CHAPTER XXV

SPRING--SUNRISE--TWILIGHT OF DAWN

July 22.--After so much physical, mental, and moral depression, and after having our anticipations raised to a fever heat by the tempting increase of dawn at noon, it is needless to say that we are elated at the expectation of actual daylight once more. In these dreadful wastes of perennial ice and snow, man feels the force of the superstitions of past ages, and becomes willingly a worshipper of the eternal luminary. I am certain that if our preparations for greeting the returning sun were seen by other people, either civilised or savage, we would be thought disciples of heliolatry.

Every man on board has long since chosen a favourite elevation from which to watch the coming sight. Some are in the crow’s nest, others on the ropes and spars of the rigging; but these are the men who do little travelling. The adventurous fellows are scattered over the pack upon icebergs and high hummocks. These positions were taken at about eleven o’clock. The northern sky at this time was nearly clear and clothed with the usual haze. A bright lemon glow was just changing into an even glimmer of rose. At about half-past eleven a few stratus clouds spread over the rose, and under these there was a play in colours, too complex for my powers of description. The clouds were at first violet, but they quickly caught the train of colours which was spread over the sky beyond. There were spaces of gold, orange, blue, green, and a hundred harmonious blends, with an occasional strip like a band of polished silver to set the colours in bold relief. Precisely at twelve o’clock a fiery cloud separated, disclosing a bit of the upper rim of the sun.

[Illustration: Distorted Face of the Rising Sun.]

All this time I had been absorbed by the pyrotechnic-like display, but now I turned about to see my companions and the glory of the new sea of ice, under the first light of the new day. Looking towards the sun the fields of snow had a velvety aspect in pink. In the opposite direction the pack was noticeably flushed with a soft lavender light. The whole

## scene changed in colour with every direction taken by the eye, and

everywhere the ice seemed veiled by a gauzy atmosphere in which the colour appeared to rest. For several minutes my companions did not speak. Indeed, we could not at that time have found words with which to express the buoyant feeling of relief, and the emotion of the new life which was sent coursing through our arteries by the hammer-like beats of our enfeebled hearts.

[Illustration: Distorted Face of the Rising Sun.]

Lecointe and Amundsen were standing on an iceberg close to me. They faced the light, and watched the fragment of the sun slide under bergs, over hummocks, and along the even expanse of the frozen sea, with a worshipful air. Their eyes beamed with delight, but under this delight there was noticeable the accumulated suffering of seventy dayless nights. Their faces were drawn and thin, though the weight of their bodies was not reduced. The skin had a sickly, jaundiced colour, green, and yellow, and muddy. Altogether, we accused each other of appearing as if we had not been washed for months. The uncertainty of our exact latitude made it impossible to estimate just how much of the sun’s disk would be visible. Our time, too, was uncertain, for our pocket timepieces were not reliable, and we were far from the chronometers. We watched and watched, expecting that the crest of fire would rise and give us an increased glow of light and some heat, but it only slid teasingly on the verge of the sea. It seemed as though our world of ice was not yet worthy of the blessings of the “sun-god.” A few minutes after twelve the light was extinguished, a smoky veil of violet was drawn over the dim outline of the ice, and quickly the stars again twinkled in the gobelin-blue of the sky as they had done, without being outshone, for nearly seventeen hundred hours.

July 23.--We have just finished breakfast, and at 8 A.M. are out on deck to welcome the promise of the coming day. It is long since we have taken such interest in the cold outer world, but we are now anxious to free ourselves from the darkness of the cabins, and the tiresome sameness of the daily routine of life. The meteorologist is reading the barometers and thermometers and recording the sky phenomena. The captain has just finished a magnetic observation. The crew are taking their usual hourly exercise by a brisk walk in a path about the bark. The officers are planning the day’s work for the men to perform to-morrow. The scientific cranks are all scattered about the deck, shivering and noting matters of special interest to each. I took a short _ski_ run out over the hazy purple ice to get away from the local drift of thought, and then reclined upon a hummock to study the scene. The temperature was -25° C., there was almost no air stirring, and aside from the life and muffled noise about the vessel, a death-like silence reigned over the entire scene. The _Belgica_ was distinctly visible in the brightening twilight; her body was buried under the heavy weight of the accumulated winter snows, but the masts stood out in bold relief against a background of gold on the eastern sky. The masts and ropes and spars were heavily coated with hoar-frost, and they sparkled in the reflected glimmer of the dawn, as if beset by millions of diamonds.

[Illustration: Crossing Hummocks and Crevasses.

Edge of the Belgica Field in October.]

At a few minutes past eleven a wave of light spread over the vast expanse of the cold heavens, and then a gleam of fire burst through a large purple cloud on the horizon northward. The lonely spread of lifeless ice assumed a face of rose, and soon after, the entire northern sky was streaked with warm bands of carmine, but the sun was still partly under the surface snows at noon, and its face was twisted and distorted in such a manner that its globular form was not recognisable. Later in the afternoon we secured two royal penguins. During the night we saw and studied an aurora of the usual type. To-night the days of feasting end, and the freedom from routine work for the men ceases. The music-boxes and the accordion are forced to grind out music until late. We are playing cards and are having a joyous time generally in response to the stimulation of the few moments of noonday splendour.

July 24.--It is another beautifully clear day with a temperature of -34° C. What a blessing it is to have clear air and a clear sky during these important days when the sun is edging over the ice beneath which it has reposed so long. There is a bright blue twilight now at 7 A. M., and three hours later the light of dawn which shoots over the horizon makes the scene bright and day-like. Perhaps we shall see the real sun without refraction to-day; but if our latitude remains about the same as the last observation indicates we shall not have it over the horizon until to-morrow. There are many mirages on the horizon, inverted icebergs, raised ridges of hummocks, and bits of pack-ice, looking like mountains of some strange land. We played a game of whist to-night with unusual vigour. We have played a few hours each evening regularly, for several months, but up to the present we have all lost and won with about an equal measure of success; in the last few days, however, the luck has changed. Last night Raco won one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. To-night I won two hundred and fifty thousand. We are now satisfied with our success and in the future we shall decline all offers at whist.

[Illustration: Edge of the Antarctic Pack.]

July 25.--For three days we have had a glimpse of the sun, but it has appeared a thing of unreality. To-day we have seen the normal face. The sun at noon sailed along the northern sky above the horizon, a distance nearly equal to its own diameter. We thus have the actual sunrise, since heretofore we have only been able to see it when aided by the high polar refraction by which the sun is apparently lifted above its actual position, a distance equal to about three quarters its diameter. What a peculiar effusion of sentiments the welcome face of the sun draws from our frozen fountains of life! How that great golden ball of cold fire incites the spirit to expressions of joy and gratitude! How it sets the tongue to pleasurable utterances, and the vocal chords to music! The sun is, indeed, the father of everything terrestrial. We have suddenly found a tonic in the air, an inspiration in the scenic splendours of the sea of ice, and a cheerfulness in each other’s companionship which make the death-dealing depression of the night a thing of the past.

July 28.--An officer came in to-day, smiling and as happy as a child with a new toy, saying, “I can feel the heat of the sun,” and at once everybody looked up as if doubting his word. We went out, and we stood in awe and amazement to drink in the first sensible sunbeams in nearly three months. To feel the gentle heat and to see the hopeful source which promised more, was a long wished-for pleasure and one whose intoxicating influence cannot be described. The men are journeying in pairs over winding paths on the pack; some drop here and there upon a convenient slope to sun themselves like snakes in spring; others sniff the air and run from place to place like bears.

July 31.--We have now so far improved in general health as to long for an extended outing,--a journey of several days’ duration. This desire originates from an infusion of new life which revives our thoughts in response to the returning sun. The point selected for our first expedition is the great tabular iceberg in the east-north-east. All is hustle and bustle to prepare for this expedition.

During the last days of July the sky and the snow were flooded by a rich carmine light, which imparted a delightful warmth and charm to the cold blues of the pack. Soon after sunrise, however, a smoky mist of frost gathered over the ice-fields and smothered the new glory of the sun, absorbing most of the colour, all of the heat, and leaving only a dull coppery-red misshapen ball. Many of us were now anxious to get away from the monotone about the ship as quickly as the weather would permit. We were tired of the “mad-house” promenade about the bark. The little mountains of tin cans, ashes, and other _debris_, which decorated our immediate surroundings, were wearisome. The great drifts of snow, over which we now marched from the deck, though picturesque, were painful to the eye because for many long weeks we had dug paths through, and tunnels under, the same snow. We felt that if we could get away for a few days and pitch our camp upon the bare bosom of the sea of ice near some iceberg, we might make some studies worthy of record, and we would certainly come back loving the _Belgica_ and our companions better.

To this end we have devoted much of our time during the stormy days. It is found that for serious travelling over the pack almost all of our equipment needs re-modelling. I have begun with the clothing. In addition to my furs there are but four skin suits on the _Belgica_. Sufficient experimental work has been done to prove that in the cutting winds, and freezing temperatures of the coming months it will not be safe to venture far without furs. Woolens sufficiently heavy to be comfortable are too cumbersome. Three of the suits are made of Siberian wolf skins, after a pattern suggested by Nansen, but the model is such that we find them worthless, except for work in the observatories. Nansen has improved the Eskimo pattern in a manner which makes the suit much warmer, but having omitted the vital point in the construction of polar garments, that of ventilation, the costume becomes useless for active work. We have worn it in short _ski_ runs of thirty minutes, in temperatures of -20° C. (-4.0° F.) and each time we have come back wet with perspiration. Finding Nansen’s improvement a failure, we have reduced the suits as nearly as possible to the aboriginal style. Arctowski has a Yakouts suit from Siberia, which has undergone a similar transformation. Both the Nansen and the Siberian outfits are excellent for riding or work which requires little exercise, but for travelling over the pack the furs must be less cumbersome and there must be a freer ventilation. The sailors have been provided with canvas cover garments cut similar to the Eskimo fur suits. These are excellent wind guards, but are of little service in confining the bodily heat. We have devised a similar covering made of blankets which is worn under the canvas, and this seems to keep the men comfortable for their ordinary outside work. But the combination is much more troublesome than an Eskimo fur suit and decidedly inferior for active work.

In view of our prospective work of endeavouring to explore the pack, and any new land to which the drift might bring us, we deemed it necessary to devise some kind of tent for shelter. We had but one tent, and, like many other things intended for polar work, this had been so improved that it was useless. This was also modelled on Nansen’s plans, but its improvement consisted of a coating of water-proof material suggested by a friend not familiar with polar work. This water-proofing so hardened in the cold that the cloth cracked, and was torn with the first storm of summer. The difficulties with all ordinary forms of tents are that they are too heavy, too complicated, and will not stand the strain of polar storms. We have tried to build one which would overcome as much as possible the faults of others, and our result has been gratifying. For several weeks we all studied the subject, and I dare say that we have among us more ideas bearing upon the construction of tents than ever before existed among a bunch of men. It is unfortunate that we have not the time to put all the plans into execution. The doctor’s tent design was accepted by Amundsen and at once the cloth was cut for its construction. We worked upon this for about two weeks, and then, proud of the result of our own skill, we placed it for exhibition and criticism on the pack. The tent was made large enough for three occupants. The main points kept in mind in devising the plans were lightness, durability, stability, and ease of erection. I will not here describe the faults of other tents nor the excellence of our own invention. The accompanying photographs illustrate our model. Suffice it to say, that this which we have styled the “Antarctic tent” weighs but twelve pounds, will withstand the worst storms, and can be set up in a strong wind by one man in five minutes.

No extensive sledge journeys had previously been made over the pack by us, nor, indeed, by any one else so far as history knows. Hence, everything about this prospective jaunt was experimental. Our specific destination was to visit a great tabular berg, which we estimated was about sixteen miles away. The project took its origin from various discussions as to the possibility of making long journeys over the pack. Commandant de Gerlache held that it was possible to travel safely over the pack two or three degrees southward, but nearly everybody else opposed this view, because of the absence of any station or land to which one might retreat in case the vessel was lost which, with the local movement in the pack, might easily happen. There were many volunteers for this venture, but there was room for only three in the tent, and altogether this is the most appropriate number for such a trip. The party was limited to Lecointe, Amundsen, and the writer. We arranged a sail for one of the American sledges, and loaded it down with fuel and provisions for ten days. The selection of the food stuffs had been left to our own judgment, and we were ungenerous and selfish enough to select only favourite relishes.

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