CHAPTER XXII

THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED)--DAYS OF DISCONTENTMENT.

[Illustration: A Helpless Ship in a Hopeless Sea of Ice.]

The grayness of the first days of the night has given way to a soul-despairing darkness, broken only at noon by a feeble yellow haze on the northern sky. I can think of nothing more disheartening, more destructive to human energy, than this dense, unbroken blackness of the long polar night. In the arctic it has some redeeming features. There the white invader has the Eskimo to assist, teach, and amuse him. The weather there is clear and cold; and in the regions about Greenland, where I have been engaged, there is land--real solid land, not the mere mockery of it, like the shifting pack that is about us here. With land at hand, prolonged journeys are always possible, but what are we to do on a moving sea of ice?

May 29.--Yesterday we had a warm northerly gale with much snow and a thick fog. The ice is again in rapid motion. There are many new leads, numerous pressure angles, and fresh fissures in the ice. Danco is steadily failing. To-day is Sunday; the men look forward with some anticipation to this day because Sunday is set aside, not as a day of worship, for I have never seen a man on the _Belgica_ with a Bible or prayer-book in his hands, but as a time of freedom from usual duties. It is the weekly period of recreation and special feeding. The few eatables which are still relished are placed on the menu for Sunday. This serves to mark time and to divide, somewhat, the almost unceasing sameness of our life.

This morning had in it no element of promise or cheer. Even at noon it was dark and gloomy. But the wet, warm, northerly wind of yesterday is blowing its last breath. The cold air of the upper atmospheric stratus is settling down over us again, as it always does in an approaching calm. In this region nothing is more conducive to comfort than a sharp atmosphere with a low temperature. Warm weather is nice enough in summer or in more temperate latitudes; but in this sea of ice and in midwinter, it is far from desirable. Aside from the personal discomforts, high temperature in our position adds enormous dangers to our safety. The ice, now being firmly congealed, is crushed and thrown from one part of the ever restless sea to another. It is broken, crushed, and ground into a snowy powder, which only too well indicates to us what would become of our vessel if it were torn from its present bed.

[Illustration: Penguin Interviews.]

Last night a tremendous force was expended against the end of our floe, which made the sleeping _Belgica_ quiver from stem to stern; but, fortunately, the good old ice-block held together, while the smaller ice pans around her were pushed on the surface with a groan like that of a man in dire pain. To-day all is quiet, no pressure groans, no noise of animals, no wind, even the usual noise on board has ceased. Since three o’clock the temperature has fallen three degrees every hour. Now, at eight o’clock, it is -25.2°; this is our favourite temperature and what a joy it brings. The day is, perhaps, as a Sunday ought to be, cold, solemn, and silent. A feeble arc aurora appeared at about nine o’clock to-night. It was in the usual position, but the exhibit was so faint that had we not been trained by our previous observations, the phenomenon would have passed unrecognised.

May 31.--By a careful observation Captain Lecointe deduces our latitude to 71° 36′, longitude 87° 33′ 30″. For about a week we have drifted very little. The longitude has changed slightly, but since the 18th we have gone southward about nineteen miles. To the present this is our farthest point southward. On the 20th of March we were at 71° 35′, longitude 88° 02′, a position very near that at present. (The latitude of this day, 71° 36′, proved to be our farthest south during the entire drift with the pack.)

The morning is perfect, as we regard weather. The thermometer is at -23° C. There is almost no wind, and every break in the pack is covered by a thick sheet of new ice. We expected cold, clear weather, but it was otherwise yesterday and last night. The wind howled, the ice was again torn into small pieces, and there was a great amount of pressure evident in the lines of hummocks running easterly and westerly. Either we have come against some obstruction southward, or the northerly pressure is extraordinary. During the night we were anxious about the safety of the _Belgica_; for, as the fury of the wind rushed over us, the ice was broken and the vessel was subjected to a great amount of pressure. The ice is heaped up around the _Belgica_ in huge walls from five to twenty feet in height. The floes are turning, giving the good old ship hard jabs in her ribs. She takes the savage blows with an agonizing moan. Although the pressure has been such that we packed our kits and were prepared to try the hospitality of the pack, there has been no real injury which we can discover. We were extremely glad, this morning, to find that the broken ice had been reunited, and we soon learned that the raised walls about would prove an effective embankment in future battles with the storms.

At noon there was a faint show of a dawn. The sky in the north was touched with light fiery clouds. The snow had upon it not the slightest suggestion of this red, but remained a dull gray, while the sky above was a smoky blue. One not familiar with the freaks of polar day would have thought the sun would surely rise, or that it had just sunk under the snow, but we know only too well that we are doomed to see it make a fainter and fainter display at noon for three more weeks.

Precisely at twelve o’clock a strange rectangular block of fire appeared in the east-south-east. Its size was that of a small tabular iceberg, but it had a dull crimson glow which made the scene at once weird and fascinating. Its base rested on the horizon and it seemed to rise, brighten, and move northerly. The sky here was a purple, thinly veiled by a light smoky haze, caused by icy crystals in the lower stratus of atmosphere, but there was not another speck of redness on this side of the heavens except the orange bow usually seen over the twilight zone. We watched this with considerable awe and amazement for ten minutes before we could determine its meaning. It passed through several stages of forms, finally it separated, and we discovered that it was the moon. It was in fact a sort of mirage of the moon, but the strange rectangular distortion, the fiery aspect, and its huge size, made a sight long to be remembered.

During the past days of the night we have made soundings of the sea, and have taken samples of submarine and surface life. This has given Arctowski and Racovitza an abundance of work. It is interesting to see them plod along, working steadily and faithfully in the dark laboratory, packing away specimens, jotting down notes, stooping over the microscopes and other instruments, always with a pencil in one hand, and a stick in the other to greet the first man who dares to interrupt them in their den. Poor fellows!--their faces are tired and drawn, as if some great calamity had come upon them. Danco is keeping up with doggish persistency his magnetic observations, the details of which are such that he is almost constantly occupied during working hours. He is steadily failing, but he complains little and keeps up a kind of abnormal cheerfulness.

The meteorological work is now the most troublesome task, for it requires some one to make the observations every hour, and sometimes oftener. Each of us had planned a work of some magnitude to be completed before sunrise. Commandant de Gerlache started to rewrite the ship’s log. Lecointe began to complete the details of the summer’s hydrographic work. Racovitza, in addition to regular laboratory work, was to plan the outlines of a new book on the geographical distribution of life. Arctowski had in mind a dozen scientific problems to elucidate. Amundsen entered into a co-partnership with me to make new and more perfect travelling equipment; and in addition to this, I had the anthropological work of the past summer to place into workable order, and a book on antarctic exploration. Thus we had placed before us the outline for industrious occupation; but we did little of it. As the darkness increased our energy waned. We became indifferent, and found it difficult to concentrate our minds or fix our efforts to any one plan of action. (The work mapped out was partly accomplished, but it was done after the return of the sun.)

The regular routine of our work is tiresome in the extreme, not because it is difficult of execution or requires great physical exertion, but because of its monotony. Day after day, week after week, and month after month we rise at the same hour, eat the same things, talk on the same subjects, make a pretense of doing the same work, and look out upon the same icy wilderness. We try hard to introduce new topics for thought and new concoctions for the weary stomach. We strain the truth to introduce stories of home and of flowery future prospects, hoping to infuse a new cheer; but it all fails miserably. We are under the spell of the black antarctic night, and, like the world which it darkens, we are cold, cheerless, and inactive. We have aged ten years in thirty days.

Here is an outline of a day’s life on the _Belgica_. Rise at 7.30 A.M.; coffee at 8; 9 to 10, open air exercise; 10 to 12, scientific work, such as the regular meteorologic, magnetic, or laboratory tasks, for the officers; and for the marines, bringing in snow, melting snow for water, replenishing the ship’s stores, repairing the ship, building new quarters, making new instruments, and doing anything which pertains to the regular work of the expedition; 12 to 2 P.M., dinner and rest or recreation; 2 to 4, official work (regular work during this period was suspended for the greater part of the night); 6 to 7, supper; 7 to 10, card-playing, music, mending, and, on moonlight nights, excursions. At ten o’clock we went to sleep.

Up to this time our health had been fairly good. Excepting a few light attacks of rheumatism, neuralgia, and some unimportant traumatic injuries, there had been no complaint. We ate little, however, and were thoroughly disgusted with canned foods. We had tried the meat of the penguins, but to the majority its flavour was still too “fishy.” We entered the long night somewhat underfed, not because there was a scarcity of food, but because of our unconquerable dislike for such as we had. It is possible to support life for seven or eight months upon a diet of canned food; but after this period there is something in the human system which makes it refuse to utilise the elements of nutrition contained in tins. Against such food, even for a short period, the stomach protests; confined to it for a long period, it simply refuses to exercise its functions. Articles which in the canning retain a natural appearance usually remain, especially if cooked a little, friendly to the palate. This is particularly true of meat retaining hard fibers, such as ham, bacon, dried meats, and corned beef. It is also true of fruits preserved in juices; and vegetables, such as peas, corn, tomatoes; and of dried things. Unfortunately this class of food formed a small part of our store. We were weighed down with the supposed finer delicacies of the Belgian, French, and Norwegian markets. We had laboratory mixtures in neat cans, combined in such a manner as to make them look tempting--hashes under various catchy names; sausage stuffs in deceptive forms, meat and fishballs said to contain cream, mysterious soups, and all the latest inventions in condensed foods. But they one and all proved failures, as a steady diet. The stomach demands things with a natural fiber, or some tough, gritty substance. At this time, as a relief, we would have taken kindly to something containing pebbles or sand. How we longed to use our teeth!

The long darkness, the isolation, the tinned foods, the continued low temperature, with increasing storms and a high humidity, finally reduced our systems to what we call polar anaemia. We became pale, with a kind of greenish hue; our secretions were more or less suppressed. The stomach and all the organs were sluggish, and refused to work. Most dangerous of all were the cardiac and cerebral symptoms. The heart acted as if it had lost its regulating influence. Its action was feeble, but its beats were not increased until other dangerous symptoms appeared. Its action was weak, irregular, and entirely unreliable throughout the night. The mental symptoms were not so noticeable. The men were incapable of concentration, and unable to continue prolonged thought. One sailor was forced to the verge of insanity, but he recovered with the returning sun. The first to feel the effects of polar anaemia seriously was our lamented friend and companion, Lieutenant Danco. With the descent of the sun began the beginning of his end. On the short journeys which we took during the few moments of noonday twilight Danco complained of shortness of breath. Indeed, we all had some difficulty of respiration upon the slightest exercise, but Danco would frequently stand still and gasp. For this he came under medical care early in May, but in spite of every effort he rapidly sank.

June 1.--It is now difficult to get out of our warm beds in the morning. There is no dawn,--nothing to mark the usual division of night and morning until nearly noon. During the early part of the night it is next to impossible to go to sleep, and if we drink coffee we do not sleep at all. When we do sink into a slumber, it is so deep that we are not easily awakened. Our appetites are growing smaller and smaller, and the little food which is consumed gives much trouble. Oh, for that heavenly ball of fire! Not for the heat--the human economy can regulate that--but for the light--the hope of life.

June 2.--The night was very cold with a wind veering from south-west to west, coming in puffs with a coldness that made the ice and the rigging of the _Belgica_ groan. At about six o’clock last night, while a stiff wind was blowing, the ice fractured around the _Belgica_ and allowed her to sink gradually into the water out of which she had been raised. The squeaking of the ship, the groaning of the ice, and the howling of the wind, were for a short time maddening. After a time we became accustomed to this and sank our anxiety and some fear (though we hesitated to own it) in a lively game of whist. This proved to be the coldest night thus far -29° C. (-20.2° F.).

I had resolved to rise at seven o’clock, but owing to the lethargy due to the long darkness and the profound sleep, I did not find myself out of my berth until eleven. When I arise at this time I omit the formality of a breakfast, and of this my stomach does not complain. Four months ago, during the antarctic summer, to omit breakfast would have been to reject one of the delights of polar life, but now in this melancholy darkness it is like being relieved of a weighty duty.

[Illustration: The Small Pack Penguin (_Pygoscelis Adeliae_).]

[Illustration: The Royal Penguin (_Aptenodytes Forsteri_).]

June 3.--The men forward are kept busy with the usual work of the ship, cleaning, restowing, repairing sails, ropes, and woodwork, etc. One man is constantly occupied in keeping the fires going. Another man keeps up the supply of snow, which is melted for water. The work of sounding, taking deep sea temperatures, and fishing, keeps many busy. For much of the time it is also necessary to employ several men to keep the vessel well banked with snow, and the observatories need a similar attention. Thus the sailors are evenly occupied in easy work which keeps them from feeling the melancholy of our isolation from the world, and also helps them to forget the prolonged darkness of this dayless night.

Our floe has again grown to encouraging dimensions. From the mere fragment, which remained after the last severe disturbance, it has gradually taken unto itself pan after pan, until now we can no longer see its end. On the sky we observe mouse-coloured bands at noon, which tell us that there are a few fissures where a heavy mist rises from the open water. This is the usual water-sky in miniature. From the shape of these dark streaks we know the size and outline of the open water under it. The bergs change position a little, new ones occasionally crowd over our horizon and remain visible a short time, then return to their old positions; old ones turn about somewhat, thus presenting a new face to us. Some are raised by a mirage, and all are buried under the gloomy veil of blackness which is so rapidly spreading over the once white splendour.

We have had much snow within a fortnight, which by the aid of the varying winds has drifted over the icy hummocks and ridges, raised by pressure, and made for us a substitute for Mother Earth once more. On _ski_ and snowshoes we can again travel about for miles on the newly-assembled old floe. But the position marking the old leads and lakes is still difficult for pleasurable journeys. These places resemble in their contour a bird’s-eye view of a large city. To cross them is as if we tried to cross a city over the roofs of the houses. Still, it is possible to travel in this wilderness of ice if one is fortunate enough to have polar patience, and a body which can be tossed about like a football. Our floe, with all its roughness, with all its faults, is nevertheless a providential protection to the good little _Belgica_ and a godsend to its occupants.

We are all eating appreciably less now than during the bright season--and either there is a constant inclination to sleep or persistent insomnia. We eat an amount of fat, however, that would surprise most people; fat pork, fatty meats, the pure oil of bacon, and tremendous quantities of oleomargarine, are consumed with apparent relish. This is to me particularly surprising because during three arctic voyages I never noticed any particular craving for fat; but this I ascribe to the fact that we always ate liberally of fresh meats north, and these we have not here. We eat a little penguin with a show of pleasure, but most of us are quite tired of its marine flavour and fish-oil smoothness. If we had sufficient ham it would afford immense gastric delight. There is much indigestion now--fermentation, gastric inertia, intestinal and gastric pain, imperfect hepatic action, and a general suppression of all the digestive secretions. The heart is unsteady, easily disturbed, and mitral murmurs, which I have not heard before, are audible. Temperatures, almost without exception, are subnormal. The breathing is often difficult, the blood retreats from the skin, but the larger veins are abnormally full. Piles, hemorrhoids, headache, neuralgia, rheumatism, are the systemic complaints; but while we all have our little disorders, no one is really disabled.

[Illustration: Saennagras

A Swedish grass which was used in the boots to protect the feet.]

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