CHAPTER XIV

OVER UNKNOWN WATERS INTO THE FROZEN SEA

February 25.--The expected storm has not struck us, but the ice has separated a little and offers us a chance to push westerly. We are passing through a loose pack with much new ice, which offers but little resistance to the vessel. On the ice there are many groups of small penguins, and we have also seen several royal penguins. Many snowy petrels follow in the wake of the ship, but they are silent companions, never uttering a song or a cry of delight or fear, always gliding lightly in the air and dropping easily into the water to seek the pelagic fish, which is their food. There is no wind to-day. The temperature is again higher -3.5° C. (25.7° F.), and the sky is lined with stratus and alto-stratus clouds of the usual steel gray. Our position at noon was latitude 69° 17′, longitude 82° 24′.

From here we again pushed out into the open sea northward, and following closely the edge of the pack westerly, we continued our cheerless voyage still in search of a promising bay or open lead which might permit us to push to a higher latitude. At noon on the twenty-seventh our position was 69° 26′, longitude 86° 46′. After the ensnaring powers of the pack-ice, which we have learned in the past few weeks, we were not eager to put ourselves again in a position to become entangled. For such an entanglement would now mean confinement. The season for a campaign to the far south is past. The nights are becoming long and black, and new ice is forming on every side; but in spite of these forbidding signs M. de Gerlache believes it incumbent upon himself to abandon the new programme, and push heedlessly into the freezing waters to make as strong an effort as possible to beat the “farthest south” of other explorers.

The entire scientific staff are opposed to this effort, because it is thought too late in the season. No direct opposition, however, was offered when the _Belgica_ was again headed southward. She was forced into the pack and out again, time after time, making after each rebuff a new effort farther westward. On February twenty-eighth we were forced to take to the ice that the ship might better ride out a howling storm.

I can imagine nothing more despairing than a storm on the edge of the pack. At best it is a cold, dull, and gloomy region, with a high humidity and constant drizzly fogs. Clear weather is here an exception. Storm with rain, sleet, and snow, is the normal weather condition throughout the entire year. During the day of the twenty-eighth we are unable to get a glimpse of the sun, and are in consequence in doubt as to our actual position. There is something about the sea and sky which promises a night of unusual terrors. The wind comes in a steady torrent from the east, and with it come alternate squalls of rain, sleet, and snow. Hour after hour it blew harder, and before night it brought with it a heavy sea studded with icebergs--moving mountains of blackness. The _Belgica_ runs westerly before it, almost under bare poles, and edges closer and closer toward the fragments of ice to the south, where the sea is easier. The sky to the north and east is smoky and wavy, as if a number of huge fires were there sending out gusts of smoke, and on the southern sky there is a bright pearly zone. This is an ice-blink, a reflection of the ice beyond our horizon upon the particles of watery vapour suspended in the air. As night comes upon us it becomes necessary to choose between the forbidding blackness of the north and the more cheerful, but less hospitable, whiteness of the south. With icebergs on every side, always in our course, coming as suddenly out of the thickening darkness as if dropped from the skies, it is not wise, or prudent, either to move out of, or to rest in, our position. To be more friendly with the ice, or to rid ourselves entirely of its companionship, is plainly our duty.

We have decided to seek the harbouring influence of the pack, as an experiment, to ride out the increasing fury of the tempest. The _Belgica_ is headed southward, and quickly plows through the trembling icy seas. But the noise and commotion which come to a climax every time she rises to the crest of a great swell, are terrible. The wind beats through the rigging like the blasts out of a blowpipe, the quivering masts sweep the sky with the regularity of a pendulum, and the entire ship is covered with a sheet of ice. As the eye drops over the side of the ship the sea glitters with the brightness of a winter sky. This brightness of the sea, with the sooty blackness of the heavens above it, formed a weird contrast, never to be forgotten. Here and there are sparkling, semi-luminous pieces of ice which spring from the darkness with meteoric swiftness, and are again as quickly lost in the gathering blackness behind us. These fragments increase in number and in size as we press poleward; but the _Belgica_ strikes and pushes them aside as easily as a broom removes dust.

After a short but very exciting time, the pieces of ice become more numerous and of larger dimensions, and the bergs are so closely grouped that further progress seems impossible. The sea rolls more and more, in long easy swells, as we pass through the ice. This eases the ship and makes matters more comfortable to the sufferers of seasickness. I must hasten to confess that about one-half of us are thus afflicted at this time. Still, we try to be cheerful. I cannot imagine a scene more despairing, though, than the _Belgica_ as she pushes into the pack during this dark night. The noise is maddening. Every swell that drives against the ship brings with it tons of ice, which is thrown against her ribs with a thundering crash. The wind howls as it rushes past us, and comes with a force which makes us grasp the rails to keep from being thrown into the churning seas. The good old ship keeps up a constant scream of complaints as she strikes piece after piece of the masses of ice. Occasionally we try to talk, but the deafening noises of the storm, the squeaking strains of the ship, and the thumping of the ice makes every effort at speech inaudible. With our stomachs dissatisfied, and our minds raised to a fever-heat of excitement, and with the prospect of striking an iceberg at any moment and sinking to the bottom of the sea, we were, to say the least, uncomfortable. When we had sufficiently entered into the body of the pack, and were snugly surrounded by closely-packed ice-floes, the sea subsided, and here the overworked ship rested for the night.

In the morning the wind changed to the north-east, and the ice separated, leaving long open leads of water. These leads offer a tempting highway poleward, and Gerlache was not long in deciding the course. With a fair wind pressing the sails and with steam, we push southward. The navigation is not easy, still it is less difficult at this time than it usually is in an antarctic pack. The pans are small--from fifty to a hundred yards in diameter and about four feet thick. They are separated by quantities of pulverised fragments and discs of new ice.

Evenly scattered about in the icy expanse are numerous icebergs; usually about two hundred can be counted from the crow’s-nest. The navigating officer remains at the masthead, and directs the course of the ship. It is exciting navigation. The sky in the north is lined with heavy, lead-coloured clouds, and in the south there is the ever-bright ice-blink. Petrels in large numbers and in great varieties hover about us, as if to ask our business in their domain. Penguins walk about on the ice, uttering squeaky noises which re-echo from berg to berg. Seals, lazily sunning themselves, come to the edge of the floe to see the human intruders. Meanwhile the ship is forced on in a wild manner into the ice. Now she is running upon the floes to break them; again she is pushed between to force them aside; but always she is fighting an uneven battle against the huge masses of ice.

After two days of this ice-ramming, we found that we had passed through about ninety miles of ice. We are now made to realise that further progress is out of the question. The ice is too closely packed; and the floes here are heavier; it is no longer practicable to break them, or push them aside. We are so closely hugged, indeed, that movement in any direction is impossible. To the south there are several lakes visible from the crow’s-nest, and to the north-west there are also spaces of open water; but after several efforts we found ourselves unable to reach these. On the fourth of March, we were forced to admit our inability to extricate ourselves. Our position at this time was latitude 71° 22′, longitude 84° 55′--about three hundred miles across the polar circle and about 1,100 from the geographical pole. The nearest land from here is the still unknown group of Alexander Islands, about three hundred miles eastward.

We are now again firmly stationed in a moving sea of ice, with no land and nothing stable on the horizon to warn us of our movements. Even the bergs, immense, mountainous masses, though apparently fixed and immovable, sail as we do, and with the same apparent ease. The astronomical positions which we obtain from the sun and from the stars indicate to us that we drift from five to ten miles per day. It is a strange sensation to know that, blown with the winds, you are moving rapidly over an unknown sea, and yet see nothing to indicate a movement. We pass no fixed point, and can see no pieces of ice stir; everything is quiet. The entire horizon drifts with us. We are part of an endless frozen sea. Our course is zigzag, but generally west--we do not know our destination, and are always conscious that we are the only human beings to be found in the entire circumpolar region at the bottom of the globe. It is a curious situation.

March 5.--We are not yet prepared to resign ourselves to the doubtful destiny of an unknowable life in the restless sea of ice. We still hope against hope that some favourable force will separate the ice and permit us to retreat. Day after day we have tried to slide into some promising lead, but each effort has been a bitter disappointment. The weather is getting colder and clearer. The pack and the sky is touched with new charms of colour, and the life is full of inspiration. Altogether, the new region in which we are now held is more hopeful and less monotonous than the hundreds of miles of desolate icy waste through which we have passed. If there were only some sort of relief at hand for our rescue, in case the ship were crushed, we would gladly make arrangements to pass the winter and the long night here. If our vessel should be destroyed no one at home could possibly know the location of our wanderings, or the site of our final destruction, and with our equipment we could not navigate the Cape Horn seas to a land of human habitation. Our faith then is pinned on the _Belgica_; our life is linked with hers. If she gains freedom our liberty is assured; if she sinks, we shall all go to an icy grave.

The drift of conversation for several days has been in this strain. We must seek to divert thought to other channels, for to constantly weigh the prospects of death and misfortune is to cast the mind into a melancholy state, from which it is difficult to arouse. To be caught in the ice is, after all, the usual luck of polar explorers. It is a life of hardship, of monotony, and isolation, full of certain dangers and uncertain rewards. For success there awaits honorable reward, but for failure there is always ready a storm of condemnation. Our success to the present has been such that we feel proud of our work. We have seized the records to-day and hope to elaborate our observations. Everything which we have done will require careful revising, and this brings to us a new interest and a brighter promise. It serves to divert our attention from the darker side of our future.

[Illustration: A Lake. The Sporting Place of Whales, Seals and Penguins.]

[Illustration: Moonlight Photograph of the _Belgica_, May 20, 1898.]

Outside, the conditions, for the past few days, have been more cheerful, though there is every indication of our being permanently fixed here. The nights are clearer and colder, but longer and darker, and the mercury is sinking into the bulb. When on the ship we brood over, and complain of our miserable lot, but when we stroll over the pack, interview the groups of friendly penguins, seek the company of the gregarious seals, watch the petrels dive into the icy waters, and behold the restfulness and contentment of this life within its lonely world of ice, we are encouraged to stay and experience the unknown conditions. There is now also a short glory in the sky as the sun departs, and a long scene of joy in the curious colours playing on the ice. Every day we see new charms in our surroundings, which makes us almost hope that we will stay to study the strange effects. The warm golden sunsets, followed by a long soft blue twilight, are now a daily delight. The milky white of the old floes, with the glitter of its miniature mountains, is under a thin veil of evening lilac. The new ice, which is quite as extensive as the old, takes the heavenly colours and glows in lakes of gold, while the water separating these is a most delightful azure. There is a fascination in all this; there is a spirit of contentment in the white silence, which hangs over all.

March 4.--This morning a bunch of sharp rays of light pierced my port as the sun rose over the icy stillness of the north. It was like a bundle of frosted silver wire, and it served well the purpose of an eye-opener. Sleep here is an inexpressible dream. It does not matter how difficult the work, or how great the anxiety, we sink easily into prolonged restful slumbers. We awake rested, refreshed, and full of youthful vigour, always ready for the day’s task. In the first days of our life in the pack we ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, and worked when the spirit moved us. (But later we were never hungry, always tired, and the spirit never moved us.)

This morning the vessel was allowed to rest quietly, though there was considerable water about. On board we are adjusting things to guard against the expected heavy seas, which we anticipate when we leave this accursed pack. At noon we took a sounding and struck bottom at 530 metres. Soon after, steam was raised and we began to ram through the ice northward. We now intended to visit Peter Island if possible. At first we made good progress. The young ice was five inches thick, but this we cut like butter. The large old floes were either pressed out of our way, or broken. There were many groups of small penguins, shedding feathers and resting with their ragged coats in the lee of hummocks. There were also many seals on the ice. On the whole, however, our hard efforts were poorly rewarded, for, after battling with the ice six hours, we had gained not more than two miles and were again as snugly beset as before.

[Illustration: Lichen.

(_Gyrophora vellea (L.) Nyl._)]

[Illustration: Lichen.

(_Usnea sulphurea (Müll) T. Fr._)]

[Illustration: Mosseo Andreae a laxifolia H. and W.]

We have wearied of pushing southward this season, and are discouraged in our ability to move in any direction, but we have tried hard to make a higher latitude. Nature frowns upon us and refuses to reward our dearly-bought venture. She guards the mysteries of the frozen south with much jealousy. She tempts us by permitting a small advance and a long look ahead, but when we have resolved to force on into the white blank, the icy gates close as if to say, “You can look, but you must not enter.” A water sky, a land blink, or some other sign, indicative of land or open water, is constantly before us and these are, to the polar explorer, like the Star of Bethlehem to the children of Israel. They perpetually urge us on. We burn down the fires and wait impatiently for better success on the morrow, feeling always that we have won our success, thus far, by our own hard efforts, and by the same methods we hope to master the barriers now walled around us. Pressing ice, blasting head winds, blinding snow squalls, and all the worst elements of sea and weather combine to bewilder and defeat us.

The south polar lands are carefully shielded and fenced off by the circumpolar pack. The regions beyond the outer edge are not to be secured from the depths of mystery by a dash or an assault. The fortifications are more firmly laid than ever a human mind suggested. The prodigious depths of snow above, and the endless expanse of ensnaring sea around are mostly impregnable to man. He who contemplates an attack on this heatless under-surface of the globe will find many tempting allurements and many disheartening rebuffs. Such has been our experience. The battle, however, should be fought, though it promises to be the fiercest of all human engagements. Science demands it, modern progress calls for it, for in this age a blank upon our chart is a blur upon our prided enlightenment. A measure of success is certain to follow, and the victory should be crowned by the “Stars and Stripes.”

[Illustration: Moon Faces.]

[Illustration: Moon Faces.]

Except for the little touch of colour at sunrise this morning, the weather has been one of a type which we now style gray days. These gray days are entirely characteristic of the antarctic. There is no brightness, no sparkle, no moving wind or water, nothing to infuse new life or to lighten our spirits. The atmosphere is heavy, but not opaque, the sky is low and gray, the extensive pans and bands of new ice are a smoky colour, the water is leaden, and only the snow-decked old pans form a contrast to the gray monotony, and even these take on a dirty aspect. All of this is impressed upon the mind, and when taken together with our immobility it sets up a greyness in our moods. To-night we saw a sight which aroused us to other thoughts. The sun had set rather tamely, leaving only a narrow zone upon which colour was poured; this zone was light blue at the water-line, a little darker above, merging into a violet, and then into an orange red, and over all was a mouse-coloured sky. These colours soon vanished, leaving a lemon colour which followed the sun on its journey eastward. At about eight o’clock a speck of fire was seen above the purple ice northward, but neither the ice nor the sky showed any signs of a reflected light. The sky was a dark purple blue. All was still and dead; there was not a breath of air stirring. The dull flame slowly increased in size and changed its form with marvellous rapidity. Above it there was a little blackness suggestive of smoke, and under it was a cone-like image of a mountain peak from which the fire and smoke seemed to ooze. Excitement ran high on the _Belgica_. The thing came upon us out of the smoky purple sky with the suddenness of a flash-light. To many of us it seemed like a volcanic fire; to all it was an awe-inspiring, but fascinating, puzzle. As it rose slowly higher it seemed to pull the mountain up with it; presently we noticed that the weird object had not only an upward movement but also a lateral progress. Then the fire separated from the mountain and later the smoke separated from the fire, and then both smoke and mountain vanished, leaving only a cone of rayless flame. Every few seconds for fifteen minutes this extraordinary object underwent a remarkable transfiguration; now it was oblong with its greatest diameter parallel to the line of the horizon, again it formed an inverted cone, at other times it became semi-circular, and, most curious of all, it was a globe divided by a line. There was at no time any sign of luminosity about the spot. It remained a dull red, fading into orange, and when it had ascended about five degrees it assumed the form of a ragged ball of old gold. By this time we had discovered that it was the moon making anomalous faces as it passed through the icy atmosphere resting on the pack. (It was a sight which we saw many times afterwards, and it was always full of a sort of weird glory, of which we never tired.)

March 13.--For ten days we have had clear skies with a falling thermometer, and though the ice has spread considerably, leaving large open leads and lakes, new ice has covered the water so quickly that we have been unable to push out of our icy imprisonment. Few of us now entertain any hope of seeing real water or land again until the Frost King loosens his grasp upon us. There is considerable difference of opinion as to our present position. When one walks about the decks the men are frequently heard discussing the recent efforts to push out of the ice. They say the attempts have been half-hearted, and that we are in the pack to winter by intention. This opinion is shared also by some members of the scientific staff. Within the past four or five days the ice has been much separated, but our efforts to force out have been made with half-steam and for short periods. There is a claim of indifference among the officers as to whether we return to South America to winter, or harbour in the pack, and this indifference is shown in the feeble attempts to navigate the ship.

[Illustration: M. van Rysselberghe at the condenser, which was converted into a snow melter. This apparatus, by the combined ingenuity of van Rysselberghe and van Mirlo, was taken out of the engine-room, placed on deck, and so altered that it burned seal blubber. From this the _Belgica_ was supplied with water.]

Most of us have assumed the responsibility of criticising the management, and all blame the director for entering the main body of the pack at the season’s end. After airing opinions, though adverse and bitter to the men in charge, everybody feels better. These complaints are a sort of safety-valve, and the grunts are taken good-humouredly. The opportunity to find fault is the privilege of men on the threshold of polar darkness, and, according to my experience, the members of every expedition do it freely, but such sentiments are generally expunged from the narratives. In spite of our disheartening prospects, fits of melancholy, and spells of fault-finding, there is, in general, hearty laughter and jolly good feeling on board. In the forecastle the men sing, whistle, and squeeze out old tunes on the accordion. On deck they kick and dance and tell funny stories. In the cabin the music boxes are kept on cheerful notes, and altogether we are making the dead world of ice about us ring with a boisterous noise. Even the most disheartened among us now begins to see new charms in the curious chance which may make us the first of all human beings to pass through the long antarctic night.

##