CHAPTER XI

FROM DANCOLAND TO ALEXANDER ISLANDS

At about eight o’clock in the evening of the twelfth we select what seems to be a comfortable resting-place for the night. Owing to the great depth of water we cannot anchor; hence, in accordance with our previous habits, a little steam is kept up for an emergency movement, and the _Belgica_ is allowed to drift with the winds and the currents during the hours of rest. No one ever knew except the officers on the watch how many narrow escapes we had in our silent hours of slumber. Quietly but quickly the bark moves about, now in danger of being thrown against an iceberg; now being propelled by some mysterious force in a direct line for a rocky island, or the huge blue ice-wall of the mainland. Danger and destruction are always within sight. They are over the gunwale on every side. And then there is always the hazard of submerged reefs upon which we might easily and unexpectedly ride to a rapid end. Hair’s-breadth escapes have been on hand daily, until now we have become hardened to the real dangers which are constantly before us. But up to the present nothing has happened, and this freedom from casualties is due to the persistent watchfulness, the painstaking care, and the praiseworthy faithfulness of the officers and men on watch.

The night is of special interest to me. There is something about the air, the water, the ice, and the land, which fixes my attention and makes sleep impossible. There is a glitter in the sea, a sparkle on the ice, and a stillness in the atmosphere, which fascinates the soul but overpowers the mind. There is a solitude and restfulness about the whole scene which can only be felt; it cannot be described. Here, to the east, the face of the mysterious land is clothed by the successive sheets of snows of the sleeping years of countless silent centuries. About us are scores of icebergs, huge table-topped, pyramidal, and castle-like masses, fragments of this same unknown blanket of accumulated snows which clothes every aspect of antarctic land.

Out of the unfathomed blackness of the ocean to the west rise a series of heavy mouse-coloured clouds, with their cargoes of vapour, which sail over us in a regular train to deposit their snows on the unscaled heights of the overland sea of ice eastward; under the stream of vapour floating landward there is an occasional puff of icy wind rolling down the stupendous white heights of Grahamland, which suddenly chills the air about us and renders it incapable of suspending its charge of humidity. As a result, there is either an occasional shower of snow or a bank of fog which, for a time, veils the electric splendour of our chilly fairyland.

Although the sky is cloudy and dull, and the sun is below the horizon, there is a mystic light thrown against the masts and every projecting object, which is, indeed, strangely puzzling. The sun is sliding eastward under the southern sky, and over it, close to the horizon, hangs a narrow band of lemon which remains from sunset to sunrise. This zone of lemon is the only suggestion of colour in the heavens, and, curiously enough, the light does not seem to come from the regions over the sun but from the east. There is a haze over the land which is luminous throughout the short night. The ice-blink, here, from the snowy mountains far beyond the horizon, is reflected from slope to slope and then into the land mist, giving it a curious glow which at first seems inexplicable. This vapour changes in colour from sapphire during the evening, to turquoise at midnight, and again to violet at dawn. These hues, with their indescribable gradations, are spread over the whites and blacks of the waters, and the snow and the rocks of the land. It all seems like an artist’s dream.

[Illustration: Cape Eivind Astrup--Northern Point of Wiencke Island.]

This morning, the thirteenth, opened with a brilliant rosy sunburst over the icy alabaster walls of Grahamland: but this charm soon gave way to a black mist which quickly suppressed the glory in which we had rested during the few hours of midnight twilight. We are steaming slowly westward, but the obscurity and the threatening character of the weather prevents material progress. There is a light breeze from the north-east, and a heavy swell from the north-west. The temperature remains steadily at .08°C.(33.44°F.). We encounter small ice loosely strewn in the waters in considerable quantities as we advance, but owing to its diminutive size it does not offer any difficulties to our progress. This ice differs greatly from any which I have seen floating upon the sea either before or since. There is no ice of the same character in the arctic. It is a form seen only along the outer edges of the antarctic lands. There are three varieties of ice which are held here close to the land by the huge swell of the South Pacific. The kind in greatest abundance, giving the entire collection an appearance different from all other packs of ice, is mostly from two to five feet in diameter, with irregular glassy angles. It consists of fragments of fresh-water ice from the glacial wall which everywhere fronts the antarctic lands. Some, too, are the product of iceberg disruption. Mixed with these hard, blue crystalline masses, are some spongy pieces of salt-water ice, which are the product of pan-ice disruption. Everywhere the white spires and table-tops of the colossal icebergs are seen to rise over the restless icy water. At about three o’clock the sun burst through the dark curtain of mist which hung over us, and the dull, ice-strewn sea, which had been dreary and cheerless and full of hidden dangers, became a most charming array of glittering brightness.

This is our first view of any considerable quantity of the sea-ice of the antarctic, and as it rises and falls on the breast of the new polar ocean it offers a dazzling glow, and a life which fill us with a healthful enthusiasm. Steam is now quickly increased, the sails are set, and the officers take their positions to push the _Belgica_ southward, farther into the unknown. The scientific men are scattered about, some in the masts, some on the bridge, and others on the poop; all looking anxiously for surprises in the new life and scenes about us. Even the sailors cannot resist the temptation to stand still and drink, with awe-inspiring amazement, the strange wine of action which hangs over the mysterious whiteness of the new world of ice.

Although we feel that we are on the threshold of more great discoveries, and although, for some unexplained reason, we are all in a fever-heat of excitement, quite like a prize-fighter on the eve of a great battle, calmly and coolly considered there is nothing very wonderful in our immediate surroundings. The weather is quiet but unsettled. A heavy sea rolls in under the pack-ice through which we plough. To the west there is a black sky and under it, just on the horizon, is the dark line of an open sea with the marbled peaks of bergs silhouetted against the black sheen of the heavens. Far to the eastward, about seventy miles off, is the rough outline of the great white land which we have followed for the past three weeks. From the crow’s-nest at the masthead we can see fifty miles of this strange country. It begins in the north-east and fades away in the airy distance of the south-west. Over the port-bow there is a fjordlike break through the land which seems to extend eastward as far as our eyes can reach. This may be another canal like Belgica Strait. If so, its position corresponds fairly well with Bismark Strait, which was vaguely seen by the German sealer, Dallman. The opening, however, of this prospective strait is choked with heavy ice and, though we are eager to push landward and examine the coast carefully, the drift-ice forces us farther and farther away from the shore-line. In our over-anxious efforts to keep the coast in sight we have pushed into an area of ice which, for a time, shatters our new hopes.

[Illustration: Cape Renard, Dancoland.]

This area is covered by ice such as we have passed through all day. As the sea rolls under, it seems a quivering mass of small fragments. There is nothing about it to suggest its ensnaring powers. We steam into a tongue which spreads out seaward. Over this there is a smoky sky indicating that behind this ice, and immediately before us, there is an open sea. Soon after we enter the ice, an on-shore wind and swell force the fragments together and bring a number of icebergs against the pack edge. We try with steam and sails to gain our release from the sudden embrace, but our efforts will be of no avail until the wind changes and the icy grip loosens. Our surroundings are wildly picturesque. To the east of us are the high peaks and limitless glaciers of Grahamland. The country is visible for only short periods and in patches, for a high fog hangs constantly over the land, leaving only an opening here and there. To the west the sky is fairly clear. A dark smoky zone near the horizon indicates the limits of the ice and the open sea beyond. Hundreds of icebergs are on the horizon. These are of a size and type quite similar to those of the arctic sea. The entire mass--icebergs, sea-ice, and the ship--rises and falls with the gigantic heave of this South Pacific, and for a time it seems as though we are to be carried with the moving drift against one of a number of small islands. But a change in the direction of the wind promises to so separate the ice that we shall soon be able to force our way out into the open sea westward.

February 14.--We are again showered by a cold drizzling fog. We have reached clear water and are pushing slowly southward. During the day the fog rose occasionally, giving us a peep of the black peaks and the snowy, glacial plains and slopes of Grahamland; but everywhere the drift-ice is packed against the land in such a manner as to offer no hope for a safe approach. Late in the day we came to a point where the drift-ice suddenly terminated, and left the land accessible. The officers and men worked hard all through last night, in their efforts to extricate the bark, and everybody is now thoroughly exhausted. We sought the land to find some sort of a haven where the vessel might rest during the night, while the men try to gain a few hours’ sleep. But our experiences in this venture were not such as to be conducive to slumber; indeed, it proved one of the most anxious and restless nights which had fallen to our lot while in this region. During the early part of the evening we felt particularly pleased at the prospect of a quiet night. Everything seems to promise this. The weather is clearing; the temperature has fallen a degree or two; the sky exhibits a bit of blue here and there; and even the ever stormy sea eases its merciless pitches. The _Belgica_ glides along easily and restfully as though she expected the needed period of rest, while the petrels and gulls hover over us as if to pilot us to a safe retreat. At six o’clock we are within a few miles of a chain of low islands. They are small masses, mostly about a quarter of a mile in their greatest diameter. Some are completely buried by a cap of ice sixty feet thick, but others are bare. The rocks are mostly granite, smoothly polished by the combined action of the sea and the ice. With our glasses we can see small patches of green and brown moss in sheltered nooks; the snows along the shore are tinged red from penguin habitation, and green with sea algæ. Scattered all about these islands are a great number of large icebergs. The chain of islands and the berg certainly offer us a safe and promising shelter.

After steaming into a canal beyond which we expected to lay-to we found ourselves suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded by white crests, under which appeared a circle of submerged rocks. So complete was this hidden circle of danger about us that we could not, for a long time, find a spot where the distance between two rocks was sufficient to permit an escape. We dropped a lead fifty fathoms, several times, but found no bottom. A current rushed over the reefs and with our full force we could barely make headway against it. In this position, with the swash of the breaking waters coming to us out of the darkness, with the penguins and the gulls screaming premonitions of danger, we struggled against a current which seemed set to effect our destruction on one of the reefs behind us. The firemen forced the steam, and the engineer urged on the engines as he had never done before. Little by little we gained on the force of the current and headed for an iceberg which was about one hundred feet high. We argued that if there was sufficient water to strand this berg it would be enough for us; but the passage to the berg was not more than one hundred feet wide, and if there were or were not dangerous shallows there we had no means of determining. The sea was too heavy to send a boat in advance to make a sounding; and because of the rocky and uneven character of the sea bottom, soundings from on board gave us little warning. We must steam on and take our chances.

These were anxious moments. We expected momentarily to feel a sudden jar and a sudden arrest of our progress. We had had such an experience twice before, and now expected a third. Amundsen was in the foremast; Gerlache and Lecointe were on the bridge; Arctowski and I were on the bowsprit. We were all looking for and expecting trouble, but we passed beyond the angry crests of the reefs and out into deeper waters safely. The sense of relief and rest which came over us at this time was indeed a godsend.

[Illustration: Stratified Tabular Iceberg, off Cape Rasmussen, to the lee of which the _Belgica_ rested during the night of Feb. 12.]

[Illustration: Iceberg in Belgica Strait with a Great Tunnel through it.]

Selecting a position in the lee of these islands, and close to a large grounded iceberg, the bark was brought up to the wind and kept under easy steam. It was difficult to keep from drifting onto the islands or the bergs. At midnight the wind came down from the glacial gullies and brushed the masts with hellish force, sending us pitching and tossing over the disturbed sea in a manner which unbalanced the equilibrium of the stomachs of even the oldest sailors. Now we rocked within a few yards of the death-dealing wall of a berg, and again we rolled uncomfortably near the phosphorescent breakers of a submerged mountain. Material for our destruction was always close at hand, and we went out often to see it. Sleep, rest, and quietude were far from us on this memorable night of the fourteenth.

Early in the morning of the fifteenth we withdrew from our nightmare of terrors and took to the more stormy and less dangerous waters westward. There had been some snow, and rain, and sleet during the night. The ropes were coated with ice, the masts incased in a glassy plating, and the decks as slippery as ice could make them. The sea struck us heavily under the starboard poop and spread a spray of water over the quarter-deck. We took the wind from the north-east and set a course south-south-west. The wind being free it became necessary to manipulate the sails and hustle about on deck. With the vessel madly rocking, the ropes incased in ice, and the floor glassy and glittering, the difficulty of this work can be more easily imagined than written. In one corner there a sailor on hands and knees was trying to keep from being used as a baseball; in another, an officer was making the air sulphureous because the ice on the ropes has cut his hand. Just then the cook came along, and finding it more easy to stand on his head than on his feet, the soup was spread over the ice as a lubricant; and then some one uttered complaints in easy _Belgica_ language because there would be no soup for his dinner. Altogether this was a day of misery, and it was followed by many of a like nature.

Nearly everybody was seasick to-day; at least, everybody would be if they admitted the truth. No one feels quite comfortable; we are all inexpressibly tired and sleepy and uncomfortable at the pit of the stomach, but nobody admits being a worshipper of Neptune. One is bilious, another has eaten some “embalmed beef,” some have headaches, others rheumatism. All the symptoms indicate ordinary seasickness, the effects of the sudden throws upon the brisk, choppy sea. I have often noticed this glum feeling come over an entire ship’s company after being in ice or sheltered waters for any considerable time, as we have been. We pride ourselves, however, as being weather-beaten sailors, and having passed the nauseating storms of Cape Horn we are not going to admit _mal de mer_, even if we did feed the fish several times during the course of a meal.

[Illustration: One of the Wauwermans Islands.]

[Illustration: Sophie Rocks. Dancoland.]

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