottom layer next to the sea-ice. The
dogs recovered condition rapidly and did some hunting on their own
account among the seals.

The party started for Cape Evans on July 15. They had expected to take
advantage of the full moon, but by a strange chance they had chosen the
period of an eclipse, and the moon was shadowed most of the time they
were crossing the sea-ice. The ice was firm, and the three men reached
Cape Evans without difficulty. They found Stevens, Cope, Gaze, and Jack
at the Cape Evans Hut, and learned that nothing had been seen of
Captain Mackintosh and Hayward. The conclusion that these men had
perished was accepted reluctantly. The party at the base consisted now
of Stevens, Cope, Joyce, Richards, Gaze, Wild, and Jack.

The men settled down now to wait for relief. When opportunity offered
Joyce led search-parties to look for the bodies or any trace of the
missing men, and he subsequently handed me the following report:

“I beg to report that the following steps were taken to try and
discover the bodies of Captain Mackintosh and Mr. Hayward. After our
party’s return to the hut at Cape Evans, July 15, 1916, it was learned
that Captain Mackintosh and Mr. Hayward had not arrived; and, being
aware of the conditions under which they were last seen, all the
members of the wintering party were absolutely convinced that these two
men were totally lost and dead—that they could not have lived for more
than a few hours at the outside in the blizzard that they had
encountered, they being entirely unprovided with equipment of any sort.

“There was the barest chance that after the return of the sun some
trace of their bodies might be found, so during the spring—that is,
August and September 1916—and in the summer—December and January
1916–17—the following searches were carried out:

“(1) Wild and I thoroughly searched Inaccessible Island at the end of
August 1916.

“(2) Various parties in September searched along the shore to the
vicinity of Turk’s Head.

“(3) In company with Messrs. Wild and Gaze I started from Hut Point,
December 31, 1916, at 8 a.m., and a course was steered inshore as close
as possible to the cliffs in order to search for any possible means of
ascent. At a distance of half a mile from Hut Point we passed a snow
slope which I had already ascended in June 1916; three and a half miles
farther on was another snow slope, which ended in Blue Ice Glacier
slope, which we found impossible to climb, snow slope being formed by
heavy winter snowfall. These were the only two places accessible.
Distance on this day, 10 miles 1710 yds covered. On January 1 search
was continued round the south side of Glacier Tongue from the base
towards the seaward end. There was much heavy pressure; it was
impossible to reach the summit owing to the wide crack. Distance
covered 4 miles 100 yds. On January 2 thick weather caused party to lay
up. On 3rd, glacier was further examined, and several slopes formed by
snow led to top of glacier, but crevasses between slope and the tongue
prevented crossing. The party then proceeded round the Tongue to Tent
Island, which was also searched, a complete tour of the island being
made. It was decided to make for Cape Evans, as thick weather was
approaching. We arrived at 8 p.m. Distance 8 miles 490 yds.

“I remain, etc.,
“ERNEST E. JOYCE.


“_To_ Sir ERNEST SHACKLETON, C.V.O.,
“_Commander_, I.T.A.E.”


In September Richards was forced to lay up at the hut owing to a
strained heart, due presumably to stress of work on the sledging
journeys. Early in October a party consisting of Joyce, Gaze, and Wild
spent several days at Cape Royds, where they skinned specimens. They
sledged stores back to Cape Evans in case it should be found necessary
to remain there over another winter. In September, Joyce, Gaze, and
Wild went out to Spencer-Smith’s grave with a wooden cross, which they
erected firmly. Relief arrived on January 10, 1917, but it is necessary
now to turn back to the events of May 1915, when the _Aurora_ was
driven from her moorings off Cape Evans.




CHAPTER XVI
THE _AURORA’S_ DRIFT


After Mackintosh left the _Aurora_ on January 25, 1915, Stenhouse kept
the ship with difficulty off Tent Island. The ice-anchors would not
hold, owing to the continual breaking away of the pack, and he found it
necessary much of the time to steam slow ahead against the floes. The
third sledging party, under Cope, left the ship on the afternoon of the
31st, with the motor-tractor towing two sledges, and disappeared
towards Hut Point. Cope’s party returned to the ship on February 2 and
left again on February 5, after a delay caused by the loose condition
of the ice. Two days later, after more trouble with drifting floes,
Stenhouse proceeded to Cape Evans, where he took a line of soundings
for the winter quarters. During the next month the _Aurora_ occupied
various positions in the neighbourhood of Cape Evans. No secure
moorings were available. The ship had to keep clear of threatening
floes, dodge “growlers” and drifting bergs, and find shelter from the
blizzards. A sudden shift of wind on February 24, when the ship was
sheltering in the lee of Glacier Tongue, caused her to be jammed hard
against the low ice off the glacier, but no damage was done. Early in
March Stenhouse sent moorings ashore at Cape Evans, and on March 11 he
proceeded to Hut Point, where he dropped anchor in Discovery Bay. Here
he landed stores, amounting to about two months’ full rations for
twelve men, and embarked Spencer-Smith, Stevens, Hook, Richards,
Ninnis, and Gaze, with two dogs. He returned to Cape Evans that
evening.

“We had a bad time when we were ‘sculling’ about the Sound, first
endeavouring to make Hut Point to land provisions, and then looking for
winter quarters in the neighbourhood of Glacier Tongue,” wrote
Stenhouse afterwards. “The ice kept breaking away in small floes, and
we were apparently no nearer to anywhere than when the sledges left; we
were frustrated in every move. The ship broke away from the fast ice in
blizzards, and then we went dodging about the Sound from the Ross
Island side to the western pack, avoiding and clearing floes and
growlers in heavy drift when we could see nothing, our compasses
unreliable and the ship short-handed. In that homeless time I kept
watch and watch with the second officer, and was hard pressed to know
what to do. Was ever ship in such predicament? To the northward of Cape
Royds was taboo, as also was the coast south of Glacier Tongue. In a
small stretch of ice-bound coast we had to find winter quarters. The
ice lingered on, and all this time we could find nowhere to drop
anchor, but had to keep steam handy for emergencies. Once I tried the
North Bay of Cape Evans, as it apparently was the only ice-free spot. I
called all hands, and making up a boat’s crew with one of the firemen
sent the whaler away with the second officer in charge to sound. No
sooner had the boat left ship than the wind freshened from the
northward, and large bergs and growlers, setting into the bay, made the
place untenable. The anchorage I eventually selected seemed the best
available—and here we are drifting, with all plans upset, when we ought
to be lying in winter quarters.”

A heavy gale came up on March 12, and the _Aurora_, then moored off
Cape Evans, dragged her anchor and drifted out of the bay. She went
northward past Cape Barne and Cape Royds in a driving mist, with a
heavy storm-sea running. This gale was a particularly heavy one. The
ship and gear were covered with ice, owing to the freezing of spray,
and Stenhouse had anxious hours amid the heavy, ice-encumbered waters
before the gale moderated. The young ice, which was continually forming
in the very low temperature, helped to reduce the sea as soon as the
gale moderated, and the _Aurora_ got back to Cape Evans on the evening
of the 13th. Ice was forming in the bay, and on the morning of the 14th
Stenhouse took the ship into position for winter moorings. He got three
steel hawsers out and made fast to the shore anchors. These hawsers
were hove tight, and the _Aurora_ rested then, with her stern to the
shore, in seven fathoms. Two more wires were taken ashore the next day.
Young ice was forming around the ship, and under the influence of wind
and tide this ice began early to put severe strains upon the moorings.
Stenhouse had the fires drawn and the boiler blown down on the 20th,
and the engineer reported at that time that the bunkers contained still
118 tons of coal.

The ice broke away between Cape Evans and Cape Barne on the 23rd, and
pressure around the ship shattered the bay ice and placed heavy strains
on the stern moorings. The young ice, about four inches thick, went out
eventually and left a lead along the shore. The ship had set in towards
the shore, owing to the pressure, and the stern was now in
four-and-a-half fathoms. Stenhouse tightened the moorings and ran out
an extra wire to the shore anchor. The nature of the ice movements is
illustrated by a few extracts from the log:

“_March_ 27, 5 p.m.—Ice broke away from shore and started to go out. 8
p.m.—Light southerly airs; fine; ice setting out to north-west; heavy
pressure of ice on starboard side and great strain on moorings. 10
p.m.—Ice clear of ship.

“_March_ 28.—New ice forming over bay. 3 a.m.—Ice which went out last
watch set in towards bay. 5 a.m.—Ice coming in and overriding newly
formed bay-ice; heavy pressure on port side of ship; wires frozen into
ice. 8 a.m.—Calm and fine; new ice setting out of bay. 5 p.m.—New ice
formed since morning cleared from bay except area on port side of ship
and stretching abeam and ahead for about 200 yds., which is held by
bights of wire; new ice forming.

“_March_ 29, 1.30 p.m.—New ice going out. 2 p.m.—Hands on floe on port
quarter clearing wires; stern in three fathoms; hauled wires tight,
bringing stern more to eastward and in four fathoms; hove in about one
fathom of starboard cable, which had dragged during recent pressure.

“_April_ 10, 1.30 p.m.—Ice breaking from shore under influence of
south-east wind. Two starboard quarter wires parted; all bights of
stern wires frozen in ice; chain taking weight. 2 p.m.—Ice opened,
leaving ice in bay in line from Cape to landward of glacier. 8
p.m.—Fresh wind; ship holding ice in bay; ice in Sound wind-driven to
north-west.

“_April_ 17, 1 am.—Pressure increased and wind shifted to north-west.
Ice continued to override and press into shore until 5 o’clock; during
this time pressure into bay was very heavy; movement of ice in straits
causing noise like heavy surf. Ship took ground gently at rudder-post
during pressure; bottom under stern shallows very quickly. 10
p.m.—Ice-moving out of bay to westward; heavy strain on after moorings
and cables, which are cutting the floe.”

Stenhouse continued to nurse his moorings against the onslaughts of the
ice during the rest of April and the early days of May. The break-away
from the shore came suddenly and unexpectedly on the evening of May 6:

“_May_ 6, 1915.—Fine morning with light breezes from
east-south-east.... 3.30 p.m.—Ice nearly finished. Sent hands ashore
for sledge-load. 4 p.m.—Wind freshening with blizzardy appearance of
sky. 8 p.m.—. . . Heavy strain on after-moorings. 9.45 p.m.—The ice
parted from the shore; all moorings parted. Most fascinating to listen
to waves and chain breaking. In the thick haze I saw the ice astern
breaking up and the shore receding. I called all hands and clapped
relieving tackles (4-in. Manila luff tackles) on to the cables on the
forepart of the windlass. The bos’n had rushed along with his hurricane
lamp, and shouted, ‘She’s away wi’ it!’ He is a good fellow and very
conscientious. I ordered steam on main engines, and the engine-room
staff, with Hooke and Ninnis, turned to. Grady, fireman, was laid up
with a broken rib. As the ship, in the solid floe, set to the
north-west, the cables rattled and tore at the hawse-pipes; luckily the
anchors, lying as they were on a strip-sloping bottom, came away
easily, without damage to windlass or hawse-pipes. Slowly as we
disappeared into Sound, the light in the hut died away. At 11.30 p.m.
the ice around us started to break up, the floes playing tattoo on the
ship’s sides. We were out in the Sound and catching the full force of
the wind. The moon broke through the clouds after midnight and showed
us the pack, stretching continuously to northward, and about one mile
to the south. As the pack from the southward came up and closed in on
the ship, the swell lessened and the banging of floes alongside eased a
little.

“_May_ 7, 8 a.m.—Wind east-south-east. Moderate gale with thick drift.
The ice around ship is packing up and forming ridges about two feet
high. The ship is lying with head to the eastward, Cape Bird showing to
north-east. When steam is raised I have hopes of getting back to the
fast ice near the Glacier Tongue. Since we have been in winter quarters
the ice has formed and, held by the islands and land at Cape Evans, has
remained north of the Tongue. If we can return we should be able now to
moor to the fast ice. The engineers are having great difficulty with
the sea connexions, which are frozen. The main bow-down cock, from
which the boiler is ‘run up,’ has been tapped and a screw plug put into
it to allow of a hot iron rod being inserted to thaw out the ice
between the cock and the ship’s side—about two feet of hard ice. 4.30
p.m.—The hot iron has been successful. Donolly (second engineer) had
the pleasure of stopping the first spurt of water through the pipe; he
got it in the eye. Fires were lit in furnaces, and water commenced to
blow in the boiler—the first blow in our defence against the terrific
forces of Nature in the Antarctic. 8 p.m.—The gale has freshened,
accompanied by thick drift.”

The _Aurora_ drifted helplessly throughout May 7. On the morning of May
8 the weather cleared a little and the Western Mountains became
indistinctly visible. Cape Bird could also be seen. The ship was moving
northwards with the ice. The daylight was no more than a short twilight
of about two hours’ duration. The boiler was being filled with ice,
which had to be lifted aboard, broken up, passed through a small
porthole to a man inside, and then carried to the manhole on top of the
boiler. Stenhouse had the wireless aerial rigged during the afternoon,
and at 5 p.m. was informed that the watering of the boiler was
complete. The wind freshened to a moderate southerly gale, with thick
drift, in the night, and this gale continued during the following day,
the 9th. The engineer reported at noon that he had 40-lb. pressure in
the boiler and was commencing the thawing of the auxiliary
sea-connexion pump by means of a steam-pipe.

“Cape Bird is the only land visible, bearing north-east true about
eight miles distant,” wrote, Stenhouse on the afternoon of the 9th. “So
this is the end of our attempt to winter in McMurdo Sound. Hard luck
after four months’ buffeting, for the last seven weeks of which we
nursed our moorings. Our present situation calls for increasing
vigilance. It is five weeks to the middle of winter. There is no sun,
the light is little and uncertain, and we may expect many blizzards. We
have no immediate water-supply, as only a small quantity of fresh ice
was aboard when we broke drift.

“The _Aurora_ is fast in the pack and drifting God knows where. Well,
there are prospects of a most interesting winter drift. We are all in
good health, except Grady, whose rib is mending rapidly; we have good
spirits and we will get through. But what of the poor beggars at Cape
Evans, and the Southern Party? It is a dismal prospect for them. There
are sufficient provisions at Cape Evans, Hut Point, and, I suppose,
Cape Royds, but we have the remaining Burberrys, clothing, etc., for
next year’s sledging still on board. I see little prospect of getting
back to Cape Evans or anywhere in the Sound. We are short of coal and
held firmly in the ice. I hope she drifts quickly to the north-east.
Then we can endeavour to push through the pack and make for New
Zealand, coal and return to the Barrier eastward of Cape Crozier. This
could be done, I think, in the early spring, September. We must get
back to aid the depot-laying next season.”

A violent blizzard raged on May 10 and 11. “I never remember such
wind-force,” said Stenhouse. “It was difficult to get along the deck.”
The weather moderated on the 12th, and a survey of the ship’s position
was possible. “We are lying in a field of ice with our anchors and
seventy-five fathoms of cable on each hanging at the bows. The
after-moorings were frozen into the ice astern of us at Cape Evans.
Previous to the date of our leaving our winter berth four small wires
had parted. When we broke away the chain two of the heavy (4-in.) wires
parted close to shore; the other wire went at the butts. The chain and
two wires are still fast in the ice and will have to be dug out. This
morning we cleared the ice around the cables, but had to abandon the
heaving-in, as the steam-froze in the return pipes from the windlass
exhaust, and the joints had to be broken and the pipe thawed out. Hooke
was ‘listening in’ from 8.30 p.m. to 12.30 a.m. for the Macquarie
Island wireless station (1340 miles away) or the Bluff (New Zealand)
station (1860 miles away), but had no luck.”

The anchors were hove in by dint of much effort on the 13th and 14th,
ice forming on the cable as it was hoisted through a hole cut in the
floe. Both anchors had broken, so the _Aurora_ had now one small
kedge-anchor left aboard. The ship’s position on May 14 was
approximately forty-five miles north, thirty-four west of Cape Evans.
“In one week we have drifted forty-five miles (geographical). Most of
this distance was covered during the first two days of the drift. We
appear to be nearly stationary. What movement there is in the ice seems
to be to the north-west towards the ice-bound coast. Hands who were
after penguins yesterday reported much noise in the ice about one mile
from the ship. I hope the floe around the ship is large enough to take
its own pressure. We cannot expect much pressure from the south, as
McMurdo Sound should soon be frozen over and the ice holding.
North-east winds would drive the pack in from the Ross Sea. I hope for
the best. Plans for future development are ready, but probably will be
checkmated again.... I took the anchors aboard. They are of no further
use as separate anchors, but they ornament the forecastle head, so we
put them in their places.... The supply of fresh water is a problem.
The engineer turned steam from the boiler into the main water-tank
(starboard) through a pipe leading from the main winch-pipe to the tank
top. The steam condenses before reaching the tank. I hope freezing does
not burst the tank. A large tabular iceberg, calved from the Barrier,
is silhouetted against the twilight glow in the sky about ten miles
away. The sight of millions of tons of fresh ice is most tantalizing.
It would be a week’s journey to the berg and back over pack and
pressure, and probably we could bring enough ice to last two days.”

The record of the early months of the _Aurora’s_ long drift in the Ross
Sea is not eventful. The galley condenser was rigged, but the supply of
fresh water remained a problem. The men collected fresh-fallen snow
when possible and hoped to get within reach of fresh ice. Hooke and
Ninnis worked hard at the wireless plant with the object of getting
into touch with Macquarie Island, and possibly sending news of the
ship’s movements to Cape Evans. They got the wireless motor running and
made many adjustments of the instruments and aerials, but their efforts
were not successful. Emperor penguins approached the ship occasionally,
and the birds were captured whenever possible for the fresh meat they
afforded. The _Aurora_ was quite helpless in the grip of the ice, and
after the engine-room bilges had been thawed and pumped out the boilers
were blown down. The pressure had been raised to sixty pounds, but
there was no chance of moving the ship, and the supply of coal was
limited. The story of the _Aurora’s_ drift during long months can be
told briefly by means of extracts from Stenhouse’s log:

“_May_ 21.—Early this morning there appeared to be movements in the
ice. The grating and grinding noise makes one feel the unimportance of
man in circumstances like ours. Twilight towards noon showed several
narrow, open leads about two cables from ship and in all directions.
Unable to get bearing, but imagine that there is little or no
alteration in ship’s position, as ship’s head is same, and Western
Mountains appear the same.... Hope all is well at Cape Evans and that
the other parties have returned safely. Wish we could relieve their
anxiety.

“_May_ 22.—Obtained good bearings of Beaufort Island, Cape Ross, and
Dunlop Island, which put the ship in a position eighteen miles south
75° east (true) from Cape Ross. Since the 14th, when reliable bearings
were last obtained, we have drifted north-west by north seven miles.

“_May_ 24.—Blizzard from south-south-east continued until 9 p.m., when
it moderated, and at 11.45 p.m. wind shifted to north-west, light, with
snow. Quite a lot of havoc has been caused during this blow, and the
ship has made much northing. In the morning the crack south of the ship
opened to about three feet. At 2 p.m. felt heavy shock and the ship
heeled to port about 70°. Found ice had cracked from port gangway to
north-west, and parted from ship from gangway along to stern. Crack
extended from stern to south-east. 7.35 p.m.—Ice cracked from port fore
chains, in line parallel to previous crack. The ice broke again between
the cracks and drifted to north-west for about ten yards. The ice to
southward then commenced to break up, causing heavy strain on ship, and
setting apparently north in large broken fields. Ship badly jammed in.
9.15 p.m.—Ice closed in again around ship. Two heavy windsqualls with a
short interval between followed by cessation of wind. We are in a
labyrinth of large rectangular floes (some with their points pressing
heavily against ship) and high pressure-ridges.

“_May_ 25.—In middle watch felt pressure occasionally. Twilight showed
a scene of chaos all around; one floe about three feet in thickness had
upended, driven under ship on port quarter. As far as can be seen there
are heavy blocks of ice screwed up on end, and the scene is like a
graveyard. I think swell must have come up under ice from seaward
(north-east), McMurdo Sound, and broken the ice, which afterwards
started to move under the influence of the blizzard. Hardly think swell
came from the Sound, as the cracks were wending from north-west to
south-east, and also as the Sound should be getting icebound by now. If
swell came from north-east then there is open water not far away. I
should like to know. I believe the Ross Sea is rarely entirely
ice-covered. Have bright moonlight now, which accentuates
everything—the beauty and loneliness of our surroundings, and
uselessness of ourselves, while in this prison: so near to Cape Evans
and yet we might as well be anywhere as here. Have made our
sledging-ration scales, and crew are busy making harness and getting
sledging equipment ready for emergencies. Temperature –30° Fahr.

“_May_ 26.—If the ship is nipped in the ice, the ship’s company
(eighteen hands) will take to four sledges with one month’s rations and
make for nearest land. Six men and one sledge will endeavour to make
Cape Evans via the western land, Butler Point, Hut Point, etc. The
remaining twelve will come along with all possible speed, but no forced
marches, killing and depot-ing penguins and seals for emergency
retreats. If the ship remains here and makes no further drift to the
north, towards latter end of July light will be making. The sun returns
August 23. The sea-ice should be fairly safe, and a party of three,
with one month’s rations, will proceed to Cape Evans. If the ice sets
north and takes the ship clear of land, we will proceed to New Zealand,
bunker, get extra officer and four volunteers, provisions, etc., push
south with all speed to the Barrier, put party on to the Barrier, about
two miles east of Cape Crozier, and land all necessary stores and
requirements. The ship will stand off until able to reach Cape Evans.
If necessary, party will depot all stores possible at Corner Camp and
go on to Cape Evans. If worst has happened my party will lay out the
depot at the Beardmore for Shackleton. If the ship is released from the
ice after September we must endeavour to reach Cape Evans before going
north to bunker. We have not enough coal to hang about the Sound for
many days.

“_May_ 28.—By the position obtained by meridian altitude of stars and
bearing of Mount Melbourne, we have drifted thirty-six miles north-east
from last bearings taken on 23rd inst. The most of this must have been
during the blizzard of the 24th. Mount Melbourne is one hundred and
eleven miles due north of us, and there is some doubt in my mind as to
whether the peak which we can see is this mountain. There may be a
mirage.... In the evening had the football out on the ice by the light
of a beautiful moon. The exercise and break from routine are a splendid
tonic. Ice-noises sent all hands on board.

“_June_ 1.—Thick, hazy weather. In the afternoon a black streak
appeared in the ice about a cable’s length to the westward and
stretching north and south. 8 p.m.—The black line widened and showed
long lane of open water. Apparently we are fast in a floe which has
broken from the main field. With thick weather we are uncertain of our
position and drift. It will be interesting to find out what this crack
in the ice signifies. I am convinced that there is open water, not far
distant, in the Ross Sea.... To-night Hooke is trying to call up Cape
Evans. If the people at the hut have rigged the set which was left
there, they will hear ‘All well’ from the _Aurora_. I hope they have.
[The messages were not received.]

“_June_ 8.—Made our latitude 75° 59´ S. by altitude of Sirius. This is
a very monotonous life, but all hands appear to be happy and contented.
Find that we are not too well off for meals and will have to cut
rations a little. Grady is taking exercise now and should soon be well
again. He seems very anxious to get to work again, and is a good man.
No wireless calls to-night, as there is a temporary breakdown—condenser
jar broken. There is a very faint display of aurora in northern sky. It
comes and goes almost imperceptibly, a most fascinating sight. The
temperature is –20° Fahr.; 52° of frost is much too cold to allow one
to stand for long.

“_June_ 11.—Walked over to a very high pressure-ridge about a quarter
of a mile north-north-west of the ship. In the dim light walking over
the ice is far from being monotonous, as it is almost impossible to see
obstacles, such as small, snowed-up ridges, which makes us wary and
cautious. A dip in the sea would be the grand finale, but there is
little risk of this as the water freezes as soon as a lane opens in the
ice. The pressure-ridge is about fifteen to twenty feet high for
several hundred feet, and the ice all about it is bent up in a most
extraordinary manner. At 9 p.m. Hooke called Cape Evans, ‘All
well—_Aurora_,’ etc.; 10 p.m., weather reports for 8 p.m. sent to
Wellington, New Zealand, and Melbourne, via Macquarie Island. [The
dispatch of messages from the _Aurora_ was continued, but it was
learned afterwards that none of them had been received by any station.]

“_June_ 13.—The temperature in the chart-room ranges from zero to a
little above freezing-point. This is a very disturbing factor in rates
of the chronometers (five in number, 3 G.M.T. and 2 Sid.T.), which are
kept in cases in a padded box, each case covered by a piece of blanket,
and the box covered by a heavy coat. In any enclosed place where people
pass their time, the niches and places where no heat penetrates are
covered with frozen breath. There will be a big thaw-out when the
temperature rises.

“_June_ 14.—Mount Melbourne is bearing north 14° W (true). Our
approximate position is forty miles east-north-east of Nordenskjold Ice
Tongue. At 9 p.m. Hooke called Cape Evans and sent weather reports to
Wellington and Melbourne via Macquarie Island. Hooke and Ninnis on
several evenings at about 11 o’clock have heard what happened to be
faint messages, but unreadable. He sent word to Macquarie Island of
this in hopes that they would hear and increase the power.

“_June_ 20.—During this last blow with its accompanying drift-snow
there has been much leakage of current from the aerial during the
sending of reports. This is apparently due to induction caused by the
snow accumulating on the insulators aloft, and thus rendering them
useless, and probably to increased inductive force of the current in a
body of snowdrift. Hooke appears to be somewhat downhearted over it,
and, after discussing the matter, gave me a written report on the
non-success (up to the present time) of his endeavours to establish
communication. He thinks that the proximity of the Magnetic Pole and
Aurora Australis might affect things. The radiation is good and
sufficient for normal conditions. His suggestion to lead the down lead
wires out to the ahead and astern would increase scope, but I cannot
countenance it owing to unsettled state of ice and our too lofty poles.

“_June_ 21.—Blowing gale from south-west throughout day, but for short
spell of westerly breeze about 5 p.m. Light drift at frequent
intervals, very hazy, and consequently no land in sight during short
twilight. Very hard up for mitts and clothing. What little we have on
board I have put to one side for the people at the hut. Have given
Thompson instructions to turn crew to making pair mitts and helmet out
of Jaeger fleece for all hands forward. With strict economy we should
make things spin out; cannot help worrying over our people at the hut.
Although worrying does no good, one cannot do otherwise in this present
impotent state. 11 p.m.—Wind howling and whistling through rigging.
Outside, in glare of moon, flying drift and expanse of ice-field.
Desolation!

“_June_ 22.—To-day the sun has reached the limit of his northern
declination and now he will start to come south. Observed this day as
holiday, and in the evening had hands aft to drink to the health of the
King and the Expedition. All hands are happy, but miss the others at
Cape Evans. I pray to God we may soon be clear of this prison and in a
position to help them. We can live now for sunlight and activity.

“_July_ 1.—The 1st of July! Thank God. The days pass quickly. Through
all my waking hours one long thought of the people at Cape Evans, but
one must appear to be happy and take interest in the small happenings
of shipboard.

“_July_ 3.—Rather hazy with very little light. Moderate west-north-west
to south-west winds until noon, when wind veered to south and
freshened. No apparent change in ship’s position; the berg is on the
same bearing (1 point on the port quarter) and apparently the same
distance off. Mount Melbourne was hidden behind a bank of clouds. This
is our only landmark now, as Franklin Island is towered in perpetual
gloom. Although we have had the berg in sight during all the time of
our drift from the entrance to McMurdo Sound, we have not yet seen it
in a favourable light, and, were it not for its movement, we might
mistake it for a tabular island. It will be interesting to view our
companion in the returning light—unless we are too close to it!

“_July_ 5.—Dull grey day (during twilight) with light, variable,
westerly breezes. All around hangs a heavy curtain of haze, and,
although very light snow is falling, overhead is black and clear with
stars shining. As soon as the faint noon light fades away the heavy low
haze intensifies the darkness and makes one thankful that one has a
good firm ‘berth’ in the ice. I don’t care to contemplate the scene if
the ice should break up at the present time.

“_July_ 6.—Last night I thought I saw open water in the shape of a long
black lane to the southward of the ship and extending in an easterly
and westerly direction, but owing to the haze and light snow I could
not be sure; this morning the lane was distinctly visible and appeared
to be two or three hundred yards wide and two miles long.... At 6 p.m.
loud pressure-noises would be heard from the direction of the open lane
and continued throughout the night. Shortly after 8 o’clock the
grinding and hissing spread to our starboard bow (west-south-west), and
the vibration caused by the pressure could be felt intermittently on
board the ship.... The incessant grinding and grating of the ice to the
southward, with seething noises, as of water rushing under the ship’s
bottom, and ominous sounds, kept me on the _qui vive_ all night, and
the prospect of a break-up of the ice would have wracked my nerves had
I not had them numbed by previous experiences.

“_July_ 9.—At noon the sky to the northward had cleared sufficiently to
allow of seeing Mount Melbourne, which appears now as a low peak to the
north-west. Ship’s position is twenty-eight miles north-north-east of
Franklin Island. On the port bow and ahead of the ship there are some
enormous pressure-ridges; they seem to be the results of the recent and
present ice-movements. Pressure heard from the southward all day.

“_July_ 13.—At 5 p.m. very heavy pressure was heard on the port beam
and bow (south) and very close to the ship. This occurred again at
irregular intervals. Quite close to the ship the ice could be seen
bending upwards, and occasional jars were felt on board. I am inclined
to think that we have set into a cul-de-sac and that we will now
experience the full force of pressure from the south. We have prepared
for the worst and can only hope for the best—a release from the ice
with a seaworthy vessel under us.

“_July_ 18.—This has been a day of events. About 8 a.m. the horizon to
the north became clear and, as the light grew, the more westerly land
showed up. This is the first clear day that we have had since the 9th
of the month, and we have set a considerable distance to the north-east
in the meantime. By meridian altitudes of stars and bearings of the
land, which proved to be Coulman Islands, Mount Murchison, and Mount
Melbourne, our position shows seventy-eight miles (geographical)
north-east by north of Franklin Island. During the last three days we
have drifted forty miles (geographical), so there has been ample reason
for all the grinding and growling of pressure lately. The ship endured
some severe squeezes this day.

“_July_ 20.—Shortly before breakfast the raucous voice of the emperor
penguin was heard, and afterwards two were seen some distance from the
ship.... The nearest mainland (in vicinity of Cape Washington) is
ninety miles distant, as also is Coulman Island. Franklin Island is
eighty miles south-east by south, and the pack is in motion. This is
the emperor’s hatching season, and here we meet them out in the
cheerless desert of ice.... 10.45 p.m.—Heavy pressure around ship,
lanes opened and ship worked astern about twenty feet. The wires in the
ice took the strain (lashings at mizzen chains carried away) and
carried away fair-lead bollard on port side of forecastle head.

“_July_ 21, 1 a.m.—Lanes opened to about 40 ft. wide. Ship in open pool
about 100 ft. wide. Heavy pressure in vicinity of ship. Called all
hands and cut wires at the forecastle head. [These wires had remained
frozen in the ice after the ship broke away from her moorings, and they
had served a useful purpose at some times by checking ice-movements
close to the ship.] 2 a.m.—Ship swung athwart lane as the ice opened,
and the floes on the port side pressed her stern round. 11.30 a.m.—Pack
of killer whales came up in the lane around the ship. Some broke soft
ice (about one inch thick) and pushed their heads through, rising to
five or six feet perpendicularly out of the water. They were apparently
having a look round. It is strange to see killers in this immense field
of ice; open water must be near, I think. 5.15 p.m.—New ice of lanes
cracked and opened. Floes on port side pushed stern on to ice (of
floe); floes then closed in and nipped the ship fore and aft. The
rudder was bent over to starboard and smashed. The solid oak and iron
went like matchwood. 8 p.m.—Moderate south-south-west gale with drift.
Much straining of timbers with pressure. 10 p.m.—Extra hard nip fore
and aft; ship visibly hogged. Heavy pressure.

“_July_ 22.—Ship in bad position in newly frozen lane, with bow and
stern jammed against heavy floes; heavy strain with much creaking and
groaning. 8 a.m.—Called all hands to stations for sledges, and made
final preparations for abandoning ship. Allotted special duties to
several hands to facilitate quickness in getting clear should ship be
crushed. Am afraid the ship’s back will be broken if the pressure
continues, but cannot relieve her. 2 p.m.—Ship lying easier. Poured
Sulphuric acid on the ice astern in hopes of rotting crack and
relieving pressure on stern-post, but unsuccessfully. Very heavy
pressure on and around ship (taking strain fore and aft and on
starboard quarter). Ship, jumping and straining and listing badly. 10
p.m.—Ship has crushed her way into new ice on starboard side and slewed
aslant lane with stern-post clear of land-ice. 12 p.m.—Ship is in safer
position; lanes opening in every direction.

“_July_ 23.—Caught glimpse of Coulman Island through haze. Position of
ship south 14° east (true), eighty miles off Coulman Island. Pressure
continued intermittently throughout the day and night, with occasional
very heavy squeezes to the ship which made timbers crack and groan. The
ship’s stern is now in a more or less soft bed, formed of recently
frozen ice of about one foot in thickness. I thank God that we have
been spared through this fearful nightmare. I shall never forget the
concertina motions of the ship during yesterday’s and Wednesday’s fore
and aft nips.

“_July_ 24.—Compared with previous days this is a quiet one. The lanes
have been opening and closing, and occasionally the ship gets a nasty
squeeze against the solid floe on our starboard quarter. The more lanes
that open the better, as they form ‘springs’ (when covered with thin
ice, which makes to a thickness of three or four inches in a few hours)
between the solid and heavier floes and fields. Surely we have been
guided by the hands of Providence to have come in heavy grinding pack
for over two hundred miles (geographical), skirting the ice-bound
western shore, around and to the north of Franklin Island, and now into
what appears a clear path to the open sea! In view of our precarious
position and the lives of men in jeopardy, I sent this evening an
aerogram to H. M. King George asking for a relief ship. I hope the
wireless gets through. I have sent this message after much
consideration, and know that in the event of our non-arrival in New
Zealand on the specified date (November 1) a relief ship will be sent
to aid the Southern Party.

“_July_ 25.—Very heavy pressure about the ship. During the early hours
a large field on the port quarter came charging up, and on meeting our
floe tossed up a ridge from ten to fifteen feet high. The blocks of ice
as they broke off crumbled and piled over each other to the
accompaniment of a thunderous roar. Throughout the day the pressure
continued, the floes alternately opening and closing, and the ship
creaking and groaning during the nips between floes.

“_August_ 4.—For nine days we have had southerly winds, and the last
four we have experienced howling blizzards. I am sick of the sound of
the infernal wind. Din! Din! Din! and darkness. We should have seen the
sun to-day, but a bank of cumulus effectually hid him, although the
daylight is a never-ending joy.

“_August_ 6.—The wind moderated towards 6 a.m., and about breakfast
time, with a clear atmosphere, the land from near Cape Cotter to Cape
Adare was visible. What a day of delights! After four days of thick
weather we find ourselves in sight of Cape Adare in a position about
forty-five miles east of Possession Isles; in this time we have been
set one hundred miles. Good going. Mount Sabine, the first land seen by
us when coming south, lies away to the westward, forming the highest
peak (10,000 ft.) of a majestic range of mountains covered in eternal
snow. Due west we can see the Possession Islands, lying under the
stupendous bluff of Cape Downshire, which shows large patches of black
rock. The land slopes down to the north-west of Cape Downshire, and
rises again into the high peninsula about Cape Adore. We felt excited
this morning in anticipation of seeing the sun, which rose about
nine-thirty (local time). It was a glorious, joyful sight. We drank to
something, and with very light hearts gave cheers for the sun.

“_August_ 9.—Donolly got to work on the rudder again. It is a long job
cutting through the iron sheathing-plates of the rudder, and not too
safe at present, as the ice is treacherous. Hooke says that the
conditions are normal now. I wish for his sake that he could get
through. He is a good sportsman and keeps on trying, although, I am
convinced, he has little hope with this inadequate aerial.

“_August_ 10.—The ship’s position is lat. 70° 40´ S., forty miles north
29° east of Cape Adare. The distance drifted from August 2 to 6 was one
hundred miles, and from the 6th to the 10th eighty-eight miles.

“_August_ 12.—By observation and bearings of land we are forty-five
miles north-east of Cape Adare, in lat. 70° 42´ S. This position is a
little to the eastward of the position on the 10th. The bearings as
laid off on a small scale chart of gnomonic projection are very
inaccurate, and here we are handicapped, as our chronometers have lost
all regularity. Donolly and Grade are having quite a job with the iron
platings on the rudder, but should finish the cutting to-morrow. A
jury-rudder is nearly completed. This afternoon we mixed some concrete
for the lower part, and had to use boiling water, as the water froze in
the mixing. The carpenter has made a good job of the rudder, although
he has had to construct it on the quarterdeck in low temperatures and
exposed to biting blasts.

“_August_ 16.—We are ‘backing and filling’ about forty miles north-east
of Cape Adare. This is where we expected to have made much mileage.
However, we cannot grumble and must be patient. There was much mirage
to the northward, and from the crow’s-nest a distinct appearance of
open water could be seen stretching from north-north-west to
north-east.

“_August_ 17.—A glorious day! Land is distinctly visible, and to the
northward the black fringe of water-sky over the horizon hangs
continuously. Hooke heard Macquarie Island ‘speaking’ Hobart. The
message heard was the finish of the weather reports. We have hopes now
of news in the near future.

“_August_ 23.—Saw the land in the vicinity of Cape North. To the
south-south-west the white cliffs and peaks of the inland ranges were
very distinct, and away in the distance to the south-west could be seen
a low stretch of undulating land. At times Mount Sabine was visible
through the gloom. The latitude, is 69° 44½´ S. We are fifty-eight
miles north, forty miles east of Cape North.

“_August_ 24.—We lifted the rudder out of the ice and placed it clear
of the stern, athwart the fore-and-aft line of the ship. We had quite a
job with it (weight, four and a half tons), using treble- and
double-sheaved-blocks purchase, but with the endless-chain tackle from
the engine-room, and plenty of ‘beef’ and leverage, we dragged it
clear. All the pintles are gone at the fore part of the rudder; it is a
clean break and bears witness to the terrific force exerted on the ship
during the nip. I am glad to see the rudder upon the ice and clear of
the propeller. The blade itself (which is solid oak and sheathed on two
sides and after part half-way down, with three-quarter-inch iron
plating) is undamaged, save for the broken pintles; the twisted portion
is in the rudder trunk.

“_August_ 25, 11 p.m.—Hooke has just been in with the good tidings that
he has heard Macquarie and the Bluff (New Zealand) sending their
weather reports and exchanging signals. Can this mean that they have
heard our recent signals and are trying to get us now? Our motor has
been out of order.

“_August_ 26.—The carpenter has finished the jury-rudder and is now at
work on the lower end of the rudder truck, where the rudder burst into
the stern timbers. We are lucky in having this opportunity to repair
these minor damages, which might prove serious in a seaway.

“_August_ 31, 6.30 a.m.—Very loud pressure-noises to the south-east. I
went aloft after breakfast and had the pleasure of seeing many open
lanes in all directions. The lanes of yesterday are frozen over,
showing what little chance there is of a general and continued break-up
of the ice until the temperature rises. Land was visible, but far too
distant for even approximate bearings. The berg still hangs to the
north-west of the ship. We seem to have pivoted outwards from the land.
We cannot get out of this too quickly, and although every one has
plenty of work, and is cheerful, the uselessness of the ship in her
present position palls.

“_September_ 5.—The mizzen wireless mast came down in a raging blizzard
to-day. In the forenoon I managed to crawl to windward on the top of
the bridge-house, and under the lee of the chart-house watched the mast
bending over with the wind and swaying like the branch of a tree, but
after the aerial had stood throughout the winter I hardly thought the
mast would carry away. Luckily, as it is dangerous to life to be on
deck in this weather (food is brought from the galley in relays through
blinding drift and over big heaps of snow), no one was about when the
mast carried away.

“_September_ 8.—This is dull, miserable weather. Blow, snow, and calm
for an hour or two. Sometimes it blows in this neighbourhood without
snow and sometimes with—this seems to be the only difference. I have
two patients now, Larkman and Mugridge. Larkman was frost-bitten on the
great and second toes of the left foot some time ago, and has so far
taken little notice of them. Now they are causing him some alarm as
gangrene has set in. Mugridge is suffering from an intermittent rash,
with red, inflamed skin and large, short-lived blisters. I don’t know
what the deuce it is, but the nearest description to it in a ‘Materia
Medica,’ etc., is _pemphigus_, so pemphigus it is, and he has been
‘tonic-ed’ and massaged.

“_September_ 9.—This is the first day for a long time that we have
registered a minimum temperature above zero for the twenty-four hours.
It is pleasant to think that from noon to noon throughout the night the
temperature never fell below +4° (28° frost), and with the increase of
daylight it makes one feel that summer really is approaching.

“_September_ 13.—All around the northern horizon there is the
appearance of an open water-sky, but around the ship the prospect is
dreary. The sun rose at 6.20 a.m. and set at 5.25 p.m. Ship’s time
eleven hours five minutes of sunlight and seventeen hours light. Three
hours twilight morning and evening. The carpenter is dismantling the
taffrail (to facilitate the landing and, if necessary, the boarding of
the jury-rudder) and will construct a temporary, removable rail.

“_September_ 16.—There has been much mirage all around the horizon, and
to the eastward through south to south-west heavy frost-smoke has been
rising. Over the northern horizon a low bank of white fog hangs as
though over the sea. I do not like these continued low temperatures. I
am beginning to have doubts as to our release until the sun starts to
rot the ice.

“_September_ 17.—This is the anniversary of our departure from London.
There are only four of the original eleven on board—Larkman, Ninnis,
Mauger, and I. Much has happened since Friday, September 18, 1914, and
I can recall the scene as we passed down the Thames with submarines and
cruisers, in commission and bent on business, crossing our course. I
can also remember the regret at leaving it all and the consequent
‘fedupness.’

“_September_ 21.—The sun is making rapid progress south, and we have
had to-day over seventeen hours’ light and twelve hours’ sunlight. Oh
for a release! The monotony and worry of our helpless position is
deadly. I suppose Shackleton and his party will have started
depot-laying now and will be full of hopes for the future. I wonder
whether the _Endurance_ wintered in the ice or went north. I cannot
help thinking that if she wintered in the Weddell Sea she will be worse
off than the _Aurora_. What a lot we have to look for in the next six
months—news of Shackleton and the _Endurance_, the party at Cape Evans,
and the war.

“_September_ 22.—Lat. 69° 12´ S.; long. 165° 00´ E. Sturge Island
(Balleny Group) is bearing north (true) ninety miles distant. Light
north-west airs with clear, fine weather. Sighted Sturge Island in the
morning, bearing due north of us and appearing like a faint low shadow
on the horizon. It is good to get a good landmark for fixing positions
again, and it is good to see that we are making northerly progress,
however small. Since breaking away from Cape Evans we have drifted
roughly seven hundred and five miles around islands and past formidable
obstacles, a wonderful drift! It is good to think that it has not been
in vain, and that the knowledge of the set and drill of the pack will
be a valuable addition to the sum of human knowledge. The distance from
Cape Evans to our present position is seven hundred and five miles
(geographical).

“_September_ 27.—The temperature in my room last night was round about
zero, rather chilly, but warm enough under the blankets. Hooke has
dismantled his wireless gear. He feels rather sick about not getting
communication, although he does not show it.

“_September_ 30.—Ninnis has been busy now for the week on the
construction of a new tractor. He is building the body and will
assemble the motor in the fore ’tween decks, where it can be lashed
securely when we are released from the ice. I can see leads of open
water from the masthead, but we are still held firmly. How long?

“_October_ 7.—As time wears on the possibility of getting back to the
Barrier to land a party deserves consideration; if we do not get clear
until late in the season we will have to turn south first, although we
have no anchors and little moorings, no rudder and a short supply of
coal. To leave a party on the Barrier would make us very short-handed;
still, it can be done, and anything is preferable to the delay in
assisting the people at Cape Evans. At 5 a.m. a beautiful parhelion
formed around the sun. The sight so impressed the bos’n that he roused
me out to see it.”

During the month of October the _Aurora_ drifted uneventfully.
Stenhouse mentions that there was often an appearance of open water on
the northern and eastern horizon. But anxious eyes were strained in
vain for indications that the day of the ship’s release was near at
hand. Hooke had the wireless plant running again and was trying daily
to get into touch with Macquarie Island, now about eight hundred and
fifty miles distant. The request for a relief ship was to be renewed if
communication could be established, for by this time, if all had gone
well with the _Endurance_, the overland party from the Weddell Sea
would have been starting. There was considerable movement of the ice
towards the end of the month, lanes opening and closing, but the floe,
some acres in area, into which the _Aurora_ was frozen, remained firm
until the early days of November. The cracks appeared close to the
ship, due apparently to heavy drift causing the floe to sink. The
temperatures were higher now, under the influence of the sun, and the
ice was softer. Thawing was causing discomfort in the quarters aboard.
The position on November 12 was reckoned to be lat. 66° 49´ S., long.
155° 17´ 45´´ E. Stenhouse made a sounding on November 17, in lat. 66°
40´ S., long. 154° 45´ E., and found bottom at 194 fathoms. The bottom
sample was mud and a few small stones. The sounding-line showed a
fairly strong undercurrent to the north-west. “We panned out some of
the mud,” says Stenhouse, “and in the remaining grit found several
specks of gold.” Two days later the trend of the current was
south-easterly. There was a pronounced thaw on the 22nd. The cabins
were in a dripping state, and recently fallen snow was running off the
ship in little streams. All hands were delighted, for the present
discomfort offered promise of an early break-up of the pack.

“_November_ 23.—At 3 a.m. Young Island, Balleny Group, was seen bearing
north 54° east (true). The island, which showed up clearly on the
horizon, under a heavy stratus-covered sky, appeared to be very far
distant. By latitude at noon we are in 66° 26´ S. As this is the
charted latitude of Peak Foreman, Young Island, the bearing does not
agree. Land was seen at 8 a.m. bearing south 60° west (true). This,
which would appear to be Cape Hudson, loomed up through the mists in
the form of a high, bold headland, with low undulating land stretching
away to the south-south-east and to the westward of it. The appearance
of this headland has been foretold for the last two days, by masses of
black fog, but it seems strange that land so high should not have been
seen before, as there is little change in the atmospheric conditions.

“_November_ 24.—Overcast and hazy during forenoon. Cloudy, clear, and
fine in afternoon and evening. Not a vestige of land can be seen, so
Cape Hudson is really ‘Cape Flyaway.’ This is most weird. All hands saw
the headland to the south-west, and some of us sketched it. Now
(afternoon), although the sky is beautifully clear to the south-west,
nothing can be seen. We cannot have drifted far from yesterday’s
position. No wonder Wilkes reported land. 9 p.m.—A low fringe of land
appears on the horizon bearing south-west, but in no way resembles our
Cape of yesterday. This afternoon we took a cast of the lead through
the crack 200 yds. west of the ship, but found no bottom at 700
fathoms.”

An interesting incident on November 26 was the discovery of an emperor
penguin rookery. Ninnis and Kavenagh took a long walk to the
north-west, and found the deserted rookery. The depressions in the ice,
made by the birds, were about eighteen inches long and contained a
greyish residue. The rookery was in a hollow surrounded by pressure
ridges six feet high. Apparently about twenty birds had been there. No
pieces of egg-shell were seen, but the petrels and skuas had been there
in force and probably would have taken all scraps of this kind. The
floes were becoming soft and “rotten,” and walking was increasingly
difficult. Deep pools of slush and water covered with thin snow made
traps for the men. Stenhouse thought that a stiff blizzard would break
up the pack. His anxiety was increasing with the advance of the season,
and his log is a record of deep yearning to be free and active again.
But the grip of the pack was inexorable. The hands had plenty of work
on the _Aurora_, which was being made shipshape after the buffeting of
the winter storms. Seals and penguins were seen frequently, and the
supply of fresh meat was maintained. The jury-rudder was ready to be
shipped when the ship was released, but in the meantime it was not
being exposed to the attacks of the ice.

“No appreciable change in our surroundings,” was the note for December
17. “Every day past now reduces our chance of getting out in time to go
north for rudder, anchors, and coal. If we break out before January 15
we might get north to New Zealand and down to Cape Evans again in time
to pick up the parties. After that date we can only attempt to go south
in our crippled state, and short of fuel. With only nine days’ coal on
board we would have little chance of working through any Ross Sea pack,
or of getting south at all if we encountered many blizzards. Still
there is a sporting chance and luck may be with us.... Shackleton may
be past the Pole now. I wish our wireless calls had got through.”

Christmas Day, with its special dinner and mild festivities, came and
passed, and still the ice remained firm. The men were finding some
interest in watching the moulting of emperor penguins, who were
stationed at various points in the neighbourhood of the ship. They had
taken station to leeward of hummocks, and appeared to move only when
the wind changed or the snow around them had become foul. They covered
but a few yards on these journeys, and even then stumbled in their
weakness. One emperor was brought on board alive, and the crew were
greatly amused to see the bird balancing himself on heels and tail,
with upturned toes, the position adopted when the egg is resting on the
feet during the incubation period. The threat of a stiff “blow” aroused
hopes of release several times, but the blizzard—probably the first
Antarctic blizzard that was ever longed for—did not arrive. New Year’s
Day found Stenhouse and other men just recovering from an attack of
snow-blindness, contracted by making an excursion across the floes
without snow-goggles.

At the end of the first week in January the ship was in lat. 65° 45´ S.
The pack was well broken a mile from the ship, and the ice was rolling
fast. Under the bows and stern the pools were growing and stretching
away in long lanes to the west. A seal came up to blow under the stern
on the 6th, proving that there was an opening in the sunken ice there.
Stenhouse was economizing in food. No breakfast was served on the ship,
and seal or penguin meat was used for at least one of the two meals
later in the day. All hands were short of clothing, but Stenhouse was
keeping intact the sledging gear intended for the use of the shore
party. Strong, variable winds on the 9th raised hopes again, and on the
morning of the 10th the ice appeared to be well broken from half a mile
to a mile distant from the ship in all directions. “It seems
extraordinary that the ship should be held in an almost unbroken floe
of about a mile square, the more so as this patch was completely
screwed and broken during the smash in July, and contains many faults.
In almost any direction at a distance of half a mile from the ship
there are pressure ridges of eight-inch ice piled twenty feet high. It
was provident that although so near these ridges were escaped.”

The middle of January was passed and the _Aurora_ lay still in the ice.
The period of continuous day was drawing towards its close, and there
was an appreciable twilight at midnight. A dark water-sky could be seen
on the northern horizon. The latitude on January 24 was 65° 39½´ S.
Towards the end of the month Stenhouse ordered a thorough overhaul of
the stores and general preparations for a move. The supply of flour and
butter was ample. Other stores were running low, and the crew lost no
opportunity of capturing seals and penguins. Adelies were travelling to
the east-south-east in considerable numbers, but they could not be
taken unless they approached the ship closely, owing to the soft
condition of the ice. The wireless plant, which had been idle during
the months of daylight, had been rigged again, and Hooke resumed his
calls to Macquarie Island on February 2. He listened in vain for any
indication that he had been heard. The pack was showing much movement,
but the large floe containing the ship remained firm.

The break-up of the floe came on February 12. Strong north-east to
south-east winds put the ice in motion and brought a perceptible swell.
The ship was making some water, a fore-taste of a trouble to come, and
all hands spent the day at the pumps, reducing the water from three
feet eight and a half inches in the well to twelve inches, in spite of
frozen pipes and other difficulties. Work had just finished for the
night when the ice broke astern and quickly split in all directions
under the influence of the swell. The men managed to save some seal
meat which had been cached in a drift near the gangway. They lost the
flagstaff, which had been rigged as a wireless mast out on the floe,
but drew in the aerial. The ship was floating now amid fragments of
floe, and bumping considerably in the swell. A fresh southerly wind
blew during the night, and the ship started to forge ahead gradually
without sail. At 8.30 a.m. on the 13th Stenhouse set the foresail and
foretopmast staysail, and the _Aurora_ moved northward slowly, being
brought up occasionally by large floes. Navigation under such
conditions, without steam and without a rudder, was exceedingly
difficult, but Stenhouse wished if possible to save his small remaining
stock of coal until he cleared the pack, so that a quick run might be
made to McMurdo Sound. The jury-rudder could not be rigged in the pack.
The ship was making about three and a half feet of water in the
twenty-four hours, a quantity easily kept in check by the pumps.

During the 14th the _Aurora_ worked very slowly northward through heavy
pack. Occasionally the yards were backed or an ice-anchor put into a
floe to help her out of difficult places, but much of the time she
steered herself. The jury-rudder boom was topped into position in the
afternoon, but the rudder was not to be shipped until open pack or open
water was reached. The ship was held up all day on the 15th in lat. 64°
38´ S. Heavy floes barred progress in every direction. Attempts were
made to work the ship by trimming sails and warping with ice-anchors,
but she could not be manœuvred smartly enough to take advantage of
leads that opened and closed. This state of affairs continued
throughout the 16th. That night a heavy swell was rolling under the ice
and the ship had a rough time. One pointed floe ten or twelve feet
thick was steadily battering, with a three-feet send, against the
starboard side, and fenders only partially deadened the shock. “It is
no use butting against this pack with steam-power,” wrote Stenhouse.
“We would use all our meagre supply of coal in reaching the limit of
the ice in sight, and then we would be in a hole, with neither ballast
nor fuel.... But if this stagnation lasts another week we will have to
raise steam and consume our coal in an endeavour to get into navigable
waters. I am afraid our chances of getting south are very small now.”

The pack remained close, and on the 21st a heavy swell made the
situation dangerous. The ship bumped heavily that night and fenders
were of little avail. With each “send” of the swell the ship would bang
her bows on the floe ahead, then bounce back and smash into another
floe across her stern-post. This floe, about six feet thick and 100 ft.
across, was eventually split and smashed by the impacts. The pack was
jammed close on the 23rd, when the noon latitude was 64° 36½´ S. The
next change was for the worse. The pack loosened on the night of the
25th, and a heavy north-west swell caused the ship to bump heavily.
This state of affairs recurred at intervals in succeeding days. “The
battering and ramming of the floes increased in the early hours [of
February 29] until it seemed as if some sharp floe or jagged underfoot
must go through the ship’s hull. At 6 a.m. we converted a large
coir-spring into a fender, and slipped it under the port quarter, where
a pressured floe with twenty to thirty feet underfoot was threatening
try knock the propeller and stern-post off altogether. At 9 a.m., after
pumping ship, the engineer reported a leak in the way of the
propeller-shaft aft near the stern-post on the port side. The carpenter
cut part of the lining and filled the space between the timbers with
Stockholm tar, cement, and oakum. He could not get at the actual leak,
but his makeshift made a little difference. I am anxious about the
propeller. This pack is a dangerous place for a ship now; it seems
miraculous that the old Barky still floats.”

The ice opened out a little on March 1. It was imperative to get the
ship out of her dangerous situation quickly; as winter was approaching,
and Stenhouse therefore ordered steam to be raised. Next morning he had
the spanker gaff rigged over the stern for use as a temporary rudder
while in the heavy pack. Steam had been raised to working pressure at
5.15 p.m. on the 2nd, and the _Aurora_ began to work ahead to the
westward. Progress was very slow owing to heavy floes and deep
underfoots, which necessitated frequent stoppages of the engines. Open
water was in sight to the north and north-west the next morning, after
a restless night spent among the rocking floes. But progress was very
slow. The _Aurora_ went to leeward under the influence of a
west-south-west breeze, and steering by means of the yards and a
warp-anchor was a ticklish business. The ship came to a full stop among
heavy floes before noon on the 3rd, and three hours later, after vain
attempts to warp ahead by means of ice-anchors, Stenhouse had the fires
partially drawn (to save coal) and banked.

No advance was made on March 4 and 5. A moderate gale from the
east-north-east closed the ice and set it in motion, and the _Aurora_,
with banked fires, rolled and bumped, heavily. Seventeen bergs were in
sight, and one of them was working southwards into the pack and
threatening to approach the ship. During the night the engines were
turned repeatedly by the action of ice on the propeller blades. “All
theories about the swell being non-existent in the pack are false,”
wrote the anxious master. “Here we are with a suggestion only of open
water-sky, and the ship rolling her scuppers under and sitting down
bodily on the floes.” The ice opened when the wind moderated, and on
the afternoon of the 6th the _Aurora_ moved northward again. “Without a
rudder (no jury-rudder can yet be used amongst these swirling, rolling
floes) the ship requires a lot of attention. Her head must be pointed
between floes by means of ice-anchors and warps, or by mooring to a
floe and steaming round it. We kept a fairly good course between two
bergs to our northward and made about five miles northing till,
darkness coming on, the men could no longer venture on the floes with
safety to fix the anchors.”

The next three days were full of anxiety. The _Aurora_ was held by the
ice, and subjected to severe buffeting, while two bergs approached from
the north. On the morning of the 10th the nearest berg was within three
cables of the ship. But the pack had opened and by 9.30 a.m. the ship
was out of the danger zone and headed north-north-east. The pack
continued to open during the afternoon, and the _Aurora_ passed through
wide stretches of small loose floes and brash. Progress was good until
darkness made a stop necessary. The next morning the pack was denser.
Stenhouse shipped a preventer jury-rudder (the weighted spanker gaff),
but could not get steerage way. Broad leads were sighted to the
north-west in the afternoon, and the ship got within a quarter of a
mile of the nearest lead before being held up by heavy pack. She again
bumped severely during the night, and the watch stood by with fenders
to ease the more dangerous blows.

Early next morning Stenhouse lowered a jury-rudder, with steering
pennants to drag through the water, and moved north to north-west
through heavy pack. He made sixteen miles that day on an erratic
course, and then spent an anxious night with the ship setting back into
the pack and being pounded heavily. Attempts to work forward to an open
lead on the morning of the 13th were unsuccessful. Early in the
afternoon a little progress was made, with all hands standing by to
fend off high ice, and at 4.50 p.m. the _Aurora_ cleared the main pack.
An hour was spent shipping the jury-rudder under the counter, and then
the ship moved slowly northward. There was pack still ahead, and the
bergs and growlers were a constant menace in the hours of darkness.
Some anxious work remained to be done, since bergs and scattered ice
extended in all directions, but at 2 p.m. on March 14 the _Aurora_
cleared the last belt of pack in lat. 62° 27.5´ S., long. 157° 32´ E.
“We ‘spliced the main brace,’” says Stenhouse, “and blew three blasts
of farewell to the pack with the whistle.”


[Illustration: “Next Morning the Jury-Rudder was Shipped”]


The _Aurora_ was not at the end of her troubles, but the voyage up to
New Zealand need not be described in detail. Any attempt to reach
McMurdo Sound was now out of the question. Stenhouse had a battered,
rudderless ship, with only a few tons of coal left in the bunkers, and
he struggled northward in heavy weather against persistent adverse
winds and head seas. The jury-rudder needed constant nursing, and the
shortage of coal made it impossible to get the best service from the
engines. There were times when the ship could make no progress and fell
about helplessly in a confused swell or lay hove to amid mountainous
seas. She was short-handed, and one or two of the men were creating
additional difficulties. But Stenhouse displayed throughout fine
seamanship and dogged perseverance. He accomplished successfully one of
the most difficult voyages on record, in an ocean area notoriously
stormy and treacherous. On March 23 he established wireless
communication with Bluff Station, New Zealand, and the next day was in
touch with Wellington and Hobart. The naval officer in New Zealand
waters offered assistance, and eventually it was arranged that the
Otago Harbour Board’s tug _Plucky_ should meet the _Aurora_ outside
Port Chalmers. There were still bad days to be endured. The jury-rudder
partially carried away and had to be unshipped in a heavy sea.
Stenhouse carried on, and in the early morning of April 2 the _Aurora_
picked up the tug and was taken in tow. She reached Port Chalmers the
following morning, and was welcomed with the warm hospitality that New
Zealand has always shown towards Antarctic explorers.




CHAPTER XVII
THE LAST RELIEF


When I reached New Zealand at the beginning of December 1916, I found
that the arrangements for the relief were complete. The New Zealand
Government had taken the task in hand earlier in the year, before I had
got into touch with the outside world. The British and Australian
Governments were giving financial assistance. The _Aurora_ had been
repaired and refitted at Port Chalmers during the year at considerable
cost, and had been provisioned and coaled for the voyage to McMurdo
Sound. My old friend Captain John K. Davis, who was a member of my
first Antarctic Expedition in 1907–1909, and who subsequently commanded
Dr. Mawson’s ship in the Australian Antarctic Expedition, had been
placed in command of the _Aurora_ by the Governments, and he had
engaged officers, engineers, and crew. Captain Davis came to Wellington
to see me on my arrival there, and I heard his account of the position.
I had interviews also with the Minister for Marine, the late Dr. Robert
McNab, a kindly and sympathetic Scotsman who took a deep personal
interest in the Expedition. Stenhouse also was in Wellington, and I may
say again here that his account of his voyage and drift in the _Aurora_
filled me with admiration for his pluck, seamanship, and
resourcefulness.

After discussing the situation fully with Dr. McNab, I agreed that the
arrangements already made for the relief expedition should stand. Time
was important and there were difficulties about making any change of
plans or control at the last moment. After Captain Davis had been at
work for some months the Government agreed to hand the _Aurora_ over to
me free of liability on her return to New Zealand. It was decided,
therefore, that Captain Davis should take the ship down to McMurdo
Sound, and that I should go with him to take charge of any shore
operations that might be necessary. I “signed on” at a salary of 1s. a
month, and we sailed from Port Chalmers on December 20, 1916. A week
later we sighted ice again. The _Aurora_ made a fairly quick passage
through the pack and entered the open water of the Ross Sea on January
7, 1917.


[Illustration: Ice Nomenclature: 1. Young Ice (Bay Ice of Scoresby)
in the Middle Distance]


[Illustration: 2. Light Pack]


Captain Davis brought the _Aurora_ alongside the ice edge off Cape
Royds on the morning of January 10, and I went ashore with a party to
look for some record in the hut erected there by my Expedition in 1907.
I found a letter stating that the Ross Sea party was housed at Cape
Evans, and was on my way back to the ship when six men, with dogs and
sledge, were sighted coming from the direction of Cape Evans. At 1 p.m.
this party arrived on board, and we learned that of the ten members of
the Expedition left behind when the _Aurora_ broke away on May 6, 1915,
seven had survived, namely, A. Stevens, E. Joyce, H. E. Wild, J. L.
Cope, R. W. Richards, A. K. Jack, I. O. Gaze. These seven men were all
well, though they showed traces of the ordeal through which they had
passed. They told us of the deaths of Mackintosh, Spencer-Smith, and
Hayward, and of their own anxious wait for relief.

All that remained to be done was to make a final search for the bodies
of Mackintosh and Hayward. There was no possibility of either man being
alive. They had been without equipment when the blizzard broke the ice
they were crossing. It would have been impossible for them to have
survived more than a few days, and eight months had now elapsed without
news of them. Joyce had already searched south of Glacier Tongue. I
considered that further search should be made in two directions, the
area north of Glacier Tongue, and the old depot off Butler Point, and I
made a report to Captain Davis to this effect.

On January 12 the ship reached a point five and a half miles east of
Butler Point. I took a party across rubbly and waterlogged ice to
within thirty yards of the piedmont ice, but owing to high cliffs and
loose slushy ice could not make a landing. The land-ice had broken away
at the point cut by the cross-bearings of the depot, but was visible in
the form of two large bergs grounded to the north of Cape Bernacchi.
There was no sign of the depot or of any person having visited the
vicinity. We returned to the ship and proceeded across the Sound to
Cape Bernacchi.

The next day I took a party ashore with the object of searching the
area north of Glacier Tongue, including Razorback Island, for traces of
the two missing men. We reached the Cape Evans Hut at 1.30 p.m., and
Joyce and I left at 3 p.m. for the Razorbacks. We conducted a search
round both islands, returning to the hut at 7 p.m. The search had been
fruitless. On the 14th I started with Joyce to search the north side of
Glacier Tongue, but the surface drift, with wind from south-east,
decided me not to continue, as the ice was moving rapidly at the end of
Cape Evans, and the pool between the hut and Inaccessible Island was
growing larger. The wind increased in the afternoon. The next day a
south-east blizzard was blowing, with drift half up the islands. I
considered it unsafe to sledge that day, especially as the ice was
breaking away from the south side of Cape Evans into the pool. We spent
the day putting the hut in order.

We got up at 3 a.m. on the 16th. The weather was fine and calm. I
started at 4.20 with Joyce to the south at the greatest possible speed.
We reached Glacier Tongue about one and a half miles from the seaward
end. Wherever there were not precipitous cliffs there was an even
snow-slope to the top. From the top we searched with glasses; there was
nothing to be seen but blue ice, crevassed, showing no protuberances.
We came down and, half running, half walking, worked about three miles
towards the root of the glacier; but I could see there was not the
slightest chance of finding any remains owing to the enormous
snowdrifts wherever the cliffs were accessible. The base of the steep
cliffs had drifts ten to fifteen feet high. We arrived back at the hut
at 9.40, and left almost immediately for the ship. I considered that
all places likely to hold the bodies of Mackintosh and Hayward had now
been searched. There was no doubt to my mind that they met their deaths
on the breaking of the thin ice when the blizzard arose on May 8, 1916.
During my absence from the hut Wild and Jack had erected a cross to the
memory of the three men who had lost their lives in the service of the
Expedition.


[Illustration: 3. Heavy Hummocked Pack]


[Illustration: 4. Hummocky Pack and Frozen Lead of Young-Ice]


Captain Davis took the ship northward on January 17. The ice conditions
were unfavourable and pack barred the way. We stood over to the western
coast towards Dunlop Island and followed it to Granite Harbour. No mark
or depot of any kind was seen. The _Aurora_ reached the main pack,
about sixty miles from Cape Adare, on January 22. The ice was closed
ahead, and Davis went south in open water to wait for better
conditions. A north-west gale on January 28 enabled the ship to pass
between the pack and the land off Cape Adare, and we crossed the
Antarctic Circle on the last day of the month. On February 4 Davis sent
a formal report to the New Zealand Government by wireless, and on
February 9 the _Aurora_ was berthed at Wellington. We were welcomed
like returned brothers by the New Zealand people.




CHAPTER XVIII
THE FINAL PHASE


The foregoing chapters of this book represent the general narrative of
our Expedition. That we failed in accomplishing the object we set out
for was due, I venture to assert, not to any neglect or lack of
organization, but to the overwhelming natural obstacles, especially the
unprecedentedly severe summer conditions on the Weddell Sea side. But
though the Expedition was a failure in one respect, I think it was
successful in many others. A large amount of important scientific work
was carried out. The meteorological observations in particular have an
economic bearing. The hydrographical work in the Weddell Sea has done
much to clear up the mystery of this, the least known of all the seas.
I have appended a short scientific memorandum to this volume, but the
more detailed scientific results must wait until a more suitable time
arrives, when more stable conditions prevail. Then results will be
worked out.

To the credit side of the Expedition one can safely say that the
comradeship and resource of the members of the Expedition was worthy of
the highest traditions of Polar service; and it was a privilege to me
to have had under my command men who, through dark days and the stress
and strain of continuous danger, kept up their spirits and carried out
their work regardless of themselves and heedless of the limelight. The
same energy and endurance that they showed in the Antarctic they
brought to the greater war in the Old World. And having followed our
fortunes in the South you may be interested to know that practically
every member of the Expedition was employed in one or other branches of
the active fighting forces during the war. Several are still abroad,
and for this very reason it has been impossible for me to obtain
certain details for this book.


[Illustration: 5. Close Pack]


[Illustration: 6. Open Pack]


Of the fifty-three men who returned out of the fifty-six who left for
the South, three have since been killed and five wounded. Four
decorations have been won, and several members of the Expedition have
been mentioned in dispatches. McCarthy, the best and most efficient of
the sailors, always cheerful under the most trying circumstances, and
who for these very reasons I chose to accompany me on the boat journey
to South Georgia, was killed at his gun in the Channel. Cheetham, the
veteran of the Antarctic, who had been more often south of the
Antarctic circle than any man, was drowned when the vessel he was
serving in was torpedoed, a few weeks before the Armistice. Ernest
Wild, Frank Wild’s brother, was killed while minesweeping in the
Mediterranean. Mauger, the carpenter on the _Aurora_, was badly wounded
while serving with the New Zealand Infantry, so that he is unable to
follow his trade again. He is now employed by the New Zealand
Government. The two surgeons, Macklin and McIlroy, served in France and
Italy, McIlroy being badly wounded at Ypres. Frank Wild, in view of his
unique experience of ice and ice conditions, was at once sent to the
North Russian front, where his zeal and ability won him the highest
praise.

Macklin served first with the Yorks and later transferred as medical
officer to the Tanks, where he did much good work. Going to the Italian
front with his battalion, he won the Military Cross for bravery in
tending wounded under fire.

James joined the Royal Engineers, Sound Ranging Section, and after much
front-line work was given charge of a Sound Ranging School to teach
other officers this latest and most scientific addition to the art of
war.

Wordie went to France with the Royal Field Artillery and was badly
wounded at Armentières.

Hussey was in France for eighteen months with the Royal Garrison
Artillery, serving in every big battle from Dixmude to Saint-Quentin.

Worsley, known to his intimates as Depth-Charge Bill, owing to his
success with that particular method of destroying German submarines,
has the Distinguished Service Order and three submarines to his credit.

Stenhouse, who commanded the _Aurora_ after Mackintosh landed, was with
Worsley as his second in command when one of the German submarines was
rammed and sunk, and received the D.S.C. for his share in the fight. He
was afterwards given command of a Mystery Ship, and fought several
actions with enemy submarines.

Clark served on a mine-sweeper. Greenstreet was employed with the
barges on the Tigris. Rickenson was commissioned as
Engineer-Lieutenant, R.N. Kerr returned to the Merchant Service as an
engineer.

Most of the crew of the _Endurance_ served on minesweepers.

Of the Ross Sea Party, Mackintosh, Hayward, and Spencer-Smith died for
their country as surely as any who gave up their lives on the fields of
France and Flanders. Hooke, the wireless operator, now navigates an
airship.

Nearly all of the crew of the _Aurora_ joined the New Zealand Field
Forces and saw active service in one or other of the many theatres of
war. Several have been wounded, but it has been impossible to obtain
details.

On my return, after the rescue of the survivors of the Ross Sea Party,
I offered my services to the Government, and was sent on a mission to
South America. When this was concluded I was commissioned as Major and
went to North Russia in charge of Arctic Equipment and Transport,
having with me Worsley, Stenhouse, Hussey, Macklin, and Brocklehurst,
who was to have come South with us, but who, as a regular officer,
rejoined his unit on the outbreak of war. He has been wounded three
times and was in the retreat from Mons. Worsley was sent across to the
Archangel front, where he did excellent work, and the others served
with me on the Murmansk front. The mobile columns there had exactly the
same clothing, equipment, and sledging food as we had on the
Expedition. No expense was spared to obtain the best of everything for
them, and as a result not a single case of avoidable frost-bite was
reported.


[Illustration: 7. Very Open Pack, approximating to Drift-ice]


[Illustration: 8. Drift-Ice]


Taking the Expedition as a unit, out of fifty-six men three died in the
Antarctic, three were killed in action, and five have been wounded, so
that our casualties have been fairly high.

Though some have gone there are enough left to rally round and form a
nucleus for the next Expedition, when troublous times are over and
scientific exploration can once more be legitimately undertaken.




APPENDIX I




SCIENTIFIC WORK


By J. M. WORDIE, M.A. (Cantab.), Lieut. R.F.A.

The research undertaken by the Expedition was originally planned for a
shore party working from a fixed base on land, but it was only in South
Georgia that this condition of affairs was fully realized. On this
island, where a full month was spent, the geologist made very extensive
collections, and began the mapping of the country; the magnetician had
some of his instruments in working order for a short while; and the
meteorologist was able to co-operate with the Argentine observer
stationed at Grytviken. It had been realized how important the
meteorological observations were going to be to the Argentine
Government, and they accordingly did all in their power to help, both
before and at the end of the Expedition. The biologist devoted most of
his time, meanwhile, to the whaling industry, there being no less than
seven stations on the island; he also made collections of the neritic
fauna, and, accompanied by the photographer, studied the bird life and
the habits of the sea-elephants along the east coast.

By the time the actual southern voyage commenced, each individual had
his own particular line of work which he was prepared to follow out.
The biologist at first confined himself to collecting the _plankton_,
and a start was made in securing water samples for temperature and
salinity. In this, from the beginning, he had the help of the
geologist, who also gave instructions for the taking of a line of
soundings under the charge of the ship’s officers. This period of the
southward voyage was a very busy time so far as the scientists were
concerned, for, besides their own particular work, they took the full
share of looking after the dogs and working the ship watch by watch. At
the same time, moreover, the biologist had to try and avoid being too
lavish with his preserving material at the expense of the shore station
collections which were yet to make.

When it was finally known that the ship had no longer any chance of
getting free of the ice in the 1914–1915 season, a radical change was
made in the arrangements. The scientists were freed, as far as
possible, from ship’s duties, and were thus able to devote themselves
almost entirely to their own particular spheres. The meteorological
investigations took on a more definite shape; the instruments intended
for the land base were set up on board ship, including self-recording
barographs, thermometers, and a Dines anemometer, with which very
satisfactory results were got. The physicist set up his quadrant
electrometer after a good deal of trouble, but throughout the winter
had to struggle constantly with rime forming on the parts of his
apparatus exposed to the outer air. Good runs were being thus
continually spoilt. The determination of the magnetic constants also
took up a good part of his time.

Besides collecting _plankton_ the biologist was now able to put down
one or other of his dredges at more frequent intervals, always taking
care, however, not to exhaust his store of preserving material, which
was limited. The taking of water samples was established on a better
system, so that the series should be about equally spaced out over the
ship’s course. The geologist suppressed all thought of rocks, though
occasionally they were met with in bottom samples; his work became
almost entirely oceanographical, and included a study of the sea-ice,
of the physiography of the sea floor as shown by daily soundings, and
of the bottom deposits; besides this he helped the biologist in the
temperature and salinity observations.

The work undertaken and accomplished by each member was as wide as
possible; but it was only in keeping with the spirit of the times that
more attention should be paid to work from which practical and economic
results were likely to accrue. The meteorologist had always in view the
effect of Antarctic climate on the other southern continents, the
geologist looked on ice from a seaman’s point of view, and the
biologist not unwillingly put whales in the forefront of his programme.
The accounts which follow on these very practical points show how
closely scientific work in the Antarctica is in touch with, and helps
on the economic development of, the inhabited lands to the north.




SEA-ICE NOMENCLATURE


By J. M. WORDIE, M.A. (Cantab.), Lieut. R.F.A.

During the voyage of the _Endurance_ it was soon noticed that the terms
being used to describe different forms of ice were not always in
agreement with those given in Markham’s and Mill’s glossary in “The
Antarctic Manual,” 1901. It was the custom, of course, to follow
implicitly the terminology used by those of the party whose experience
of ice dated back to Captain Scott’s first voyage, so that the terms
used may be said to be common to all Antarctic voyages of the present
century. The principal changes, therefore, in nomenclature must date
from the last quarter of the nineteenth century, when there was no one
to pass on the traditional usage from the last naval Arctic Expedition
in 1875 to the _Discovery_ Expedition of 1901. On the latter ship
Markham’s and Mill’s glossary was, of course, used, but apparently not
slavishly; founded, as far as sea-ice went, on Scoresby’s, made in
1820, it might well have been adopted in its entirety, for no writer
could have carried more weight than Scoresby the younger, combining as
he did more than ten years’ whaling experience with high scientific
attainments. Above all others he could be accepted both by practical
seamen and also by students of ice forms.

That the old terms of Scoresby did not all survive the period of
indifference to Polar work, in spite of Markham and Mill, is an
indication either that their usefulness has ceased or that the original
usage has changed once and for all. A restatement of terms is therefore
now necessary. Where possible the actual phrases of Scoresby and of his
successors, Markham and Mill, are still used. The principle adopted,
however, is to give preference to the words actually used by the Polar
seamen themselves.

The following authorities have been followed as closely as possible:

W. Scoresby, Jun., “An Account of the Arctic Regions,” 1820, vol. i,
pp. 225–233, 238–241.

C. R. Markham and H. R. Mill in “The Antarctic Manual,” 1901, pp,
xiv–xvi.

J. Payer, “New Lands within the Arctic Circle,” 1876, vol. i, pp. 3–14.

W. S. Bruce, “Polar Exploration” in Home University Library, c. 1911,
pp. 54–71.

Reference should also be made to the annual publication of the Danish
Meteorological Institute showing the Arctic ice conditions of the
previous summer. This is published in both Danish and English, so that
the terms used there are bound to have a very wide acceptance; it is
hoped, therefore, that they may be the means of preventing the
Antarctic terminology following a different line of evolution; for but
seldom is a seaman found nowadays who knows both Polar regions. On the
Danish charts six different kinds of sea-ice are marked—namely,
unbroken polar ice; land-floe; great ice-fields; tight pack-ice; open
ice; bay-ice and brash. With the exception of bay-ice, which is more
generally known as young ice, all these terms pass current in the
Antarctic.

_Slush_ or _Sludge_. The initial stages in the freezing of sea-water,
when its consistency becomes gluey or soupy. The term is also used (but
not commonly) for brash-ice still further broken down.

_Pancake-ice_. Small circular floes with raised rims; due to the
break-up in a gently ruffled sea of the newly formed ice into pieces
which strike against each other, and so form turned-up edges.

_Young Ice_. Applied to all unhummocked ice up to about a foot in
thickness. Owing to the fibrous or platy structure, the floes crack
easily, and where the ice is not over thick a ship under steam cuts a
passage without much difficulty. Young ice may originate from the
coalescence of “pancakes,” where the water is slightly ruffled or else
be a sheet of “black ice,” covered maybe with “ice-flowers,” formed by
the freezing of a smooth sheet of sea-water.

In the Arctic it has been the custom to call this form of ice
“bay-ice”; in the Antarctic, however, the latter term is wrongly used
for land-floes (fast-ice, etc.), and has been so misapplied
consistently for fifteen years. The term bay-ice should possibly,
therefore, be dropped altogether, especially since, even in the Arctic,
its meaning is not altogether a rigid one, as it may denote firstly the
gluey “slush,” which forms when sea-water freezes, and secondly the
firm level sheet ultimately produced.

_Land floes_. Heavy but not necessarily hummocked ice, with generally a
deep snow covering, which has remained held up in the position of
growth by the enclosing nature of some feature of the coast, or by
grounded bergs throughout the summer season when most of the ice breaks
out. Its thickness is, therefore, above the average. Has been called at
various times “fast-ice,” “coast-ice,” “land-ice,” “bay-ice” by
Shackleton and David and the Charcot Expedition; and possibly what
Drygalski calls _Schelfeis_ is not very different.

_Floe_. An area of ice, level or hummocked, whose limits are within
sight. Includes all sizes between brash on the one hand and fields on
the other. “Light-floes” are between one and two feet in thickness
(anything thinner being “young-ice”). Those exceeding two feet in
thickness are termed “heavy floes,” being generally hummocked, and in
the Antarctic, at any rate, covered by fairly deep snow.

_Field_. A sheet of ice of such extent that its limits cannot be seen
from the masthead.

_Hummocking_. Includes all the processes of pressure formation whereby
level young ice becomes broken up and built up into

_Hummocky Floes_. The most suitable term for what has also been called
“old pack” and “screwed pack” by David and _Scholleneis_ by German
writers. In contrast to young ice, the structure is no longer fibrous,
but becomes spotted or bubbly, a certain percentage of salt drains
away, and the ice becomes almost translucent.

_The Pack_ is a term very often used in a wide sense to include any
area of sea-ice, no matter what form it takes or how disposed. The
French term is _banquise de derive_.

_Pack-ice_. A more restricted use than the above, to include hummocky
floes or close areas of young ice and light floes. Pack-ice is “close”
or “tight” if the floes constituting it are in contact; “open” if, for
the most part, they do not touch. In both cases it hinders, but does
not necessarily check, navigation; the contrary holds for

_Drift-ice_. Loose open ice, where the area of water exceeds that of
ice. Generally drift-ice is within reach of the swell, and is a stage
in the breaking down of pack-ice, the size of the floes being much
smaller than in the latter. (Scoresby’s use of the term drift-ice for
pieces of ice intermediate in size between floes and brash has,
however, quite died out). The Antarctic or Arctic pack usually has a
girdle or fringe of drift-ice.

_Brash_. Small fragments and roundish nodules; the wreck of other kinds
of ice.

_Bergy Bits_. Pieces, about the size of a cottage, of glacier-ice or of
hummocky pack washed clear of snow.

_Growlers_. Still smaller pieces of sea-ice than the above, greenish in
colour, and barely showing above water-level.

_Crack_. Any sort of fracture or rift in the sea-ice covering.

_Lead_ or _Lane_. Where a crack opens out to such a width as to be
navigable. In the Antarctic it is customary to speak of these as leads,
even when frozen over to constitute areas of young ice.

_Pools_. Any enclosed water areas in the pack, where length and breadth
are about equal.




METEOROLOGY


By L. D. A. HUSSEY, B.Sc., (Lond.), Capt. R.G.A.

The meteorological results of the Expedition, when properly worked out
and correlated with those from other stations in the southern
hemisphere, will be extremely valuable, both for their bearing on the
science of meteorology in general, and for their practical and economic
applications.

South America is, perhaps, more intimately concerned than any other
country, but Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa are all affected
by the weather conditions of the Antarctic. Researches are now being
carried on which tend to show that the meteorology of the two
hemispheres is more interdependent than was hitherto believed, so that
a meteorological disturbance in one part of the world makes its
presence felt, more or less remotely perhaps, all over the world.

It is evident, therefore, that a complete knowledge of the weather
conditions in any part of the world, which it is understood carries
with it the ability to make correct forecasts, can never be obtained
unless the weather conditions in every other part are known. This makes
the need for purely scientific Polar Expeditions so imperative, since
our present knowledge of Arctic and Antarctic meteorology is very
meagre, and to a certain extent unsystematic. What is wanted is a chain
of observing stations well equipped with instruments and trained
observers stretching across the Antarctic Continent. A series of
exploring ships could supplement these observations with others made by
them while cruising in the Antarctic Seas. It would pay to do this,
even for the benefit accruing to farmers, sailors, and others who are
so dependent on the weather.

As an instance of the value of a knowledge of Antarctic weather
conditions, it may be mentioned that, as the result of observations and
researches carried out at the South Orkneys—a group of sub-Antarctic
islands at the entrance to the Weddell Sea—it has been found that a
cold winter in that sea is a sure precursor of a drought over the maize
and cereal bearing area of Argentina three and a half years later. To
the farmers, the value of this knowledge so far in advance is enormous,
and since England has some three hundred million pounds sterling
invested in Argentine interests, Antarctic Expeditions have proved, and
will prove, their worth even from a purely commercial point of view.

I have given just this one instance to satisfy those who question the
utility of Polar Expeditions, but many more could be cited.

As soon as it was apparent that no landing could be made, and that we
should have to spend a winter in the ship drifting round with the pack,
instruments were set up and observations taken just as if we had been
ashore.

A meteorological screen or box was erected on a platform over the
stern, right away from the living quarters, and in it were placed the
maximum and minimum thermometers, the recording barograph, and
thermograph—an instrument which writes every variation of the
temperature and pressure on a sheet of paper on a revolving drum—and
the standard thermometer, a very carefully manufactured thermometer,
with all its errors determined and tabulated. The other thermometers
were all checked from this one. On top of the screen a Robinson’s
anemometer was screwed. This consisted of an upright rod, to the top of
which were pivoted four arms free to revolve in a plane at right angles
to it. At the end of these arms hemispherical cups were screwed. These
were caught by the wind and the arms revolved at a speed varying with
the force of the wind. The speed of the wind could be read off on a
dial below the arms.

In addition there was an instrument called a Dines anemometer which
supplied interesting tracings of the force, duration, and direction of
the wind. There was an added advantage in the fact that the drum on
which these results were recorded was comfortably housed down below, so
that one could sit in a comparatively warm room and follow all the
varying phases of the blizzard which was raging without. The barometer
used was of the Kew Standard pattern. When the ship was crushed, all
the monthly records were saved, but the detailed tracings, which had
been packed up in the hold, were lost. Though interesting they were not
really essential. Continuous observations were made during the long
drift on the floe and while on Elephant Island the temperature was
taken at midday each day as long as the thermometers lasted. The
mortality amongst these instruments, especially those which were tied
to string and swung round, was very high.

A few extracts from the observations taken during 1915—the series for
that year being practically complete—may be of interest. January was
dull and overcast, only 7 per cent. of the observations recording a
clear blue sky, 71 per cent. being completely overcast.

The percentage of clear sky increased steadily up till June and July,
these months showing respectively 42 per cent. and 45.7 per cent. In
August 40 per cent. of the observations were clear sky, while September
showed a sudden drop to 27 per cent. October weather was much the same,
and November was practically overcast the whole time, clear sky showing
at only 8 per cent. of the observations. In December the sky was
completely overcast for nearly 90 per cent. of the time.

Temperatures on the whole were fairly high, though a sudden unexpected
drop in February, after a series of heavy north-easterly gales, caused
the ship to be frozen in, and effectually put an end to any hopes of
landing that year. The lowest temperature experienced was in July, when
–35° Fahr., _i.e._ 67° below freezing, was reached. Fortunately, as the
sea was one mass of consolidated pack, the air was dry, and many days
of fine bright sunshine occurred. Later on, as the pack drifted
northwards and broke up, wide lanes of water were formed, causing fogs
and mist and dull overcast weather generally. In short, it may be said
that in the Weddell Sea the best weather comes in winter. Unfortunately
during that season the sun also disappears, so that one cannot enjoy it
as much as one would like.

As a rule, too, southerly winds brought fine clear weather, with marked
fall in the temperature, and those from the north were accompanied by
mist, fog, and overcast skies, with comparatively high temperatures. In
the Antarctic a temperature of 30°, _i.e._ 2° _below_ freezing, is
considered unbearably hot.

The greatest difficulty that was experienced was due to the
accumulation of rime on the instruments. In low temperatures everything
became covered with ice-crystals, deposited from the air, which
eventually grew into huge blocks. Sometimes these blocks became
dislodged and fell, making it dangerous to walk along the decks. The
rime collected on the thermometers, the glass bowl of the sunshine
recorder, and the bearings of the anemometer, necessitating the
frequent use of a brush to remove it, and sometimes effectively
preventing the instruments from recording at all.

One of our worst blizzards occurred on August 1, 1915, which was, for
the ship, the beginning of the end. It lasted for four days, with
cloudy and overcast weather for the three following days, and from that
time onwards we enjoyed very little sun.

The weather that we experienced on Elephant Island can only be
described as appalling. Situated as we were at the mouth of a gully,
down which a huge glacier was slowly moving, with the open sea in front
and to the left, and towering, snow-covered mountains on our right, the
air was hardly ever free from snowdrift, and the winds increased to
terrific violence through being forced over the glacier and through the
narrow gully. Huge blocks of ice were hurled about like pebbles, and
cases of clothing and cooking utensils were whisked out of our hands
and carried away to sea. For the first fortnight after our landing
there, the gale blew, at times, at over one hundred miles an hour.
Fortunately it never again quite reached that intensity, but on several
occasions violent squalls made us very fearful for the safety of our
hut. The island was almost continuously covered with a pall of fog and
snow, clear weather obtaining occasionally when pack-ice surrounded us.
Fortunately a series of south-westerly gales had blown all the ice away
to the north-east two days before the rescue ship arrived, leaving a
comparatively clear sea for her to approach the island.

Being one solitary moving station in the vast expanse of the Weddell
Sea, with no knowledge of what was happening anywhere around us,
forecasting was very difficult and at times impossible.

Great assistance in this direction was afforded by copies of Mr. R. C.
Mossmann’s researches and papers on Antarctic meteorology, which he
kindly supplied to us.


[Illustration: “The Rookery”]


[Illustration: The Anemometer covered with Rime]


I have tried to make this very brief account of the meteorological side
of the Expedition rather more “popular” than scientific, since the
publication and scientific discussion of the observations will be
carried out elsewhere; but if, while showing the difficulties under
which we had to work, it emphasizes the value of Antarctic Expeditions
from a purely utilitarian point of view, and the need for further
continuous research into the conditions obtaining in the immediate
neighbourhood of the Pole, it will have achieved its object.




PHYSICS


By R. W. JAMES, M.A. (Cantab.), B.Sc. (Lond.), Capt. R.E.

Owing to the continued drift of the ship with the ice, the programme of
physical observations originally made out had to be considerably
modified. It had been intended to set up recording magnetic instruments
at the base, and to take a continuous series of records throughout the
whole period of residence there, absolute measurements of the earth’s
horizontal magnetic force, of the dip and declination being taken at
frequent intervals for purposes of calibration. With the ice
continually drifting, and the possibility of the floe cracking at any
time, it proved impracticable to set up the recording instruments, and
the magnetic observations were confined to a series of absolute
measurements taken whenever opportunity occurred. These measurements,
owing to the drift of the ship, extend over a considerable distance,
and give a chain of values along a line stretching, roughly from 77° S.
lat. to 69° S. lat. This is not the place to give the actual results;
it is quite enough to state that, as might have been expected from the
position of the magnetic pole, the values obtained correspond to a
comparatively low magnetic latitude, the value of the dip ranging from
63° to 68°.

So far as possible, continuous records of the electric potential
gradient in the atmosphere were taken, a form of quadrant electrometer
with a boom and ink recorder, made by the Cambridge Scientific
Instrument Company, being employed. Here again, the somewhat peculiar
conditions made work difficult, as the instrument was very susceptible
to small changes of level, such as occurred from time to time owing to
the pressure of the ice on the ship. An ionium collector, for which the
radioactive material was kindly supplied by Mr. F. H. Glew, was used.
The chief difficulty to contend with was the constant formation of
thick deposits of rime, which either grew over the insulation and
spoiled it, or covered up the collector so that it could no longer act.
Nevertheless, a considerable number of good records were obtained,
which have not yet been properly worked out. Conditions during the
Expedition were very favourable for observations on the physical
properties and natural history of sea-ice, and a considerable number of
results were obtained, which are, however, discussed elsewhere, mention
of them being made here since they really come under the heading of
physics.

In addition to these main lines of work, many observations of a
miscellaneous character were made, including those on the occurrence
and nature of parhelia or “mock suns,” which were very common, and
generally finely developed, and observations of the auroral displays,
which were few and rather poor owing to the comparatively low magnetic
latitude. Since most of the observations made are of little value
without a knowledge of the place where they were made, and since a very
complete set of soundings were also taken, the daily determination of
the ship’s position was a matter of some importance. The drift of the
ship throws considerable light on at least one geographical problem,
that of the existence of Morrell Land. The remainder of this appendix
will therefore be devoted to a discussion of the methods used to
determine the positions of the ship from day to day.

The latitude and longitude were determined astronomically every day
when the sun or stars were visible, the position thus determined
serving as the fixed points between which the position on days when the
sky was overcast could be interpolated by the process known as “dead
reckoning,” that is to say, by estimating the speed and course of the
ship, taking into account the various causes affecting it. The sky was
often overcast for several days at a stretch, and it was worth while to
take a certain amount of care in the matter. Captain Worsley
constructed an apparatus which gave a good idea of the direction of
drift at any time. This consisted of an iron rod, which passed through
an iron tube, frozen vertically into the ice, into the water below. At
the lower end of the rod, in the water, was a vane. The rod being free
to turn, the vane took up the direction of the current, the direction
being shown by an indicator attached to the top of the rod. The
direction shown depended, of course, on the drift of the ice relative
to the water, and did not take into account any actual current which
may have been carrying the ice with it, but the true current seems
never to have been large, and the direction of the vane probably gave
fairly accurately the direction of the drift of the ice. No exact idea
of the rate of drift could be obtained from the apparatus, although one
could get an estimate of it by displacing the vane from its position of
rest and noticing how quickly it returned to it, the speed of return
being greater the more rapid the drift. Another means of estimating the
speed and direction of the drift was from the trend of the wire when a
sounding was being taken. The rate and direction of drift appeared to
depend almost entirely on the wind-velocity and direction at the time.
If any true current-effect existed, it is not obvious from a rough
comparison of the drift with the prevailing wind, but a closer
investigation of the figures may show some outstanding effect due to
current.[1] The drift was always to the left of the actual
wind-direction. This effect is due to the rotation of the earth, a
corresponding deviation to the right of the wind direction being noted
by Nansen during the drift of the _Fram_. A change in the direction of
the wind was often preceded by some hours by a change in the reading of
the drift vane. This is no doubt due to the ice to windward being set
in motion, the resulting disturbance travelling through the ice more
rapidly than the approaching wind.

 [1] Cf. “Scientific results of Norwegian North Polar Expedition,
 1893–96,” vol. iii, p. 357.


For the astronomical observations either the sextant or a theodolite
was used. The theodolite employed was a light 3´´ Vernier instrument by
Carey Porter, intended for sledging work. This instrument was fairly
satisfactory, although possibly rigidity had been sacrificed to
lightness to rather too great an extent. Another point which appears
worth mentioning is the following: The foot-screws were of brass, the
tribrach, into which they fitted, was made of aluminium for the sake of
lightness. The two metals have a different coefficient of expansion,
and while the feet fitted the tribrach at ordinary temperatures, they
were quite loose at temperatures in the region of 20° Fahr. below zero.
In any instrument designed for use at low temperatures, care should be
taken that parts which have to fit together are made of the same
material.

For determining the position in drifting pack-ice, the theodolite
proved to be a more generally useful instrument than the sextant. The
ice-floes are quite steady in really thick pack-ice, and the theodolite
can be set up and levelled as well as on dry land. The observations,
both for latitude and longitude, consist in measuring altitude of the
sun or of a star. The chief uncertainty in this measurement is that
introduced by the refraction of light by the air. At very low
temperatures, the correction to be applied on this account is
uncertain, and, if possible, observations should always be made in
pairs with a north star and a south star for a latitude, and an east
star and a west star for a longitude. The refraction error will then
usually mean out. This error affects observations both with the
theodolite and the sextant, but in the case of the sextant another
cause of error occurs. In using the sextant, the angle between the
heavenly body and the visible horizon is measured directly. Even in
dense pack-ice, if the observations are taken from the deck of the ship
or from a hummock or a low berg, the apparent horizon is usually sharp
enough for the purpose. In very cold weather, however, and particularly
if there are open leads and pools between the observer and the horizon,
there is frequently a great deal of mirage, and the visible horizon may
be miraged up several minutes. This will reduce the altitude observed,
and corrections on this account are practically impossible to apply.
This error may be counterbalanced to some extent by pairing
observations as described above, but it by no means follows that the
mirage effect will be the same in the two directions. Then again,
during the summer months, no stars will be visible, and observations
for latitude will have to depend on a single noon sight of the sun. If
the sun is visible at midnight its altitude will be too low for
accurate observations, and in any case atmospheric conditions will be
quite different from those prevailing at noon. In the Antarctic,
therefore, conditions are peculiarly difficult for getting really
accurate observations, and it is necessary to reduce the probability of
error in a single observation as much as possible. When possible,
observations of the altitude of a star or of the sun should be taken
with the theodolite, since the altitude is referred to the spirit-level
of the instrument, and is independent of any apparent horizon. During
the drift of the _Endurance_ both means of observation were generally
employed. A comparison of the results showed an agreement between
sextant and theodolite, within the errors of the instrument if the
temperature was above about 20° Fahr. At lower temperatures there were
frequently discrepancies which could generally be attributed to the
mirage effects described above.

As the _Endurance_ was carried by the ice-drift well to the west of the
Weddell Sea, towards the position of the supposed Morrell Land, the
accurate determination of longitude became a matter of moment in view
of the controversy as to the existence of this land. During a long
voyage latitude can always be determined with about the same accuracy,
the accuracy merely depending on the closeness with which altitudes can
be measured. In the case of longitude matters are rather different. The
usual method employed consists in the determination of the local time
by astronomical observations, and the comparison of this time with
Greenwich time, as shown by the ship’s chronometer, an accurate
knowledge of the errors and rate of the chronometer being required.
During the voyage of the _Endurance_ about fifteen months elapsed
during which no check on the chronometers could be obtained by the
observation of known land, and had no other check been applied there
would have been the probability of large errors in the longitudes. For
the purpose of checking the chronometers a number of observations of
occultations were observed during the winter of 1915. An occultation is
really the eclipse of a star by the moon. A number of such eclipses
occur monthly, and are tabulated in the “Nautical Almanac.” From the
data given there it is possible to compute the Greenwich time at which
the phenomenon ought to occur for an observer situated at any place on
the earth, provided his position is known within a few miles, which
will always be the case. The time of disappearance of the star by the
chronometer to be corrected is noted. The actual Greenwich time of the
occurrence is calculated, and the error of the chronometer is thus
determined. With ordinary care the chronometer error can be determined
in this way to within a few seconds, which is accurate enough for
purposes of navigation. The principal difficulties of this method lie
in the fact that comparatively few occultations occur, and those which
do occur are usually of stars of the fifth magnitude or lower. In the
Antarctic, conditions for observing occultation are rather favourable
during the winter, since, fifth-magnitude stars can be seen with a
small telescope at any time during the twenty-four hours if the sky is
clear, and the moon is also often above the horizon for a large
fraction of the time. In the summer, however, the method is quite
impossible, since, for some months, stars are not to be seen.

No chronometer check could be applied until June 1915. On June 24 a
series of four occultations were observed; and the results of the
observations showed an error in longitude of a whole degree. In July,
August, and September further occultations were observed, and a fairly
reliable rate was worked out for the chronometers and watches. After
the crushing of the ship on October 27, 1915, no further occultations
were observed, but the calculated rates for the watches were employed,
and the longitude deduced, using these rates on March 23, 1916, was
only about 10´ of arc in error, judging by the observations of
Joinville Land made on that day. It is thus fairly certain that no
large error can have been made in the determination of the position of
the _Endurance_ at any time during the drift, and her course can be
taken as known with greater certainty than is usually the case in a
voyage of such length.




SOUTH ATLANTIC WHALES AND WHALING


By ROBERT S. CLARK, M.A., B.Sc., Lieut. R.N.V.R.

Modern whaling methods were introduced into sub-Antarctic seas in 1904,
and operations commenced in the following year at South Georgia. So
successful was the initial venture that several companies were floated,
and the fishing area was extended to the South Shetlands, the South
Orkneys, and as far as 67° S along the western coast of Graham Land.
This area lies within the Dependencies of the Falkland Islands, and is
under the control of the British Government, and its geographical
position offers exceptional opportunities for the successful
prosecution of the industry by providing a sufficient number of safe
anchorages and widely separated islands, where shore stations have been
established. The Dependencies of the Falkland Islands lie roughly
within latitude 50° and 65° S. and longitude 25° and 70° W., and
include the Falkland Islands, South Georgia, South Sandwich, South
Orkney, and South Shetland Islands, and part of Graham Land.

The industry is prosperous, and the products always find a ready
market. In this sub-Antarctic area alone, the resulting products more
than doubled the world’s supply. The total value of the Falkland Island
Dependencies in 1913 amounted to £1,252,432, in 1914 to £1,300,978, in
1915 to £1,333,401, and in 1916 to £1,774,570. This has resulted
chiefly from the marketing of whale oil and the by-product, guano, and
represents for each total a season’s capture of several thousand
whales. In 1916, the number of whales captured in this area was 11,860,
which included 6000 for South Georgia alone. Whale oil, which is now
the product of most economic value in the whaling industry, is produced
in four grades (some companies adding a fifth). These are Nos. 0, I,
II, III, IV, which in 1913 sold at £24, £22, £20, and £18 respectively
per ton, net weight, barrels included (there are six barrels to a ton).
The 1919 prices have increased to

£72 10s. per ton (barrels included) less 2½ per cent.
£68 per ton (barrels included) less 2½ per cent.
£65   ”    ”        ”          ”          ”          ”      ”
£63   ”    ”        ”          ”          ”          ”      ”


Whale oil can be readily transformed into glycerine: it is used in the
manufacture of soap, and quite recently, both in this country and in
Norway, it has been refined by means of a simple hardening process into
a highly palatable and nutritious margarine. Wartime conditions
emphasized the importance of the whale oil, and fortunately the supply
was fairly constant for the production of the enormous quantities of
glycerine required by the country in the manufacture of explosives. In
relation to the food supply, it was no less important in saving the
country from a “fat” famine, when the country was confronted with the
shortage of vegetable and other animal oils. The production of guano,
bone-meal, and flesh-meal may pay off the running expenses of a
whaling-station, but their value lies, perhaps, more in their
individual properties. Flesh-meal makes up into cattle-cake, which
forms an excellent fattening food for cattle, while bone-meal and guano
are very effective fertilizers. Guano is the meat—generally the residue
of distillation—which goes through a process of drying and
disintegration, and is mixed with the crushed bone in the proportion of
two parts flesh to one part bone. This is done chiefly at the shore
stations, and, to a less extent on floating factories, though so far on
the latter it has not proved very profitable. Whale flesh, though
slightly greasy perhaps and of strong flavour, is quite palatable, and
at South Georgia, it made a welcome addition to our bill of fare—the
flesh of the hump back being used. A large supply of whale flesh was
“shipped” as food for the dogs on the journey South, and this was eaten
ravenously. It is interesting to note also the successful rearing of
pigs at South Georgia—chiefly, if not entirely, on the whale products.
The whalebone or baleen plates, which at one time formed the most
valuable article of the Arctic fishery, may here be regarded as of
secondary importance. The baleen plates of the southern right whale
reach only a length of about 7 ft., and have been valued at £750 per
ton, but the number of these whales captured is very small indeed. In
the case of the other whalebone whales, the baleen plates are much
smaller and of inferior quality—the baleen of the sei whale probably
excepted, and this only makes about £85 per ton, Sperm whales have been
taken at South Georgia and the South Shetlands, but never in any
quantity, being more numerous in warmer areas. The products and their
value are too well known to be repeated.

The _Endurance_ reached South Georgia on November 5, 1914, and anchored
in King Edward Cove, Cumberland Bay, off Grytviken, the shore station
of the Argentina Pesca Company. During the month’s stay at the island a
considerable amount of time was devoted to a study of the whales and
the whaling industry, in the intervals of the general routine of
expedition work, and simultaneously with other studies on the general
life of this interesting sub-Antarctic island. Visits were made to six
of the seven existing stations, observations were made on the whales
landed, and useful insight was gathered as to the general working of
the industry.

From South Georgia the track of the _Endurance_ lay in a direct line to
the South Sandwich Group, between Saunders and Candlemas Islands. Then
south-easterly and southerly courses were steered to the Coats’ Land
barrier, along which we steamed for a few hundred miles until forced
westward, when we were unfortunately held up in about lat. 76° 34´ S.
and long. 37° 30´ W. on January 19, 1915, by enormous masses of heavy
pack-ice. The ship drifted to lat. 76° 59´ S., long. 37° 47´ W. on
March 19, 1915, and then west and north until crushed in lat. 69° 5´ S.
and long. 51° 30´ W. on October 26, 1915. We continued drifting
gradually north, afloat on ice-floes, past Graham Land and Joinville
Island, and finally took to the boats on April 9, 1916, and reached
Elephant Island on April 15. The Falkland Island Dependencies were thus
practically circumnavigated, and it may be interesting to compare the
records of whales seen in the region outside and to the south of this
area with the records and the percentage of each species captured in
the intensive fishing area.

The most productive part of the South Atlantic lies south of latitude
50° S., where active operations extend to and even beyond the Antarctic
circle. It appears to be the general rule in Antarctic waters that
whales are more numerous the closer the association with ice
conditions, and there seems to be reasonable grounds for supposing that
this may explain the comparatively few whales sighted by Expeditions
which have explored the more northerly and more open seas, while the
whalers themselves have even asserted that their poor seasons have
nearly always coincided with the absence of ice, or with poor ice
conditions. At all events, those Expeditions which have penetrated far
south and well into the pack-ice have, without exception, reported the
presence of whales in large numbers, even in the farthest south
latitudes, so that our knowledge of the occurrence of whales in the
Antarctic has been largely derived from these Expeditions, whose main
object was either the discovery of new land or the Pole itself. The
largest number of Antarctic Expeditions has concentrated on the two
areas of the South Atlantic and the Ross Sea, and the records of the
occurrences of whales have, in consequence, been concentrated in these
two localities. In the intervening areas, however, Expeditions, notably
the _Belgica_ on the western side and the _Gauss_ on the eastern side
of the Antarctic continent, have reported whales in moderately large
numbers, so that the stock is by no means confined to the two areas
above mentioned.

The effective fishing area may be assumed to lie within a radius of a
hundred miles from each shore station and floating-factory anchorage,
and a rough estimate of all the Falkland stations works out at 160,000
square miles. The total for the whole Falkland area is about 2,000,000
square miles, which is roughly less than a sixth of the total Antarctic
sea area. The question then arises as to how far the “catch percentage”
during the short fishing season affects the total stock, but so far one
can only conjecture as to the actual results from a comparison of the
numbers seen, chiefly by scientific and other Expeditions, in areas
outside the intensive fishing area with the numbers and percentage of
each species captured in the intensive fishing area. Sufficient
evidence, however, seems to point quite definitely to one species—the
humpback—being in danger of extermination, but the blue and fin
whales—the other two species of rorquals which form the bulk of the
captures—appear to be as frequent now as they have ever been.

The whales captured at the various whaling-stations of the Falkland
area are confined largely to three species—blue whale (_Balænoptera
musculus_), fin whale (_Balænoptera physalis_), and humpback
(_Megaptera nodosa_); sperm whales (_Physeter catodon_) and right
whales (_Balæna glacialis_) being only occasional and rare captures,
while the sei whale (_Balænoptera borealis_) appeared in the captures
at South Georgia in 1913, and now forms a large percentage of the
captures at the Falkland Islands. During the earlier years of whaling
at South Georgia, and up to the fishing season 1910–11, humpbacks
formed practically the total catch. In 1912–13 the following were the
percentages for the three rorquals in the captures at South Georgia and
South Shetlands:

Humpback 38 per cent., fin whale 36 per cent., blue whale 20 per cent.
Of late years the percentages have altered considerably, blue whales
and fin whales predominating, humpbacks decreasing rapidly. In 1915,
the South Georgia Whaling Company (Messrs. Salvesen, Leith) captured
1085 whales, consisting of 15 per cent. humpback, 25 per cent. fin
whales, 58 per cent. blue whales, and 2 right whales. In the same year
the captures of three companies at the South Shetlands gave 1512
whales, and the percentages worked out at 12 per cent. humpbacks, 42
per cent. fin whales, and 45 per cent. blue whales. In 1919, the
Southern Whaling and Sealing Company captured (at Stromness, South
Georgia) 529 whales, of which 2 per cent. were humpbacks, 51 per cent.
fin whales, and 45 per cent. blue whales. These captures do not
represent the total catch, but are sufficiently reliable to show how
the species are affected. The reduction in numbers of the humpback is
very noticeable, and even allowing for the possible increase in size of
gear for the capture of the larger and more lucrative blue and fin
whales, there is sufficient evidence to warrant the fears that the
humpback stock is threatened with extinction.

In the immediate northern areas—in the region from latitude 50° S.
northward to the equator, which is regarded as next in importance
quantitatively to the sub-Antarctic, though nothing like being so
productive, the captures are useful for a comparative study in
distribution. At Saldanha Bay, Cape Colony, in 1912, 131 whales were
captured and the percentages were as follows: 35 per cent. humpback, 13
per cent. fin whale, 4 per cent. blue whale, 46 per cent. sei whale,
while nearer the equator, at Port Alexander, the total capture was 322
whales, and the percentages gave 98 per cent. humpback, and only 2
captures each of fin and sei whales. In 1914, at South Africa (chiefly
Saldanha Bay and Durban), out of a total of 839 whales 60 per cent.
were humpback, 25 per cent. fin whales, and 13 per cent. blue whales.
In 1916, out of a total of 853 whales 10 per cent. were humpback, 13
per cent. fin whales, 6 per cent. blue whales, 68 per cent. sperm
whales, and 1 per cent. sei whales. In Chilian waters, in 1916, a total
of 327 whales gave 31 per cent. humpbacks, 24 per cent. fin whales, 26
per cent. blue whales, 12 per cent. sperm whales, and 5 right whales.
There seems then to be a definite interrelation between the two areas.
The same species of whales are captured, and the periods of capture
alternate with perfect regularity, the fishing season occurring from
the end of November to April in the sub-Antarctic and from May to
November in the sub-tropics. A few of the companies, however, carry on
operations to a limited extent at South Georgia and at the Falkland
islands during the southern winter, but the fishing is by no means a
profitable undertaking, though proving the presence of whales in this
area during the winter months.

The migrations of whales are influenced by two causes:

(1) The distribution of their food-supply;
(2) The position of their breeding-grounds.


In the Antarctic, during the summer months, there is present in the sea
an abundance of plant and animal life, and whales which feed on the
small _plankton_ organisms are correspondingly numerous, but in winter
this state of things is reversed, and whales are poorly represented or
absent, at least in the higher latitudes. During the drift of the
_Endurance_ samples of _plankton_ were taken almost daily during an
Antarctic summer and winter. From December to March, a few minutes haul
of a tow-net at the surface was sufficient to choke up the meshes with
the plant and animal life, but this abundance of surface life broke off
abruptly in April, and subsequent hauls contained very small organisms
until the return of daylight and the opening up of the pack-ice. The
lower water strata, down to about 100 fathoms, were only a little more
productive, and _Euphausiæ_ were taken in the hauls—though sparingly.
During the winter spent at Elephant Island, our total catch of gentoo
penguins amounted to 1436 for the period April 15 to August 30, 1916.
All these birds were cut up, the livers and hearts were extracted for
food, and the skins were used as fuel. At the same time the stomachs
were invariably examined, and a record kept of the contents. The
largest proportion of these contained the small crustacean _Euphausia_,
and this generally to the exclusion of other forms. Occasionally,
however, small fish were recorded. The quantity of _Euphausiæ_ present
in most of the stomachs was enormous for the size of the birds. These
penguins were migrating, and came ashore only when the bays were clear
of ice, as there were several periods of fourteen consecutive days when
the bays and the surrounding sea were covered over with a thick compact
mass of ice-floes, and then penguins were entirely absent.
_Euphausiæ_, then, seem to be present in sufficient quantity in
certain, if not in all, sub-Antarctic waters during the southern
winter. We may assume then that the migration to the south, during the
Antarctic summer, is definitely in search of food. Observations have
proved the existence of a northern migration, and it seems highly
improbable that this should also be in search of food, but rather for
breeding purposes, and it seems that the whales select the more
temperate regions for the bringing forth of their young. This view is
strengthened by the statistical fœtal records, which show the pairing
takes place in the northern areas, that the fœtus is carried by the
mother during the southern migration to the Antarctic, and that the
calves are born in the more congenial waters north of the sub-Antarctic
area. We have still to prove, however, the possibility of a circumpolar
migration, and we are quite in the dark as to the number of whales that
remain in sub-Antarctic areas during the Southern winter.

The following is a rough classification of whales, with special
reference to those known to occur in the South Atlantic:

               1.  WHALEBONE WHALES (_Mystacoceti_)
           ____________________|__________________
Right whales (_Balænidæ_)             Rorquals (_Balænopteridæ_)
           |                     ________________|_________
Southern right whale             |                        | (_Balæna
glacialis_)         Finner whales              Humpback
(_Balænoptera_)       (_Megaptera nodosa_)

                     Blue whale    (_B. musculus_) Fin whale     (_B.
                     physalis_) Sei whale     (_B. borealis_) Piked
                     whale   (_B. acutorostrata_) Bryde’s whale (_B.
                     brydei_)

               2. TOOTHED WHALES (_Odontoceti_)
      _________________________|________________________
Sperm whale              Beaked whales              Dolphins (_Physeter
catodon_) (including bottlenose whales)  (1) Killer (_Hyperoodon
rostratus_)     (_Orcinus orca_) (2) Black Fish (_Globicephalus melas_)
(3) Porpoises (_Lagenorhynchus_ sp.)


The subdivision of whalebone whales is one of degree in the size of the
whalebone. These whales have enormously muscular tongues, which press
the water through the whalebone lamellæ and thus, by a filtering
process, retain the small food organisms. The food of the whalebone
whales is largely the small crustacea which occur in the _plankton_,
though some whales (humpback, fin whales, and sei whales) feed also on
fish. The stomachs examined at South Georgia during December 1914,
belonged to the three species, humpbacks, fin whales, and blue whales,
and all contained small crustacea—_Euphausiæ_, with a mixture of
_amphipods_. The toothed whales—sperms and bottlenoses—are known to
live on squids, and that there is an abundance of this type of food in
the Weddell Sea was proved by an examination of penguin and seal
stomachs. Emperor penguins (and hundreds of these were examined) were
invariably found to contain _Cephalopod_ “beaks,” while large, partly
digested squids were often observed in Weddell seals. A dorsal fin is
present in the rorquals but absent in right whales. With other
characters, notably the size of the animal, it serves as a ready mark
of identification, but is occasionally confusing owing to the variation
in shape in some of the species.

With the exception of several schools of porpoises very few whales were
seen during the outward voyage. Not till we approached the Falkland
area did they appear in any numbers. Four small schools of fin whales
and a few humpbacks were sighted on October 28 and 29, 1914, in lat.
38° 01´ S., long. 55° 03´ W. and in lat. 40° 35´ S., long. 53° 11´ W.,
while _Globicephalus melas_ was seen only once, in lat. 45° 17´ S.,
long. 48° 58´ W., on October 31, 1914. At South Georgia, the whales
captured at the various stations in December 1914, were blue whales,
fin whales, and humpbacks (arranged respectively according to numbers
captured). During the fishing season 1914–15 (from December to March)
in the area covered—South Georgia to the South Sandwich Islands and
along Coats’ Land to the head of the Weddell Sea—the records of whales
were by no means numerous. Two records only could with certainty be
assigned to the humpback, and these were in the neighbourhood of the
South Sandwich Islands. Pack-ice was entered in lat. 59° 55´ S., long.
18° 28´ W., and blue whales were recorded daily until about 65° S.
Between lat. 65° 43´ S., long. 17° 30´ W., on December 27, 1914, and
lat. 69° 59´ S., long. 17° 31´ W., on January 3, 1915, no whales were
seen. On January 4, however, in lat. 69° 59´ S., long. 17° 36´ W., two
large sperm whales appeared close ahead of the ship in fairly open
water, and were making westward. They remained sufficiently long on the
surface to render their identification easy. Farther south, blue whales
were only seen occasionally, and fin whales could only be identified in
one or two cases. Killers, however, were numerous, and the lesser piked
whale was quite frequent. There was no doubt about the identity of this
latter species as it often came close alongside the ship. From April to
September (inclusive) the sea was frozen over (with the exception of
local “leads”), and whales were found to be absent. In October whales
again made their appearance, and from then onwards they were a daily
occurrence. Identification of the species, however, was a difficult
matter, for the _Endurance_ was crushed and had sunk, and observations
were only possible from the ice-floe, or later on from the boats. The
high vertical “spout” opening out into a dense spray was often visible,
and denoted the presence of blue and fin whales. The lesser piked whale
again appeared in the “leads” close to our “camp” floe, and was easily
identified. An exceptional opportunity was presented to us on December
6, 1915, when a school of eight bottlenose whales (_Hyperoodon
rostratus_) appeared in small “pool” alongside “Ocean” Camp in lat. 67°
47´ S., long. 52° 18´ W. These ranged from about 20 ft. to a little
over 30 ft. in length, and were of a uniform dark dun colour—the large
specimens having a dull yellow appearance. There were no white spots.
At the edge of the pack-ice during the first half of April 1916, about
lat. 62° S. and long. 54° W. (entrance to Bransfield Strait), whales
were exceedingly numerous, and these were chiefly fin whales, though a
few seemed to be sei whales. It is interesting to note that the fishing
season 1915–1916 was exceptionally productive—no less than 11,860
whales having been captured in the Falkland area alone.

The South Atlantic whaling industry, then, has reached a critical stage
in development. It is now dependent on the captures of the large fin
and blue whales, humpbacks having been rapidly reduced in numbers, so
that the total stock appears to have been affected. With regard to the
other species, the southern right whale has never been abundant in the
captures, the sperm whale and the sei whale have shown a good deal of
seasonal variation, though never numerous, and the bottlenose and
lesser piked whale have so far not been hunted, except in the case of
the latter for human food. The vigorous slaughter of whales both in the
sub-Antarctic and in the sub-tropics, for the one area reacts on the
other, calls for universal legislation to protect the whales from early
commercial extinction, and the industry, which is of world-wide
economic importance, from having to be abandoned. The British
Government, with the control of the world’s best fisheries, is
thoroughly alive to the situation, and an Inter-departmental Committee,
under the direction of the Colonial Office, is at present devising a
workable scheme for suitable legislation for the protection of the
whales and for the welfare of the industry.




APPENDIX II




THE EXPEDITION HUTS AT McMURDO SOUND


By SIR E. H. SHACKLETON

The following notes are designed for the benefit of future explorers
who may make McMurdo Sound a base for inland operations, and to clear
any inaccuracies or ambiguities concerning the history, occupation, and
state of these huts.

(1) THE NATIONAL ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION’S HUT AT HUT POINT—THE HEAD OF
McMURDO SOUND


This hut was constructed by Captain Scott in 1902, by the Expedition
sent out by the Royal Geographical Society, the Royal Society, the
Government, and by private subscription. Captain Robert F. Scott was
appointed to the command of the Expedition. I served as Third
Lieutenant until February 1903, when I was invalided home through a
broken blood vessel in the lungs, the direct result of scurvy
contracted on the Southern journey. The _Discovery_ hut was a large
strong building, but was so draughty and cold in comparison with the
ship, which was moored one hundred yards away, that it was, during the
first year, never used for living quarters. Its sole use was as a
storehouse, and a large supply of rough stores, such as flour, cocoa,
coffee, biscuit, and tinned meat, was left there in the event of its
being used as a place of retreat should any disaster overtake the ship.
During the second year occasional parties camped inside the hut, but no
bunks or permanent sleeping quarters were ever erected. The discomfort
of the hut was a byword on the Expedition, but it formed an excellent
depot and starting-point for all parties proceeding to the south.

When the _Discovery_ finally left McMurdo Sound, the hut was stripped
of all gear, including the stove, but there was left behind a large
depot of the stores mentioned above. I was not aware of this until I
returned to McMurdo Sound in February 1908, when I sent Adams, Joyce,
and Wild across to the hut whilst the _Nimrod_ was lying off the ice.

On the return of the party they reported that the door had been burst
open, evidently by a southerly blizzard, and was jammed by snow outside
and in, so they made an entrance through one of the lee windows. They
found the hut practically clear of snow, and the structure quite
intact. I used the hut in the spring, _i.e._ September and October
1908, as a storehouse for the large amount of equipment, food, and oil
that we were to take on the Southern journey. We built a sort of
living-room out of the cases of provisions, and swept out the debris.
The Southern Party elected to sleep there before the start, but the
supporting party slept outside in the tents, as they considered it
warmer.

We still continued to use the lee window as means of ingress and egress
to avoid continual shovelling away of the snow, which would be
necessary as every southerly blizzard blocked up the main entrance. The
various depot parties made use of the hut for replenishing their
stores, which had been sledged from my own hut to Hut Point. On the
night of March 3, 1909, I arrived with the Southern Party, with a sick
man, having been absent on the march 128 days. Our position was bad, as
the ship was north of us. We tried to burn the Magnetic Hut in the hope
of attracting attention from the ship, but were not able to get it to
light. We finally managed to light a flare of carbide, and the ship
came down to us in a blizzard, and all were safely aboard at 1 a.m. on
March 4, 1909. Before leaving the hut we jammed the window up with
baulks of timber, to the best of our ability, in the storm and
darkness. The hut was used again by the Ross Sea Section of this last
Expedition. The snow was cleared out and extra stores were placed in
it. From reports I have received the _Discovery_ Hut was in as good
condition in 1917 as it was in 1902.

The stores placed there in 1902 are intact. There are a few cases of
extra provisions and oil in the hut, but no sleeping gear, or
accommodation, nor stoves, and it must not be looked upon as anything
else than a shelter and a most useful _pied-à-terre_ for the start of
any Southern journey. No stores nor any equipment have been taken from
it during either of my two Expeditions.

(2) CAPE ROYDS HUT


For several reasons, when I went into McMurdo Sound in 1908 in command
of my own Expedition, known as the British Antarctic Expedition, after
having failed to land on King Edward VII Land, I decided to build our
hut at Cape Royds—a small promontory twenty-three miles north of Hut
Point. Here the whole shore party lived in comfort through the winter
of 1908. When spring came stores were sledged to Hut Point, so that
should the sea-ice break up early between these two places we might not
be left in an awkward position. After the return of the Southern Party
we went direct north to civilization, so I never visited my hut again.
I had left, however, full instructions with Professor David as to the
care of the hut, and before the whole Expedition left, the hut was put
in order. A letter was pinned in a conspicuous place inside, stating
that there were sufficient provisions and equipment to last fifteen men
for one year, indicating also the details of these provisions and the
position of the coal store. The stove was in good condition, and the
letter ended with an invitation for any succeeding party to make what
use they required of stores and hut. The hut was then locked and the
key nailed on the door in a conspicuous place. From the report of
Captain Scott’s last Expedition the hut was in good condition, and from
a still later report from the Ross Sea side of this present Expedition,
the hut was still intact.

(3) CAPE EVANS HUT


This large and commodious hut was constructed by Captain Scott at Cape
Evans on his last Expedition. The party lived in it in comfort, and it
was left well supplied with stores in the way of food and oil, and a
certain amount of coal. Several of the scientific staff of this present
Expedition were ashore in it, when the _Aurora_, which was to have been
the permanent winter quarters, broke adrift in May 1915, and went north
with the ice. The hut became the permanent living quarters for the ten
marooned men, and thanks to the stores they were able to sustain life
in comparative comfort, supplementing these stores from my hut at Cape
Royds. In January 1917, after I had rescued the survivors, I had the
hut put in order and locked up.

To sum up, there are three available huts in McMurdo Sound.

(a) The _Discovery_ Hut with a certain amount of rough stores, and only
of use as a point of departure for the South.

(b) Cape Royds Hut with a large amount of general stores, but no
clothing or equipment now.

(c) Cape Evans Hut with a large amount of stores, but no clothing or
equipment and only a few sledges.

(4) DEPOTS SOUTH OF HUT POINT


In spite of the fact that several depots have been laid to the south of
Hut Point on the Barrier, the last being at the Gap (the entrance to
the Beardmore Glacier), no future Expedition should depend on them as
the heavy snowfall obliterates them completely. There is no record of
the depots of any Expedition being made use of by any subsequent
Expedition. No party in any of my Expeditions has used any depot laid
down by a previous Expedition.


[Illustration: The Voyage of the _Endurance_]




INDEX


Adare, Cape
Admiralty
    Range
Agag
Aitken
Albatross
Allardyce Range
Allen, James
Amphipods
Amundsen
    (dog)
“Ancient Mariner,”
Animal life in Weddell Sea
    _See also_ Penguins Seals _and_ Bird life
Annewkow Island
Antarctic Circle
    Derby
Argentine
Armitage, Cape
    Lieut.
Atmospheric effects
    _See also_ Mirage _and_ Sun
Attempt to cut ship out
_Aurora,_
Aurora Australis
Australia

Bakewell
Barne Glacier
Barrier
    Great Ice
    surface
Beardmore Glacier
Beaufort Island
Belgica Straits
Bergs
Bergschrund
Bernsten, Mr.
Bird life in Weddell Sea
Black Island
Blackborrow
Blizzards, severe
Blue Ice Glacier
Bluff
    depot
Boats
Bovril
British territory
Brocklehurst, Capt. H. Courtney
Browning
Bruce, Dr. W. S.
Buenos Ayres
Burberry clothing
Butler Point depot

Caird Coast
    Sir James
_Caird, James_ (boat)
Candlemas Volcano
Cape Barne
    Bernacchi
    Bird
    Cotter
    Crozier
    Evans
    Horn weather
    Hudson
    pigeons
    Ross
    Royds
    Valentine
    Wild
Castle Rock
Cave Cove
Cheetham
Chile
Christmas celebrations
Clarence Island
Clark
Coal, Antarctic
    on deck
Coats’ Land
Con (dog)
Cook
Cope
Corner Camp
Coulman Islands
Crean
Current meter
Cyclone

Danger Islands
Davis, Captain John K.
Daylight saving
Deception Islands
_Diatoms_
_Discovery_
Discovery Bay
    Mount
Distances, Ross Sea Party
Dog-pemmican
Dogs
Dominican gulls
Dudley Docker Mr.
_Dudley Docker_ (boat)
Dunlop Island
Dump Camp

Eclipse of moon
Elephant Island
_Emma_
Empire Day celebrations
_Encyclopædia Britannica_
Enderby Land
_Endurance_
    abandoned
    beset
    crushed
    sunk
Erebus Mount
Expedition ships
    first made public
    Mawson
    Scott
    Shackleton
    Swedish

Falkland Islands
    Wireless listened for
Farthest South
    Scott’s
Filchner
Financial help, appeal for
    failure to materialize
    promised
Fish, dead
    from sea-leopard
    new species
Föhn effect
Fortuna Bay
    Glacier
Franklin Island

Galley
Gallipoli
Garrard, Mr. Cherry
Gaze
Girling tractor-motor
Glacier Bay
    Tongue
_Glasgow_, H.M.S.
Gold
Graham Land
Greenstreet
Grytviken
Gunner (dog)

Half-way Camp
Harding, Mr.
_Harpoon_
Hayward
Hercules (dog)
Hobart
Holness
Hooke
Hope Bay
    Mountain
Howe
Hudson
Hurley
Hurtado, Admiral Muñoz
Hussey
Husvik
Hut, Cape Evans
    Cape Royds
    Elephant Island
    at Hut Point;
Hut Point

Ice-blink
Ice-hole
Inaccessible Island
_Instituto de Pesca_

Jack
Jaeger sleeping-bags
James
Joinville Land
Joyce

Kavenagh
Kelvin sounding machine
Kerr
Khyber Pass
Killer whales
King Haakon Bay
King George V, flag
    to inspect _Endurance_
    telegram from
    telegram to

Lambton, Miss Elizabeth Dawson
Lamps
Larkman
Leap Year Day
Leith
Lucas sounding machine
Luitpold Land
_Lusitania_

Mackintosh
Macklin
Macquarie Island
Magnetic Pole
    storm
    variation
Magellan Straits
Marston
Mauger
McCarthy
McDonald, Allen
McIlroy
McLeod
McMurdo Sound
McNab, Dr.
McNeish
Meteorology
Midwinter’s Day celebrations
Minna Bluff
Mirage
Montevideo
Morell Land
Morell’s Farthest South
Motor crawler
    sledge
    tractor
Mount Haddington
    Melbourne
    Murchison
    Sabine
Mugridge
Mutton Island

New South Greenland
New Year Island
New Zealand
Nigger (dog)
_Nimrod_
Ninnis
Nordenskjold
    Ice Tongue
North Polar Basin
Norwegian Whalers
Nurse Cavell

Orde-Lees
_Orita_
_Orwell_
Oscar (dog)

Pack-ice
    described
    _See also_ Pressure
Paddies
Pardo, Captain Luis
Paulet Island
Peak Berg
    Foreman
Peggotty Camp
Penguins
    Adelie
    Emperor
    Gentoo
    Ringed
Peter (dog)
Petrels
    _See also_ Bird life
Pinkey (dog)
_Plankton_
Pompey (dog)
Porpoises
Port Chalmers
Positions
Possession Bay
    Islands
Potash and Perlmutter
Pram Point
Pressure in Ross Sea
    in Weddell Sea
    _See also_ Pack-ice
Prince George Island
Programme of Expedition
Public Schools
Punta Arenas
Pups

Queen Alexandra

_Radiolaria_
Rain
Rats on South Georgia
Rampart Berg
Razorback Island
Reeling Berg
Refraction,   _See_ Atmospheric effects
Reindeer
Richards
Rickenson
Rio Secco
Rocky Mountain Depot
Ross
    Island
    Sea
    Sea Party
Royal Geographical Society
Ryan, Lieut. R.N.R.

Safety Camp
Saint (dog)
Sally (dog)
Samson (dog)
Sanders Island
Santiago
Saunders, Edward
Scientific observations commenced
    work proposed
_Scotia_
Scott
Sea-elephants
Sea-leopard
Seal blubber
    meat
Seals
    Crab-eater
    Ross
    Weddell
Semaphore for sledging parties
    on bridge
Shags
Shackleton, Sir E.
Shoaling, of sea-floor
Shore party
Sledging parties, proposed
Snapper (dog)
Snow Hill
Soldier (dog)
Sorlle, Mr.
South Georgia
    Orkneys
    Sandwich Group
_Southern Sky_
Spencer-Smith
Splitting ice-floes
Stained Berg
Stancomb Wills, Dame Janet
_Stancomb Wills_ (boat)
Stenhouse
Stevens
Stove
Stromness
Sue (dog)
Sun disappears
    _See also_ Atmospheric effects
Swell

Temperature, air
    sea
Tent Island
Tents
    orderlies
Terns, _See also_ Bird life
Terriss, Ellaline
“The Ritz”
Thom, Captain
Thompson
Tide-rip
Tobacco substitutes
Towser (dog)
Transcontinental party
Tripp, Mr. Leonard
Talloch, Mr.
Turk’s Head

Uruguayan Government

Vahsel Bay
Victoria Mountains
Vincent
Vinie’s Hill
Virol

Wave, enormous
Weddell Sea
    ice conditions in
    plateau
    winds in
Weather at Cape Evans
    at Elephant Island
    at Ocean Camp
    at Patience Camp, _See also_ Temperatures
Western Mountains
Whales
    blue
    humpback and finner seen
    sperm
Wilhelmina Bay
Willywaw
Winston Churchill
Wild, Ernest
    Frank
Wordie
Worsley
Wreckage at South Georgia

Yaks
_Yelcho_
Young, Mr. Douglas
Young Island