CHAPTER XIX

THE FADING DAYS OF THE AUTUMN

(CONTINUED)

April 10.--Yesterday the wind was from the east and it came with a maddening hiss. To-day it is from the south, still, sharp, and icy. There is a great commotion in the ice. Old leads have again opened and widened, new fissures have formed, and there is a distinct swell noticeable in the steady, regular shift of the ice-floes. About the ship the ice is much crevassed, and less than one hundred yards away there is opening a new lead, which is now forty feet wide. We saw in this lead two finback whales and several seals. Seals and whales have been heard blowing most of the day. While taking a usual evening excursion over the floes I saw, to-night, two distinct fragments of an arc aurora in the south-east. The thing remarkable about this aurora was its colour. It began as two faint, luminous patches, crescentic in form. There was a rapid play of light in these from a pale, pearly glow to a vivid cream color, but the most wonderful of all was the glistening green shade to which it changed for a few seconds just before it disappeared. The same aurora reappeared at about half-past eight in the evening, but it was white and dull.

It is Easter Sunday. We have been up most of the night trying to settle the many disputes which have arisen out of the “beauty contest.” It is so long since we have seen a girl that I doubt our ability to pass judgment on the charms of beautiful women. On the whole, though, we have not come to any definite conclusions except that the Princess de Chimay and Cleo de Merode are voted by the majority to be the world’s most beautiful women. The excitement of the contest has been such that a new life and a new stream of ideas are coming over our frosty spirits. To-day we talk of sweethearts, of sisters, of mothers, and of home. For a time we have forgotten the never ceasing sameness of storm-beaten pack-ice and our uncertain future. Our minds and our hearts are homeward, and it is a good change in the drift of sentiments. We can ill afford to go into the spell of the long, unknowable night with the air of despondency which has fogged our mental energy for the past few weeks. Easter Sunday should bring new joys and the poetry of the budding passions of spring. The artificial hilarity of last night has placed us in an easy mood for a new period of fresh pleasures.

But how different is our lot to that of the usual Easter worshipper! The seasons are here reversed. We have not behind us the winter storms and cold discomforts. We have not before us the evident joys of a coming summer; sweet smelling flowers, green fields, pretty girls in new bonnets, and the hundreds of things which go to make up the accustomed pleasures of Easter are all far removed from us. We are on the verge of what promises to be the worst winter on record. The faint delights of summer are behind. The desperation, the despondency, the mystery of the unknown, impenetrable darkness, with its ceaseless frost, is on the horizon. Hellish storms with icy vapours are almost constantly sweeping over us. There is not a rock or anything suggestive of land within many hundreds of miles, and there is not a tree or flowering plant within thousands of miles. Nearly one-third of the circumference of the globe is between us and our loved ones at home. Under such circumstances, far away from the world of life, isolated from accustomed comforts, on a sea of moving ice, in a dead, white world of eternal frigidity, how can we enjoy Easter? We try hard to arouse a buoyant spirit, and each has taken it upon himself to bring out the bright side of the one nearest to him, but our efforts are poorly rewarded. For after superficial laughter we sink into a lethargy which becomes more and more normal to us as the winter and the night advance. Some one has said we want only our home surroundings, some loving women, fresh food, a few flowers, and our lot will be happy. I believe this, but I also believe it is just these which are all that is required to make Hell agreeable to the average man.

April 11.--The ice is spreading, leaving large open lanes in which we see whales, seals, and penguins. The day is clear with a very light air from the south-west. Four white petrels are about the ship, and far out over the leads we observe a few giant, and some spotted brown, or antarctic petrels. Aside from our usual work of making observations, and recording the passing conditions of weather, and life, and ice, we have begun to house the _Belgica_. The sailors have, for a long time, been building a wall of blocks of snow about the bark. The great quantity of drift-snow during the past few weeks has evened this up to the gunwales, but the decks are still too open and permit, unnecessarily, the escape of the heat from our stoves. It will be necessary to economise greatly with fuel, for we have now hardly sufficient to give full steam for fifteen days. The poop remains buried under a bed of snow and ice two feet thick, and most of the windows are being closed because there is already upon the glass too much condensation of frost to permit light to enter. Amidships we are building a shed to permit a sheltered passage from the cabin to the laboratory. This will be covered by snow, and under it the engineer will erect a smith-shop in which to make iron repairs to the _Belgica_ and the various articles of equipment. Heretofore it has been difficult to get out because of the great quantities of snow which has buried everything on deck. We hope the new shed will eliminate this misery which almost forbids our disembarkment. We have found it necessary to make double storm doors and double windows to prevent sudden changes in interior temperatures. By experience it has been found that ventilation through small pipes from corners of the rooms is the best. If the windows or doors are opened a volume of cold air rushes in, and at once everything is wet from the condensation out of the air by sudden chilling. If I were to sum up in two words the things which in polar regions bring about the greatest amount of suffering, I would say humidity and isolation. We try in every possible way, in the cut of our garments, in the construction of our winter quarters, and in the arrangement of our sleeping apartments to eliminate moisture, but our success is small. If we drop our hands behind our beds a weight of frost falls with a metallic tingle. If the mattress is removed every nail is found to be covered with ice. Both Racovitza and Danco vow that they have icebergs as bedfellows, and when one goes between decks there is always sufficient hoar-frost falling down one’s back to keep up a warm volley of words. My room mate frequently opens the port and forgets to close it when the wind changes: consequently we have to shovel a bank of snow out of our beds every second or third day. If we could only get rid of this infernal humidity which plagues and follows us like an agent of Satan, and if we could take a run to a civilised town once monthly so that we might absorb a new train of thoughts, life would be bearable. Certainly the cold is not a cause of serious suffering in the antarctic, for I have shivered more in New York.

[Illustration: Crab-eater (_Lobodon Carcinophaga_).]

[Illustration: Ross-Seal (_Ommatophoca Rossi_).]

[Illustration: True Sea-Leopard (_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx_).]

April 12.--Snow is falling in huge flakes. The temperature is now rising, but during the night it fell to -23.5° C. The wind is east-north-east. The ice continues to separate, but we have seen no life to-day. We are still at work housing the _Belgica_ and fitting the cabins for the long imprisonment. It is warm, and dull, and gloomy, making the air on board unendurable. Everything about the decks and the doors is moist, and the coating of hoar-frost, which yesterday made every nail and every bit of iron sparkle, is melting, making the floors, the table, and the chairs uncomfortably wet.

April 14.--The wind has veered to the south-east and is coming with increasing force charged with a dry sand-like snow which cuts the skin like a knife. Temperature, 6 A.M., -8°; 10 A.M., -19°. We saw two finback whales and one snow petrel. As is always the case when the air is charged with drift snow, we have a variety of sun and moon dogs to-day. At 7 P.M. there was in the south-east an unusual aurora. It was an arc with steady brilliancy, and to the westward were fragments of two additional arcs.

April 15.--To-night we saw an aurora of exactly the same form as last night, in the same position, appearing first at the same hour. The zenith has been clear, but the horizon has been hazed by the suspended ice specular which again made a countless number of sun and moon halos, parhelias, and paraselenes.

April 16.--In this shiftless sea of ice everything depends upon the wind. If it is south, we have steady, clear, cold weather. If it is north we have a warm, humid air with snow and unsettled weather. If it is east or west it brings a tempest with great quantities of driving snow; but it never ceases blowing. It is blow, blow, from all points of the compass. It is because of this importance of the wind, because it is the key-note to the day which follows, that our first question in the morning is “how is the wind?” To-day it is east, and has increased to a gale, in which it is absolutely impossible to take even a short walk on the pack. For recreation we have taken to mending. Racovitza is patching his pantaloons for the tenth time. This, he says, will be the last time, and I think he is right, for he has used leather to strengthen all the weak parts. Amundsen is patching boots; Lecointe is mending instruments; Danco and I are trying to repair watches. Nearly all of our good timepieces are out of commission. Our hands are better adapted for the trade of a blacksmith than that of a jeweller, but we are trying hard and have, to some extent, succeeded. Just at present it is the crystals which we wish to replace. We have no extra glasses, but we have found some small pocket compasses with crystals too small. How can we make them fit? Danco said, “Try sealing wax,” which we did. We covered half of the watch and a good part of the crystal and thus made a very effective job, but in appearance it is a woeful object.

April 20.--The easterly storm which has raged unceasingly for a week, and almost continuously for a month, shows some signs this morning of ceasing. At 4 A.M. the barometer began to rise, and the temperature fell to -2° C. The wind shifted to the north-east, but its force was soon spent. During the day the wind came only in intermittent puffs. The mouse-coloured clouds separated, permitting an occasional sunburst to light up the awful gloom which has so long hung over us. To-night, at ten o’clock, it is actually calm, and snow is falling lightly in huge, feathery flakes. This sudden calmness and dark unbroken silence, after the many days of boisterous gales, instill within us a curious sensation. The ship no longer quivers and groans. The ropes about the rigging have ceased their discordant music, and the floes do not utter the usual nerve-despairing screams. This sudden stillness, seemingly increased by the falling snow, brings to us a notion of impending danger.

April 21.--The night and the morning continued calm. What a relief to be able to step out upon the open expanse of the frozen sea without being pounded, and battered, and smothered with needle-like ice crystals driven by these damnable storms! We are all out on the pack to-day to get a breath of air in comfort and to see once more the height of the sky and the broadness of the horizon. This polar underpart of the world is decidedly unfit for human life, for it is seemingly the part which receives the kicks of the angered spirits as the globe passes through space. The temperature has fallen from -3° this morning to -17° at eight to-night. The sun has struggled to pierce the heavy cloud of ice crystals which rests on the pack, but its efforts have been rewarded only by prismatic effects. Halos, and parhelias, and fog-bows have been on the sky most of the day; the warmth of direct beams, however, has not been felt. For two days we had seen no life, but to-day we heard a whale spout, and saw two white petrels.

At noon the sun was visible behind a screen of suspended ice

## particles. Its edges were barely perceptible, but the captain tried

an observation to find our location on this unknown sea. The result of the calculations was latitude 71° 03′ 18″. The sun is now extremely unreliable as a fixed point to find our positions. It is so low on the horizon at noon that, owing to the great refraction caused by the increased depth of the atmosphere and the increased refractive quality of the air at this temperature, it is difficult to make the necessary corrections. From this time on, until the sun rises higher next summer, Captain Lecointe will use the stars to get positions.

April 22.--During the night there was another fall of snow of about two inches. This morning the sky was dull and gray. The air continues calm, which is remarkable, but because of the unstability of the barometer and the persistent gloominess of the sky we anticipate another storm presently. At noon we felt coming, this time from the north, the first breath of this promised gale. It swept the pack with a blackness and a moisture which are characteristic of northerly winds. The temperature ranges from -6° to -9° C. The ice is in considerable agitation; old leads are closing and new ones are opening, with a direction almost due north. We made a sounding at two o’clock in the afternoon, hoping that the night would be clear enough to permit an observation for position, but the night is cloudy, which makes the work of sounding useless. The captain has figured out the declination of the compass for our position of yesterday and finds it to be 38° 37′ east of north.

April 25.--It has been a charming, clear day, with only a few stratus clouds along the horizon, and a light, pearly mist rising in a straight line from the ice. Several times during the day we saw parts of a white rainbow or fog-eater. The photographs which we now take prove that the light is feeble, though seemingly bright. It is quite impossible to make good negatives at the present time. This, I believe, is due not only to the feebleness of the light, but to the glancing direction of the rays, the yellowness of their colour, and the fact that the beams of light strike the snow at such an angle that they glance off into space, and make the atmosphere itself partly luminous, which destroys the plates.

The pack is again apparently at rest; the new leads and lakes are covered with young ice, which is frosted by a beautiful growth of flowery bunches of hoar-frost. These leads, in the present yellow light, have assumed a most intense green colour, and as they wind about the blue ice-walls and the cream-coloured floes the scene becomes entrancing. The temperature this morning was -21° C.; to-night, at nine, it is -27.5° C. There is a feeble arc aurora in the usual position. Its brightness is about like that of the milky-way, and this is the average strength of most antarctic auroras. Our position is daily getting to be of greater interest. This is shown by our attention to the work of the captain and others upon whom we depend to tell us where, in this aimless drift, we are pointing. When Captain Lecointe goes out to “shoot” the stars we await his return with some impatience, and, though he cannot at once give us the exact figures, we are inquisitive to learn quickly his guesses at the amount of the latest drift, but he must often stamp and kick, and we must punch and rub him, to start his circulation before he can talk.

An electric signal has been arranged so that Dobrowolski, who assists Lecointe, can remain in a comfortable stateroom with the chronometer to fix the time for the observations. The captain has exhausted every ingenuity to make the work as agreeable as possible, but there seems to be no way to lessen materially his own discomforts while sighting the stars. The observatory is sheltered from the wind, but the air in it is just as cold as that outside. To-night the temperature was almost -28° during the time of the observation. The difficulty of keeping the teeth from chattering, the eyes from quivering, or the instruments from shaking, can be more easily imagined than explained. Danco came in after making his sights with a frosted foot, and with a piece of skin, torn from his eye, frozen to the metal of the eye-piece of his instrument. Lecointe lost some of his eye-lashes, and a bit of his ear was white. Both Danco and Lecointe have resolved to cover the metal parts of all instruments with flannel in the future, and from them we have copied the idea and covered the metallic portions of everything we use for our work outside. It is, however, an almost daily occurrence to have men come to me with fingers “burnt,” as they express it, by contact with bits of cold metal. One sailor, who was at work between decks nailing up cases containing geological specimens, placed two nails in his mouth. He snatched them out quickly, bringing along bits of his tongue and lip, and leaving ugly wounds which in character were exactly like the injuries of a hot iron. The sailors who have metallic pegs in their boots claim that ice-caps form under their feet. This I have taken as a sailor’s yarn, but to-night I went on deck in slippers; on returning my stockings were thoroughly wet,--removing the slippers to discover the source of humidity I saw about a dozen, glistening caps of ice that had formed over nails which had been carelessly driven through the soles. These things seem incredible, but similar instances are repeated daily.

But I have started out to-night to write, not of the little nothings which really do make up the bulk of our work and pastime, but of the more serious drift of the _Belgica_. We are going westerly with a steady and rapid gait, and though we drift frequently northward, our general progress is also at times slowly southward. Where will we be when the thaw of next summer shall set us free? Since the first of March, when our position was latitude 71° 04′ 45″, longitude 85° 26′, we have gone a zigzag course westerly, now above the 71 parallel, now below it, but generally west, until at present our situation is latitude 70° 50′ 15″, longitude 92° 21′ 30″. We have thus, in less than two months drifted westward about seven degrees of longitude. We are curious to know whether this drift will continue, or whether the prevailing winds of the coming winter will send us adrift in another direction. Almost without knowing it, without setting sails, and without steam, we have made a snaky course of about five hundred miles over an unknown sea. This is peculiar navigation. We have seen nothing move, there has been no fixed point to indicate our drift, and we cannot see that we pass through the water because the entire horizon, the countless fields and mountains of ice, slide with us at the same rate of speed. We are carried along with the restless pack, slowly but steadily, with majestic ease, against our desires, without seasickness, always on and on in response to the ever furious winds. This is exploring under difficulties because we are absolutely helpless to direct our course, but we hope that the Hand of Nature will guide us to some interesting region.

[Illustration: Weddell Sea-Leopards on the Pack-ice.

(_Leptonychotes Weddelli._)]

Our drift has already proven geographical problems of considerable interest. We are now drifting two degrees south of the assigned position of Peter Island, and we have seen no definite signs of land. This proves that the island is not one of an archipelago, extending far south and guarding closely a continental mass of land as might have been supposed. The freedom with which we drift here, and the absence of unusual pressure, warrants the assertion that there is no land of sufficient extent to check the drift of the pack within a hundred miles. We have now sailed with the bergs and the floating crust of the earth over a sea about 500 metres deep, through a region where John Murray has placed a hypothetical continent. Murray’s “Antarctica,” if it exists, must be reduced in size, for we have sailed over it without finding a projecting rock. We have, in our helpless drift, been forced south of Bellingshausen’s farthest, and are now headed for Wilke’s “appearance of land” and Captain Cook’s historic farthest. Perhaps if we were able to direct the vessel we could not more effectually explore these regions. May the elements which have sent us thus far continue to guard and push us forward!

[Illustration: Arctowski and Amundsen ready for a stroll]

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