Through the First Antarctic Night 1898-1899

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Title: Through the First Antarctic Night 1898-1899
Author: Cook, Frederick Albert
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Through the First Antarctic Night 1898-1899" ***

[Illustration:

OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.

An Antarctic Iceberg]

THROUGH THE FIRST

ANTARCTIC NIGHT

1898–1899

A NARRATIVE OF THE VOYAGE OF THE “BELGICA” AMONG
NEWLY DISCOVERED LANDS AND OVER AN UNKNOWN
SEA ABOUT THE SOUTH POLE

FREDERICK A. COOK, M.D.

SURGEON AND ANTHROPOLOGIST OF THE BELGIAN ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION
_WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING A SUMMARY OF THE SCIENTIFIC RESULTS_

Illustrated

[Illustration]

WILLIAM HEINEMANN
LONDON
1900

Portions of this narrative have appeared in the _Century_, _Scribner’s_
and _McClure’s_. Though this material has been much changed
and rewritten, my acknowledgments are due to these magazines.

Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York

TO THE LITTLE FAMILY,
THE OFFICERS, THE SCIENTIFIC STAFF, AND
THE CREW OF THE “BELGICA,”
WHOSE FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES MADE
THIS STORY OF THE FIRST HUMAN EXPERIENCE
THROUGHOUT A SOUTH POLAR YEAR;
TO THESE MEN,
WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP AND STURDY
GOOD-FELLOWSHIP MADE LIFE ENDURABLE
DURING THE STORMS, THE
DARKNESS, AND THE MONOTONY
OF THE ANTARCTIC,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED.

INTRODUCTION.

For three hundred years explorers have been active in pushing aside
the realms of the unknown towards the north pole; but the equally
interesting south pole has, during all this time, been almost wholly
neglected. There have been expeditions to the far south, but compared
to arctic ventures they have been so few and their work within the
polar circle has been so little that the results have been largely
forgotten. It is not because valuable results have not been obtained
in the antarctic, but because the popular interest in the arctic has
completely overshadowed the reports of the antipodes. The search for
the North-west and the North-east passages, which commerce demanded
to reach the trade of the Orient during the seventeenth and the early
part of the eighteenth centuries, fixed the public eye persistently
northward. This extended effort to find an easy path to the wealth of
Asia was fruitless, but it was followed by a whale fishery, a sealing
industry, and a fur trade, which has proven a priceless boon to
mankind. As a result of these two periods of trade exploration, we have
now entered upon a third stage, a period of scientific research which
will not, and should not, end until the entire area is outlined in the
growing annals of exact knowledge.

The antarctic has a history somewhat similar, but it is almost
forgotten. Until 1772 the south frigid zone was pictured by fiction
writers in flowery phraseology. They placed here a fertile country,
projecting far northward into the Atlantic and the Pacific. This land
was supposed to be inhabited by a curious race of people who possessed
a super-abundance of gold, precious stones, and other material wealth.
To learn the truth of this new “land of promise” Capt. James Cook was
sent out in 1772. Cook, with a thoroughness which characterised all
his efforts, circumnavigated the globe close enough to the antarctic
circle to convince the world that if land of large extent existed
around the south pole it must be far beyond the usual ice-limits. Sixty
years later, through the efforts of American and British sealers who
had searched every known rock of the southern seas for fur-seals, and
sea-elephants, the United States, England, and France, fitted out rival
expeditions. The combined work of these expeditions marked the second
period of antarctic exploration and resulted in the re-establishment
of a great polar continent on the Austral chart. Sixty years again
passed before another expedition was sent to press beyond the southern
barriers of ice. The voyage of the _Belgica_ is the beginning of
a third revival of antarctic exploration which has been brought about
by determined efforts, made almost simultaneously in England, Germany,
Belgium, and the United States. This third period of antarctic
research, like the third stage of arctic exploration, is wholly in the
interest of science.

The first country to complete the outfit of a modern expedition was
Belgium. England and Germany now have expeditions in preparation,
but the honour of being the first to send a scientific venture, with
trained specialists and appropriate equipment to the antarctic, belongs
to Belgium.

For the origin of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition we are indebted to
the energetic efforts of Lieutenant Adrien de Gerlache. By soliciting
private subscriptions and finally by securing the financial aid of the
Belgian Government, Gerlache succeeded in collecting the sixty thousand
dollars which were barely sufficient to fit out the enterprise. The
vessel selected for the mission was the Norwegian sealer _Patria_,
which was rechristened _Belgica_. She is a strong vessel, of
about two hundred and fifty tons, built some ten years ago. She was
not strengthened or altered on the plan of Nansen’s vessel, the
_Fram_, as has been so often stated. Nevertheless, she proved
herself a craft of extraordinary endurance, withstanding the thumps of
rocks, iceberg collisions, and pressure in the pack-ice, in a manner
perfectly marvellous. Owing to a scarcity of funds, the accoutrements
of the ship and the outfit for polar exploration were somewhat
imperfect. If we had been compelled to stay longer, or if it had been
necessary to make a forced overland journey, or a retreat homeward on
the ice, we should have found our equipment inadequate.

The members of the expedition were from many lands, as the following
list will show:

Commandant, Adrien de Gerlache (Belgian).

Captain, Georges Lecointe (Belgian), Executive Officer and
Hydrographer.

Roald Amundsen (Norwegian), 1st Mate.

Emile Danco (deceased) (Belgian), Magnetician.

Emile Racovitza (Rumanian), Naturalist.

Henryk Arctowski (Russian), Geologist, Oceanographer and
Meteorologist.

Antoine Dobrowolski (Russian), Assistant Meteorologist.

Frederick A. Cook (American), Surgeon, Anthropologist and
Photographer.

ENGINEERS.

Henri Somers (Belgian).

Max Van Rysselberghe (Belgian).

SAILORS.

BELGIANS.
Jules Melaerts.
Jan Van Mirlo.
Gustave Dufour.
Louis Michotte.

NORWEGIANS.
Adam Tollefsen.
Hjalmar Johansen.
Johan Koren.
Engebret Knudsen.

Carl Augustus Wiencke (deceased).

Altogether we numbered nineteen when leaving Punta Arenas--seven
officers, housed in the cosy little cabins, and twelve marines,
including Dobrowolski, housed in the forecastle. Thus divided, we were
two happy families, and as such we tried to extract from the frozen
south polar surroundings such rare comforts as regions of perennial
snows afford.

The _Belgica_ left Antwerp at the end of August, 1897. She
steamed and sailed down the Atlantic to Madeira, then across to Rio de
Janeiro, down to Montevideo, and into the Strait of Magellan to Punta
Arenas. After spending some time in the Fuegian channels and among the
Cape Horn Indian tribes, we took our departure from the known world,
at Staten Island on January 13, 1898. We sighted the South Shetland
Islands a week later, where, during a violent tempest, we lost by an
accidental fall overboard, the young and faithful Norwegian sailor,
Wiencke. We next crossed the ever-foggy and ever-tempestuous waters
of Bransfield Strait, and on the afternoon of January 23, 1898, came
in sight of the outer fringe of a new land, the Palmer Archipelago.
Entering this, we discovered a new highway, which in size compares
favourably with Magellan Strait. To the east and west of this strait,
we charted about five hundred miles of a land which had never before
been seen by human eyes--part of a great continental mass which
probably surrounds the south pole. It is buried even in midsummer
under a ponderous weight of perennial ice. Passing out of the strait,
we entered the South Pacific, and after skirting the western border
of Grahamland to Adelaide Island and then to Alexander Island, we
attempted to enter the main body of the pack-ice westward.

The work of the first three weeks in the new regions proved the
discovery of a highway perfectly free for navigation during the summer
months from Bransfield Strait, two hundred miles south-westerly,
through an unknown land to the Pacific. This highway has received
the name of our ship. To the east of Belgica Strait we discovered a
high, continuous country which probably connects with the land charted
as Grahamland. This has been christened Dancoland, in memory of our
companion, Lieutenant Danco, who died on the ship during the long drift
in the pack-ice. The land to the west of the strait is cut up into
islands by several channels, and is named Palmer Archipelago, in honour
of Captain Nathaniel Palmer, the American sealer who was the first of
all men to see the outer fringe of this land. Scattered about in the
waters of Belgica Strait are about one hundred islands and several
groups of islands. About fifty of these are of considerable size. The
islands, the capes, the bays, the headlands, and the mountains have
mostly received the names of Belgian friends of the expedition; but
prominent outside workers have not been forgotten, as is evidenced
by Nansen Island and Neumayer Channel. Each officer was given the
privilege of bestowing some names. Hence two islands which fell to my
lot are named after the city of my home and the first mayor of Greater
New York--Brooklyn and Van Wyck Islands.

After passing out of the strait into the open Pacific, we strove to
follow the mainland southward, but the pack-ice forced us away. Late
in February we entered the main body of the sea-ice, intending to
push southward and westward. After penetrating ninety miles we found
ourselves firmly beset. Unable to extricate the ship, we drifted with
the ice to and fro, but generally west, for thirteen long months.
During the early part of the long polar night Lieutenant Danco died.
Except for the depression of this melancholy bereavement, the health
of the members of the expedition was fairly good; but the seventy days
of continued darkness weighed heavily upon us. The scientific work was
prosecuted throughout the year of the drift. Each department has reason
to feel proud of its records. But all were happy when, on March 14,
1899, we were released from the icy fetters which had held us so long.

We left the pack from longitude 103° west of Greenwich, and latitude
70° 45′ south. We had thus drifted from about 85° to 103° of west
longitude and between 70° and 72° south of latitude. In March and April
we drifted westerly to longitude 92° 25′, where we were on April 25th.
From May to October we drifted back again to a place near our starting
point. From November to the time we left the ice we drifted rapidly
westward. The winter drift then is eastward, the summer drift is
westward, and this is also the direction of the prevailing winds. Our
farthest south was on May 31st, latitude 71° 36′ 5″ south, longitude
87° 40′ west. It would not at any time have been possible to push
farther poleward in our position. The various soundings which we took
prove the existence of a sea where there was previously thought to be
land. Through these soundings also we have discovered a submarine bank
comparable to the bank off the coast of Newfoundland. The excellent
series of magnetic observations by M. Lecointe indicate the magnetic
pole to be about two hundred miles east of its present assigned
position. The hourly meteorological observations, under the direction
of M. Arctowski, are of priceless value to students of weather. The
painstaking zoölogical work by M. Racovitza, and the numerous other
observations and studies of antarctic life and phenomena, are of a
like value. As an American I can with due modesty say that the work of
this, the Belgian Antarctic Expedition, will form the stepping-stone to
future antarctic exploration.

In the following pages I have not attempted to elaborate on our
experiences and observations. This I leave for a future work. My aim
has been to select from my diary and notes such data as might prove of
interest to the general reader. In my desire to condense this story
into a single volume I have omitted much of the daily routine of
life. I have also omitted a discussion of technical topics. There is
no pretence made by me that this book contains all of the scientific
data of the expedition. The observations, descriptions of specimens,
and scientific deductions will be published in other channels. The
Belgian Government has liberally set aside a sum sufficient to publish
in proper form the scientific records, and a commission is at present
occupied in making a preliminary study of the material with this end in
view.

We did not start out to mount the south pole, as we have been reported.
Our aim was a less ambitious work of scientific exploration along
the edge of the unknown. In this we were reasonably successful.
My story, then, is not one of pole-chasing, with its many certain
disappointments. It is a record of the first expedition to pass through
the ordeal of the long antarctic night and its gloomy winter storms. It
is, I hope, a contribution of new human experience in a new, inhuman
world of ice.

The illustrations in this book are made, with but a few exceptions,
from photographs, and since these are the first photographic
reproductions of antarctic life and scenes, it is hoped that they will
be of value as records of the unknown south. In the color plates we
have aimed to give a few examples of the daily touches of colour, which
serve to relieve the awful monotony and glittering whiteness peculiar
to the south polar regions. The vivid complexity of delicate shades
of most scenes is impossible of imitation by the present means of the
printer’s art, but the success attained by the artist, the engraver,
and the printer in these reproductions has been an agreeable surprise
to me.

In the notices of my return from the antarctic, and in the story of the
Belgian Antarctic Expedition, as published in the American newspapers,
it has unintentionally been made to appear as if I desired to claim
a major share of the credit for the results of this expedition. This
I wish to disclaim. The credit of organising the expedition belongs
to its Commander, Adrien de Gerlache; the honour of sending out the
venture belongs to the enterprise of Belgian citizens. The fame and
honour, which are the results of a successful expedition, belong to
every member of the expedition. Every one, from the highest officer to
the cabin-boy, has done his share of the work nobly and faithfully.
Everyone, then, from the cabin to the forecastle, deserves equally the
honorable mention which is the explorer’s only pay.

FREDERICK A. COOK, M.D.

687 BUSHWICK AVENUE,
BOROUGH OF BROOKLYN,
NEW YORK.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Introduction vii

CHAPTER
I In and about Rio de Janeiro 3

II From Rio de Janeiro to Montevideo 16

III Organisation of the Expedition 39

IV The _Belgica_, her Equipment, her Comforts and
Discomforts 50

V Montevideo to Punta Arenas 59

VI Punta Arenas, the Southernmost Town 82

VII From Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, Through the Fuegian
Channels 92

VIII A Race of Fuegian Giants 98

IX Discoveries in a New World of Ice 119

X Discoveries in a New World of Ice (continued) 135

XI From Dancoland to Alexander Islands 150

XII Across the Antarctic Circle--First Efforts to
Penetrate the Pack 161

XIII Along the Edge of the Pack-Ice 174

XIV Over Unknown Waters into the Frozen Sea 193

XV Helpless in a Hopeless Sea of Ice 208

XVI Bird’s-Eye View of the Pack--Autumnal Tempests 216

XVII The Fading Days of the Autumn 227

XVIII The Autumn (continued). Work and Pastime 241

XIX The Fading Days of the Autumn (continued) 253

XX The Days of Twilight Preceding the Long Night 267

XXI The South Polar Night--Departure of the Sun 281

XXII The South Polar Night (continued). Days of
Discontentment 295

XXIII The South Polar Night (continued). The Death of Danco 308

XXIV The South Polar Night (continued). Midnight to Dawn 323

XXV Spring--Sunrise--Twilight of Dawn 339

XXVI The Spring (continued). Return of Light--A Sledge
Journey 350

XXVII Summer 365

XXVIII Summer (continued) 378

XXIX Freed from the Ice-Embraces--Return to Civilisation 390

APPENDIX

I General Results of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition 409

Geography and Geology
Astronomy and Magnetism
Meteorology
Ice
Oceanography
Zoölogy and Botany

II The Antarctic Climate 425

III The Bathymetrical Conditions of the Antarctic Regions 436

IV Nautical Positions and Magnetic Deductions 444

V The Navigation of the Antarctic Ice-Pack 448

VI The Possibilities of Antarctic Exploration 453

[Illustration:

OFFICIAL MAP
OF THE

BELGIAN ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION
CHARTED BY CAPTAIN GEORGE LECOINTE

SECOND IN COMMAND.]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

An Antarctic Iceberg (_colour_) _Frontispiece_

PAGE
Official Map of the Expedition xx

The Crow’s Nest 3

Rio Harbour from Mt. Corcovado _facing_ 16

Rio de Janeiro „ 16

Part of Montevideo „ 36

The _Belgica_ 49

Fuegian Boys (_colour_) _facing_ 68

Indian Mission Huts „ 74

Part of Punta Arenas „ 74

The Wind-Swept Rocks of the Western Fuegian Islands „ 79

Terminating Ridge of the Cordilleras, Beagle Channel „ 80

Ona Women in Full Dress, with Papoose Strapped to the
Shoulders „ 89

Ona Men on the Chase „ 89

Types of Onas, Chief Colchicoli and one of his Wives „ 90

An Ona Home „ 95

Onas on the March „ 95

Ona Archery „ 96

Comparative Sizes of an Ona and a Caucasian 98

Ona Hunter Ready for Action _facing_ 105

A Bull Sea-Lion at Rest „ 106

Den of Sea-Lions, Staten Island „ 106

Dr. Frederick A. Cook „ 111

Sunrise over Brabant Island „ 112

Mount William, Antwerp Island „ 121

Mount Allo, Liege Island „ 121

Weddell Sea-Leopards of Belgica Strait „ 122

Cormorants at Home „ 127

Arctowski gathering Geological Specimens, observed by a
Megalestris (Cape Lancaster in the Background) „ 127

A Penguin Rookery, Isle Cobalescou „ 128

Penguins--A Family Gathering on the Pack-Ice „ 128

Sunrise and Sunset together over the Eastern Shore of Belgica
Strait „ 137

View Eastward from Neumayer Channel (Part of Wiencke
Island--Sierre Du Fief in the Background) „ 138

Brooklyn Island „ 138

Lemaire Channel--Wandel Island „ 143

Cape Cloos „ 143

Ascending Icy Mountains „ 144

An Encampment „ 144

Cape Eivind Astrup--Northern Point of Wiencke Island „ 153

Cape Renard, Dancoland „ 154

Stratified Tabular Iceberg, off Cape Rasmussen, to the lee
of which the _Belgica_ rested during the night of Feb. 12 „ 159

Iceberg in Belgica Strait with a Great Tunnel through it „ 159

One of the Wauwermans Islands „ 160

Sophie Rocks, Dancoland „ 160

Snowy Petrel 161

Midnight at Midsummer over the Antarctic Mainland
(_colour_) _facing_ 166

The Belgica Pressing Southward through the Drift-Ice „ 169

Iceberg off Cape Tuxen „ 169

Penguins on a Sea-worn Iceberg resembling a Whale „ 170

A Tabular Iceberg, seen at the Pack-edge in the South Pacific
(about 200 feet high) „ 175

Bird’s-eye View of the Pack-ice near the Outer Edge „ 176

Lecointe Making Observations. The Nautical Observatory „ 185

Dobrowolski Measuring the Depth of the Snow-Fall „ 185

Hauling Snow to Augment the Water-Supply „ 186

Making Soundings „ 186

The Sailor’s Recreation „ 191

Bow of the _Belgica_ after a Collision with an Iceberg „ 191

The Hummocks of a Pressure-Angle „ 192

Cestrugi „ 192

A Lake. The Sporting Place of Whales, Seals and Penguins „ 201

Moonlight Photograph of the _Belgica_, May 20, 1898 „ 201

Moss and Lichens „ 202

Moon Faces 204

Moon Faces (_continued_) 205

M. van Rysselberghe at the Condenser, which was converted
into a Snow Melter _facing_ 207

Racovitza at the Microscope „ 208

Arctowski in the Laboratory „ 208

Eight Successive Phases of an Exhibit of Aurora Australis,
March 19, 1898 „ 217

A Page of _Belgica_ Boots „ 224

_Belgica_ Mittens „ 233

Samples of Darnings „ 233

Whale Blow-Hole „ 240

Seal Blow-Hole „ 240

Iceberg in the Edge of the Pack-Ice „ 249

Penguin Tracks „ 249

Crab-Eater „ 256

Ross Seal „ 256

True Sea-Leopard „ 256

Weddell Sea-Leopards on the Pack-Ice „ 265

Arctowski and Amundsen ready for a Stroll 266

The Ross Seal with Trachea Inflated _facing_ 272

Heads of Sea-Leopards and Crab-Eaters „ 281

An Old Lead „ 288

A New Crevasse „ 288

Penguin Interviews „ 297

The Small Pack Penguin „ 304

The Royal Penguin „ 304

“Saennagras” 307

Penguins’ Heads and Feet „ 313

Petrels and Megalestris „ 322

Nansen, the Mascot 325

Amundsen after a _Ski_ Run _facing_ 327

The _Belgica_ in September. The New Tent and the Pack
Travelling Outfit „ 328

Twilight amid the Antarctic Ice (_colour_) „ 332

A Hunter Taking a Sun Bath „ 337

The Last to Enter the Three-Man Sleeping Bag „ 337

The Four O’Clock Tea Discussion „ 338

Distorted Faces of the Rising Sun 340

Distorted Faces of the Rising Sun (_continued_) 341

Crossing Hummocks and Crevasses. Edge of the Belgica
Field in October _facing_ 343

Edge of the Antarctic Pack „ 344

The Midnight Sun Over the Pack-Ice „ 353

Ice-Flowers „ 354

The Assembled Discs of Ice Crystals which give Origin to
Polar Ice „ 354

An Iceberg held by the Ensnaring Influence of the Pack-Ice,
forming the so-called “barrier” „ 356

The Midsummer Christmas Dinner „ 359

Portraits of Cook, Amundsen and Racovitza “before and
after” „ 360

Snow-Goggles 365

An Old Wind-Swept Hummock _facing_ 369

The Sand-like Drift Snow „ 369

The Tabular Iceberg, the Largest Berg within the Horizon
of the _Belgica’s_ Drift „ 370

On January 1st, 1899, the _Belgica_ was still hopelessly held
in a Field of Ice „ 375

Old Hummocks „ 376

A Tonite Explosion Used in Efforts to Free the _Belgica_ „ 376

Removing the Upper Sheet Preparatory to Sawing the Hard
Undersheets „ 385

Cutting a Canal through the Ice to Release the _Belgica_ from
her Year’s Imprisonment „ 385

Floating Mountains of Ice „ 386

View from the Top of a Tabular Iceberg „ 386

A Penguin’s Friend „ 389

Curious Weather-worn Icebergs, 300 Feet High „ 391

Star-Fish and Sea-Urchins from the Bottom of the Antarctic
Sea „ 392

A New Shrimp of the Genera of Euphausia, Discovered by
Racovitza „ 392

A Group of Penguins,--Visitors to the _Belgica_ „ 401

The Sailors at the End of the Long Night „ 402

Figure 1 428

Figure 2 429

Figure 3 430

Map of the _Belgica’s_ Trip 437

Soundings in the Pack 438

Method of Sounding 441

Sledge-sailing 453

THROUGH THE FIRST ANTARCTIC NIGHT

CHAPTER I

IN AND ABOUT RIO DE JANEIRO

RIO DE JANEIRO, October 30, 1897.

[Illustration: THE CROWS’S NEST]

At last I am on the way to the land which has been the dream of my
life,--“the mysterious antarctic.” I have talked of this journey of
exploration so long, have wished for it so persistently, that now,
when my one foremost ambition seems on the verge of a realisation, I
can hardly assure myself that I am not on the road to another of many
disappointments. In three weeks one half of the distance in an air line
from New York to the south pole was traversed, and here on the lower
edge of the tropics I have waited for the arrival of the ship with the
company of Belgian explorers with whom the journey to the antarctic,
now just begun, is to be made.

On my arrival at Rio de Janeiro the Belgian Legation looked after
my comforts, and the Minister, Count van den Steen, offered me the
hospitality of his home at Petropolis.

After a fortnight of dreamy tropical life, a telegram announced the
arrival of the expedition ship, the _Belgica_, in the Rio harbour.
We took the early morning train and slowly descended the two thousand
feet along several valleys, winding around various hills, down and down
on the curious cog-wheel railroad, until we reached the head of the
bay. Here an old-style side-wheel steamer carried us to Rio de Janeiro.
On the pier a delegation appointed by the Belgian colony of Rio met us
with a tug, in which we were carried to the _Belgica_.

There was nothing about the _Belgica_ to attract unusual attention
from a distance. She was rather odd in shape and colour, but Rio
harbour is full of weird-looking crafts. We boarded the _Belgica_
at about 11 o’clock. It was a scorching morning, and as we ascended
the sea ladder a cloud of hot vapour rose above us from the moistened
decks. The Captain, Lecointe, was at the gangway and greeted each
visitor as the Minister introduced us. Behind him on deck stood
Commandant de Gerlache, at his side the officers and scientific staff,
while the crew was stationed on the port side of the quarter deck.

To me this was a moment of special interest. Here for the first time
I met face to face the party of total strangers, the members of the
Belgian Antarctic Expedition, with whom I am to remain as companion
and co-worker for a period of months, perhaps years. I was greeted in
a strange tongue--French--not a word of which I understood. One after
another came to me asking questions, but I could only look askance at
them. After a while I learned that the Commandant could speak English
and all of the scientific staff could speak German, so we began to
exchange ideas in tongues familiar to me.

My first impression of the officers and crew was--as it is
to-day--decidedly favorable. Every one seemed a picture of health,
full of youthful vigour, and jolly good fellowship. The _Belgica_
appeared small, but she seemed well adapted to the prospective
work, and above all, she was filled brim full with good food,--such
delicacies as only a Belgian could select. I am sure as we penetrate
the white antarctic she will seem large enough; she will afford us a
safe home, and many, very many, comforts, as comforts go in the polar
regions.

The _Belgica_ left Ostend, Belgium, on August 24, 1897, and
reached Madeira September 13. From here, after an adjustment of the
instruments and some scientific observations, lasting three days,
she sailed for Rio de Janeiro; but Rio was not reached until late in
the afternoon of October 22. The voyage was made against a series of
adverse winds and calms, making it necessary to steam a part of the
time. Excepting a few cases of seasickness the party enjoyed excellent
health while crossing the tropics.

The general plan of the expedition was now for the first time
outlined to me by Commandant de Gerlache. Up to the present all my
communications had been by cable, and necessarily brief, but now I
was able to elicit from the hardworked projector the prospective plan
of our campaign. The _Belgica_ will start from here, after the
magnetic instruments are adjusted, for Montevideo, where she will stop
perhaps two days. From Montevideo we will proceed to Punta Arenas,
Chile, in the Strait of Magellan.

At Punta Arenas we shall make some scientific observations and
collections, stopping perhaps eight days. And then, after coaling
and restocking our provision supply, we shall sail for the South
Shetland Islands, thence to Grahamland, and southwestward along its
border to the limit of navigation. If time and ice conditions will
permit we shall first sail along the eastern shore of Grahamland
and south into Weddel Sea. But this journey, tempting as it seems,
is now rather doubtful, owing to the short time at our command.
From this western terminus of Grahamland we shall try to map the
coast to Alexanderland and beyond as far as possible, then we are to
press southward and westward to Victorialand. Deep sea soundings and
dredgings will be taken wherever the opportunity presents. Systematic,
magnetic, and meteorological observations are to be made, and large
zoölogical collections are expected. In a general way it is the aim
of the expedition to make a thorough scientific survey of the regions
traversed. The commander reserves the right to alter any or all plans
to suit unexpected conditions as we meet them.

In the afternoon the Minister, Count van den Steen, took Commandant de
Gerlache and most of the scientific staff ashore to begin the first
of a long series of presentations and introductions to the congenial
Brazilian officials. We were first presented to the chief of customs
and the Minister of marine affairs, from whom we derived the twofold
pleasure of being warmly greeted and freed of harbour dues, custom
annoyances, and other troublesome local regulations.

It was to me a source of never-ceasing interest to note the
translations of the various questions asked. This portrayed clearly
the Brazilian notion of a polar expedition. The ideas proved to be
so tropical that I must risk a breach of etiquette and quote enough
to show Brazilian versions of polar work. We were constantly asked,
“Have you a smoking-room and much tobacco?” “Of course you have lots
of wine and other nice drinks, but have you plenty of good things to
eat? You must take some Brazilian coffee.” Others would put to us
questions about our provision for pleasure, music, games, and pastimes
in general, but I do not remember having been asked even once about
the serious scientific work of the expedition. One broad-minded and
apparently intelligent fellow, well on in the winter of life--a member
of the Cabinet, asked the usual questions about wines, cigars, and
personal comforts, and then, having heard of Mrs. Peary’s experience
in the North; he asked if we had any women among us? On being answered
with a rather sharp and quick “no!” he remarked: “Then, I don’t want to
go along.”

This explains the lack of interest of South Americans in anything
polar. So long as beautiful women, good wines, fine cigars, and
delicate foods are not found at the south pole, Latin Americans will
probably not aspire to reach it.

The magnetic instruments were taken to the local observatory for
adjustment and comparison. To do this properly required about a
week, hence arrangements were made for various receptions, tours of
exploration, of pleasure, and what not. The zoölogist, Mr. Racovitza,
learning that he could take a fast steamer and reach Punta Arenas about
a fortnight in advance of the expedition, at once made arrangements
to leave us. This will afford him much additional and valuable time
to make collections and observations in the immediate vicinity of the
Strait of Magellan.

We began the week on Monday by the Presidential reception. The Belgian
Minister, Count van den Steen, had arranged the details and according
to his instructions we assembled at the office of Consul Laurys
shortly after noon. From here we embarked in coaches drawn by small
but handsome mules. We were hurried through narrow streets, along an
endless number of low houses, plastered outside and in. The doors and
windows were full of men, women and children, scantily dressed but ill
at ease, all doing nothing in various ways.

In a half hour we reached the White House, an imposing and substantial
building constructed from the local schist which everywhere underlies
the city. Led by Count van den Steen we entered, ascended to the third
floor, and were marshaled to the President’s reception room with very
little ceremony. The room was handsomely decorated by wall paintings,
and fresco decorations probably of Italian design, while the floors
were of beautiful inlaid wood, also of a foreign manufacture. There
were no carpets, but little furniture, and the mantels were covered by
artificial flowers and plants.

In a short time the President, Senor Trudente de Moreas Barros,
entered. We were presented separately, after which the Minister made a
short address in French to which the President replied in a few words,
and then grasping our hands he offered a cheerful greeting to each
member of the expedition.

The Belgian colony had long planned a feast for the expedition, and
this was to be the grand event at Rio, to which we looked for real
joy and lasting comfort. The time had been set for the evening of the
25th, at the Restaurant Petropolis, on Rue de Ovidor. We assembled
at 7 o’clock; there were about 100 people present, representing the
male members of the Colony, the officers and scientific staff of the
expedition, and a few newspaper editors.

The room was large and airy; electric fans were in position, but the
air was cool enough without their use. The walls were decorated with
flags, and the tables with flowers and fruits. The bill of fare was
Belgian--a few local additions to the very best that could be imported
from Belgium. This, I am sure, is sufficient said of a very delightful
collection of rare foods and good drinks. There was much enthusiastic
speech-making and toasting in French, Portuguese, and Italian;
presumably complimentary to Brazil, Belgium and the expedition, but
I did not understand it. The spirit of hilarity, however, was in the
air and, although I was a foreigner among strangers whose language
was unknown to me, I cannot remember having enjoyed a banquet at home
better. We had all been wined and dined, separately and collectively,
before and after, but the occasion which will always remain in our
minds as the best treat of all is the Rio Belgian banquet.

The day following, and for the balance of the week, we visited the
local places of interest, explored the city in various ways, and were
received at a special meeting of the local Geographical Society. Rio
de Janeiro is a city of perhaps six hundred thousand inhabitants, with
about one hundred thousand foreigners. It is the metropolis of South
America, but far, very far, behind Montevideo and Buenos Aires in
modern improvements and in all the present arts of civilization. It is
essentially a commercial city, a center from which exports are sent and
imports distributed throughout Brazil and much of South America.

A great deal of money is made here, but the present money has fallen
to about one eighth of its actual value. Things cannot be much longer
prolonged as the present money market stands, from which it follows
that various rumors of a national bankruptcy are current. A well
informed resident assured me that a crisis would arrive before our
return from the antarctic.

Brazil, in the infancy of its republican form of government, has
very many political difficulties to settle. There is more political
discussion to the square mile in Rio de Janeiro to-day than to an
equal space on any other part of the globe with which I am familiar.
A rebellion has just been subdued in a northern province, but from the
south comes fresh news of another attempted secession. The several
states of Brazil seem to be loosely bound together and before the
country finds its true equilibrium many changes will probably occur.

As a city Rio de Janeiro has been so well and so often described that I
shall only give here the briefest outline of a few points of interest
as they impressed us. The houses are all of stone or brick, rarely more
than two stories, built on an irregular hilly surface, mostly facing
the ever visible and always enchanting inland sea, the harbour. The
rear of the city is lost between the rising hills which encircle the
harbour. The streets are very narrow, are paved with granite, and are
always alive with people of several colors and of all nationalities.
The business streets have an air of bustle and Yankee thrift, but the
side streets are clothed in the usual perpetual ease of the tropics.

The city is easily traversed by electric and mule cars; even the
mountains are ascended by electric and steam roads, which required
great engineering skill in construction. Carriages and waggons are
almost entirely drawn by small mules. The numerous sights and breathing
places are reached without much trouble and very cheaply, for Rio has
perhaps the cheapest carfare of the world, less than three cents a
ride. Rent is nearly as high as in New York in the better or healthier
parts of the city; wages are good, but living in general is expensive.
Nearly all the foreigners, however, consider it an excellent business
place. The health of the city is good, excepting occasional epidemics
of yellow fever, and, if it were not for the intense heat of summer,
Rio would offer a bright future for young, ambitious Europeans and
North Americans.

It would hardly be expected that poleward-bent explorers would grow
enthusiastic about any place in the torrid zone, but Rio de Janeiro,
with all its heat, has people with warm hearts, who were to us a
pleasant inspiration. It has fruits and coffee which are a joy to the
inner man; it has abundant natural resources which will some day make
it a great, a very great, city.

Saturday at 2 o’clock was set for the time of sailing, and although
we appreciated the honors and pleasures conferred upon us by the
hospitable Belgians and Brazilians, the appointed time found us all
eager to continue our voyage toward the south pole. Many visitors were
on board at the last moment. The Minister, with his fatherly interest
in the expedition, the Belgian committee, representatives of the Rio
Geographical Society, and various other distinguished visitors were
there to bid us _au revoir_ and _bon voyage_. Among the visitors were a
couple of young ladies who received an unusual share of warm attention
from the prospective frigid explorers. A desire to kidnap them as a
diversion to break the long monotony of the journey was frequently
expressed and no doubt deeply felt by at least one lonely bachelor.
The last visitor was a young Brazilian in a gaudy uniform, who came
by a special Government launch as a representative of the President.
His particular mission was to offer us the President’s compliments and
his wishes for a good, successful voyage. This we appreciated as a
delightful bit of thoughtfulness on the part of President Barros.

On board the _Belgica_ everything was bustle and haste. Provisions
were coming, new articles of equipment were being loaded and stored
away, visitors were going to and fro examining our curious instruments
and the general outfit. Tugs were all around the craft and one, with
several photographers, kept spinning around, snapping at the center
of curiosity from every side. At three o’clock the Commandant gave
the order to start, and the entire mass moved with us. The visitors
remained on deck, and the tugs followed.

The commercial part of the harbour, with its steaming heat and teeming
mass of conglomerate humanity, soon fell behind more interesting
points. Several foreign cruisers were in the harbour among them our
_Cincinnati_, and these kept us busy replying to salutations
and cheers. As we passed the old battered fort of S. João we rather
expected a series of salutes, but instead a large band appeared on
a low crown of torn cliffs playing lively airs. Now and then the
musicians would stop and fill the atmosphere with quaint cheers, all of
which pleased us far better than a display of powder.

As we advanced, a rather strong wind ruffled up an uncomfortable sea,
and as we approached the narrows, which are guarded by two ancient
looking forts, it was deemed best to part with our visitors. The
Brazilian men humored and kissed us, as is their custom--the men only,
not the ladies. Our good friends of the Belgian Colony offered many
cordial greetings, and as the tugs withdrew from us, the oft-repeated
_au revoir_ and _bon voyage_ came with every leap of the sea.

Our progress against the incoming wind and sea was very slow, but this
gave us an excellent opportunity to take a long parting view of the
beautiful Bay of Rio de Janeiro, with all its indescribable splendour.
The sun was low, close to the crests of a ridge of mountain peaks. We
were steaming out of the mouth of the bay, a harbour which is said to
be large enough to afford room for all the naval fleets of the world.
On every side were mountains rising abruptly from the waving expanse
of blue--mountains with cliffs and steep slopes, many apparently
perpendicular, all with sides nearly covered by a thick dark green
verdure. Only the loftiest peaks were bald and even these had a few
weather-worn trees to add colour and life.

As we looked over the stern of the _Belgica_, much of the city
was still in view. The low, irregular houses, with tiled roofs and
sides washed with lime in various bright shades of red, white and blue,
were unique and attractive. They will always remain in our minds as a
pleasing reminder of Brazilian good wishes. Before the city and behind
it were the perennial midsummer waters, spotted with vessels of various
nations, beset by a score of emerald isles and fringed by as many
fascinating bays. It is, however, the crude, rugged majesty,--the rare
grandeur of the mountain peaks around the enchanting harbour which give
it ever fresh and effervescent glory.

Beginning at the left and close to the stern of the _Belgica_,
was a bold peak of solid rock, which from its fancied resemblance to
a lump of sugar, is called _Pão de Assucar_. A little farther on
the eye is stopped by the famous Corcovado, a huge needle of granite,
its base washed by the blue tropical waters, its apex, three thousand
feet above, piercing soft, pearly vapours, and its sides painted by the
hand of nature in various shades of green. Next upon the horizon was
outlined the strange freak of nature, the _Bicodo do Papagaio_,
or Parrot’s Beak. A bit of landscape, more distant and less startling,
but still very alluring, is next in line--the interfolding rock
configurations of Gavea. Then several other sky-scraping mountains,
and the enraptured vision ends upon the whitened crown of fair Santa
Thereza.

Along the head of the bay, ever veiled by a blue haze, are the Organ
Mountains, so named because the various cones and serrated peaks bear
a fancied resemblance to the pipes of an organ. Beyond these, but out
of vision, is Petropolis, the new capital of Brazil, and the summer
home for Rio’s wealthy and foreign residents. To the right are lesser
mountains, separated by deep bays and broad, fertile valleys. The
beds of these are clothed with banana, mango, pineapple, and other
fruit-bearing trees and plants. The scene as a whole is a feast to the
eyes and a nursery to the mind.

But we must be off to less fertile lands--on to the icy south, stopping
only at Montevideo and the Strait of Magellan before we attack the
virgin ice south of Cape Horn.

CHAPTER II

FROM RIO DE JANEIRO TO MONTEVIDEO

MONTEVIDEO, November 13, 1897.

The _Belgica_ left Rio October 30, 1897. She steamed out of the
harbour amid an uproar of salutations and accompanied by many of the
friends of the expedition to the entrance of the bay. Here the little
party of well-wishers gathered around Count Van den Steen and offered
us a final _bon voyage_--a scene and a sentiment which followed us
far into the polar night. The sun was hanging low over the blue outline
of the Organ Mountains, and the darkness of the rapidly approaching
tropical night was already on the lowlands, which are here exposed
to receive the warm humidity of the Atlantic. The wind was steadily
increasing from the east, bringing in a heavy sea and premonitions of
an uncomfortable night. The two battered forts which guard the entrance
were soon passed, and we laid our course south-westwardly along the
Brazilian coast, with a fair wind and a favourable current. Darkness,
torrid blackness, settled down over us with a rapidity which I had not
before noted. The wind increased and the sea rose higher and higher,
bringing with it Neptune to salute the too hilarious victims of the
expedition at Rio.

[Illustration: Rio Harbour from Mt. Corcovado.]

[Illustration: Rio de Janeiro.]

The next morning no land was in sight, but the weather was delightfully
clear with a fair breeze and an easy sea, a happy condition which
followed us several days. We have now passed the tropic of Capricorn,
are out of the torrid zone, and well on our path across the south
temperate zone toward the bottom of the globe. The air is more
stimulating, the winds fresh and bracing, more in accord with our polar
longings, and altogether we begin to feel our natural vigours and
ambitions which the burning heat farther north had withered.

From Madeira to Rio it had been found impossible to sleep in the
bunks because of the stifling heat. Hammocks were accordingly swung
amidships, in which some sleep was possible for the occupants of the
cabins, while those of the forecastle stored themselves on the deck
in almost any position offering a breeze and a protection from being
washed overboard. These restful open air positions offer a splendid
opportunity during the sleepless hours to study and admire the beauty
and strangeness of the southern sky. From the time when we crossed the
equator to our present position we have been intensely interested in
the new constellations which have glided over the southern horizon,
while in the north we have been watching, with some regret, the sinking
and disappearance of the stars and groups with which we have been
familiar from the time of our infancy. This vanishing of the Pole
Star, and the many old friends in the heavens brings to us a vivid
impression of the vast distance which we have traversed from our native
lands. The new firmament has many charms, but it takes time to admire
its complex splendour. The grouping of the large stars, the scattered
nebulæ rivalling in lustre the Milky Way, and the unfilled spaces,
remarkable for their extreme darkness, give the southern heavens a
peculiar aspect. With this dome of tropical blue relieved by the new
heavenly bodies above, and with a breakneck pitching and tossing at
every plunge of the vessel, one is more apt to fall into an admiration
of Nature than into a profound sleep. But this easy life on deck
has also its drawbacks at times when one’s calm, dreamy philosophy
is suddenly and rudely interrupted. Jack runs across the deck and
presently stumbles in a heap over some sleeper when a series of grunts
and something worse fills the night air with another spirit.

On November fourth, for a short time, the low shore-line of the
Island of Santo Catherina was dimly visible under a blue mist in the
west. At about this time we also saw the first Cape pigeons, stormy
petrels, and albatrosses, and a few days later when there was no land
in view an off-shore wind brought us some forms of land life. Among
these were butterflies, moths, various birds with beautiful plumage,
and some troublesome flies. We met only one voyager on this lonely
course, a Brazilian coaster. She was built after a model of the last
century, but, having every rag set which could draw, she came through
the rolling blue waters with a grace and picturesqueness that would do
justice to a modern yacht. We enjoyed the sight immensely as she came
towards us, ploughing through hills of foam, her blunt prow buried in
white spray, her huge square stern rising and falling nimbly out of one
trough into another. It was as if one of the explorers who had gone
before us, a Drake or an Anson, who were at once pirates and explorers,
had suddenly dropped in our path to examine the men and the methods of
less ambitious followers.

On the evening of the seventh we were fascinated by a strikingly
beautiful sunset--the first worthy of note since the _Belgica_
left Antwerp and certainly the most remarkable which I had observed
since leaving New York. The phenomena was most charming in colour when
the sun was about to sink behind the blue outline of Uruguay on our
western horizon. The sea was branded by streams and bands and spots
of fire which, with the easy undulation of the surface, gave it the
appearance of active flames. The sun itself was descending behind a
faint purple zone of mist. Its disc seemed out of all proportion to
its usual size and there was something sublimely beautiful in the
loneliness of its descent. All the sky above it, and far to the south
and north was a vivid crimson in zigzag streamers, while over our heads
the dome was an exquisite tint of green, which melted in the east into
a dark purple blue. Shortly after the heavenly glow of the sunset
had vanished, the sky began to assume quite another aspect. A gloomy
range of cumulus clouds rose in the north-west, and in a few hours had
advanced so far as to project nearly over our heads. The scene was
made particularly strange by the even steely colour of the rest of the
sky. It was ruled with a line, here and there ragged, but for the most
part singularly homogeneous from the confines of the north-eastern mass
of horizon. All the central portion of this vast surface of cloud was
of a deep leaden hue, while its edges were marked by rapidly changing
lines of carbon and luminous grey. By a deception of the eye the entire
mass appeared convex, and it looked as wild as any phenomena of Nature
I ever saw. At frequent intervals a sharp shower of arrowy lightning
whizzed along its lowest fringe, illuminating the decks and the sea
with a weird blue light. The lightning had the remarkable peculiarity
of not being accompanied by thunder, nor was it followed by rain.

Yesterday at noon the high ridge of mountains in the eastern part
of the province of Rio Grande do Sul were feebly discernible under
the western horizon. This is the most southern province, the most
industrious, and certainly the most promising part of Brazil. It is
composed almost entirely of Germans, upon whom the unfair yoke of the
Rio Janeiro government fits badly. They are at present engaged in a
revolution for freedom and independence. To-day we have the low sandy
dunes of the coast of Uruguay on our port side, and through the night
we made little progress against the increasing southerly wind which
followed the peculiar sky effects. At 6 o’clock on the morning of the
eighth, we were off Castillo Island. Here the wind increased with such
fury that we began to look about for a harbour.

In a few hours we were off Cape Polonio, but a farther progress into
the mouth of the River Plata against the wind was impossible. The bark
was turned landward for a little cove at the neck of Cape Polonio which
seemed somewhat sheltered by the off-lying seal rocks. To reach this
anchorage, however, the bark made difficult work of it. She rose and
tumbled over the ugly land swells like a waggon over a rocky road. Her
feeble engines were pressed to their greatest force, which heated the
spaces above the fireplace to such an extent as to ignite the woodwork,
and thus to the anxiety of the storm was added the excitement of a fire.

The fire was soon extinguished, and at noon we dropped anchor in a
little harbour where the main force of the wind did not reach us, but
the sea continued to rise and fall with a sickening suddenness. Here we
rode out the storm, which continued until about noon of the next day.
The falling of the temperature, caused by the decreasing latitude and
especially by this storm, is daily more noticeable. Already the cold
south temperate winds have compelled us to abandon the restful open air
berths in the hammocks and driven us into the stuffy state-rooms, where
every precaution has been taken to prevent the escape of heat in the
icy south. During the afternoon and night, while the ship was bowing to
the wind and violently pulling at her chains, we examined the character
of our surroundings. From our position the land presented about as
barren and lifeless an aspect as any region I ever saw.

On closer inspection we became interested in the mere bleakness, and
little by little we found a fascination in the lifeless sterility with
which we were first impressed. The torrents of wind moved the sand-like
snow, and even deposited it in huge drifts, giving the whole surface
a wavy, undulating appearance. In the interior a few ranges of low
hills were discernible; but their surfaces were such that the shape
could not be easily separated from the vast wavy plain along the coast.
Cape Castillo is easily distinguished from the other sandy points by
a white round sand hill, one hundred and eighty-four feet high, to
which the land gradually rises from the Cape southward. This is Mount
Buena Vista, and its peculiar mammary form, with its well defined
white nipple and rounded sides marked by dots of cactus plants,--these
peculiarities, with the isolated position, give the eminence an
impressiveness and a picturesqueness quite in accord with its important
geographical position.

Mount Buena Vista marks the entrance from the north into one of the
largest and, for the future, one of the most important rivers of the
world, the Rio de la Plata. The river was discovered in 1515 by Juan
Diaz de Solis, and seems to have been named by Sebastian Cabot in
1520. The name (meaning “river of silver”) was not given it because of
its fancied resemblance to silver-plate, for in reality its surface
is always ruffled, and its colour and consistency would be better
described by the “river of mud;” but the great amount of actual silver
ore which was taken from the Indians along this river, and the fact
that it was used as a highway for the transport of the metal to the
coast, are responsible for the poetic name of this ever dirty stream.

Though the waters are not sparkling, and the banks are not such as to
call for an enthusiastic description, yet the Plata occupies a position
unequaled among the rivers of the world. It drains the largest part of
South America south of the Amazon basin, and with its many tributaries
reaches from the mountains of eastern Brazil to the Andes, covering
therefore almost the entire width of the continent from the Atlantic
to the Pacific. While its basin is thus widely spread, the name Rio
de la Plata is limited to the stream from the junction of the rivers
Parana and Uruguay, to the Atlantic. It is one hundred and fifty miles
in length, and about one hundred and twenty miles wide at its outer
spread. From here it rapidly narrows, so that at Montevideo it is but
fifty miles wide, while at Buenos Aires it is only twenty, and at the
junction of its principle head waters, but four miles. Its peculiar
water is generally noticeable far out in the Atlantic by the change in
colour: from the bright blue of the subtropical seas to a dull green,
and on closer approach to a dark brown.

One of the most remarkable facts in the history of American discovery
is the slowness with which the world has learned of the true natural
resources of this region. The early Spaniards came here to obtain
from the Indians, either by fair means or otherwise, such valuables
as they possessed. Silver and gold were thus secured, and this led to
the more important discoveries of the sources of these metals, which
we now know are so widely spread over the continent. Little by little
the Spaniards settled among the Indians; and then came a time when
the English descended upon the Spaniards and relieved them of their
treasures. One of the first of these British pirates was Sir Francis
Drake, knighted and otherwise honoured by Queen Elizabeth for his
heartless cruelty to, and valuable thefts from, the Spanish pioneers.

Drake’s narrator, while writing pious words with one hand and stealing
Spanish silver with the other, had not much time to make sharp
observations, but his notes are interesting. “Passing thus,” says the
Reverend Mr. Fletcher, “in beholding the excellent works of the Eternal
God upon the seas as if we had been in a garden of pleasure, April 5,
1578, we fell in with the coast of Brazil, in 30° 30′ towards the Pole
Antarctic where the land is low near the sea, but much higher within
the country, having in depth not above twelve fathoms three leagues off
from the shore; and being deceived by the inhabitants (Indians), we
saw great and huge fires made by them in sandy places. After this, we
kept our course sometimes to the seaward, sometimes to the shore, but
always southward as near as we could till April 14th, in the morning,
at which we passed Cape St. Mary which lies in 35′ near the mouth of
the River Plata running within it, about six or seven leagues along the
main, we came to anchor in a bay under another Cape which our General
afterwards called Cape Joy. (The present site of Montevideo.) The
country here about is of a temperate and most sweet air, very fair
and pleasant to behold, and, besides the exceeding fruitfulness of the
soil, it is stored with plenty and mighty deer.” A few months later the
good Reverend wrote thus: “We lighted on a Spaniard who lay asleep, and
had lying by him thirteen bars of silver, weighing in all about 4,000
Spanish ducats. We freed him of his change which, otherwise, might have
kept him working.”

Since this time the Spaniards have slowly spread and mingled and
intermarried with the Indians, and the various resulting states have
secured the independence of the Castilian yoke and are now very
rapidly advancing. But for the first two centuries progress was very
insignificant. Buenos Aires, the New York of South America, is here
spreading on the banks of the silver river. Montevideo and other
cities are growing with a vigour similar to that of Yankee towns, and
if excellence of climate, fertility of soil, and limitless natural
resources count for anything, the gathering basin of the Rio de la
Plata will certainly soon become the United States of South America.

We went ashore on November 9th, and were met by a weather-worn group
of men in various quaint costumes. Their faces and their apparel
did not suggest the pleasureable moments and the warm reception
which fell to our lot later. But we soon found hearts as warm and
minds as appreciative as any that could be discovered under silks
and broad-cloth. Cape Polonio is a port of anchorage, about two
miles southward of Mt. Buena Vista. On it is a lighthouse of gray
masonry, one hundred and thirtyseven feet in height, with three
white horizontal bands. The actual height of this tower is not great,
but being placed in a region where the sky is constantly loaded with
clouds, and over a land with little irregularity of surface, the white
peak seems constantly to pierce the dark skies. Scattered about on this
neck of land are a few huts made of the remains of wreckage, galvanised
iron, or grass, according to the luck and wealth of the various
occupants. To the most palatial of these we were first escorted.

This was the home of the proprietor of the only industry of the
place,--a sealing station. We had at first some difficulty in making
ourselves understood. There was no one among us speaking Spanish, but
after a brief effort we found that a little French was understood
and that English was possible with an old seaman. At the lighthouse
an Italian speaking French fluently came to our rescue. We had no
special object in making a debarkment here, but since the storm
drove us into shelter the staff of scientific collectors determined
to examine the nearest ground. The zoölogist, with his assistant,
searched the shore for shells and marine life; the geologist went to
examine the sand-dunes, while the surgeon remained to administer to
the wants of the natives, from whom some prized ethnographic specimens
were obtained. The earlier Indian tribes, which once roamed over this
region, like those of the coastal regions farther north, have entirely
vanished. There are no trees nor is agriculture in the immediate
vicinity possible. A few cactus plants are the only green spots which
cheer up the dull white sands. But a short distance inland there is
excellent grazing, and here are found some of the most magnificent
cattle farms of the world.

After our collecting tour we assembled at the home of the chief sealer.
Here the customary native hospitality was extended to us with open
arms. The women prepared _maté_, the South American tea, while
the men brought out their most precious varieties of alcohol and
cigarettes. The good people of the entire encampment, about fifty in
number, then assembled to do us honour. Among these there were a few
_gauchos_, the South American prototypes of our own cowboys, and
two or three travellers en route to Montevideo from Rio Grande do Sul;
all the others were engaged in the various departments of sealing. They
had taken many seals the year before, and 16,000 during the previous
season, all of these from the rocks which surround the cape. The
seals are of a common variety, yielding oil and leather but no fur.
As we departed we were loaded with presents and treated and toasted
again with _maté_ and brandy, ingredients as necessary to South
American hospitality as whisky and cigars to the success of an old time
political meeting in the United States.

At four o’clock on the morning of the tenth, we tipped our anchor and
drew out of the little harbour, steaming into the Plata, close to its
northern bank. Throughout the day we had the low sandy beds of Uruguay
on our port bow. On these there was an occasional group of cactus, but
they seemed from a distance like projecting rocks and, aside from the
relief which they afforded, there was nothing to break the monotony. It
was one long, nearly level bank of lifeless sand. In the back ground
an occasional row of blue hills marked the position of a warm and more
promising country.

On the morning of the eleventh the scene had noticeably changed. We
had passed Cape Maldonado during the night and were heading for Flores
Island in a direct course for Montevideo beyond. The land no longer
presented the sterile sand-driven beach, but gray wind-rasped hills,
separated by patches of forest and fronted by prominent highlands which
stood out boldly against a clearing sky. The temperature rose quickly
as we advanced into the river. We passed Flores Island at two o’clock,
and dropped anchor in the horseshoe bend which forms the imperfect
harbour of Montevideo.

We had been met farther out in the stream by the customs and quarantine
officers, but these troubled us little, and were of much less interest
to us than our third visitor, the congenial representative of the
Belgian Consulate, who brought our letters and some news of interest.
To us the most startling news was the story of the bold attempt to
assassinate President Barros of Brazil, whose friendly hand we had
shaken only a few days previous, apparently surrounded by all possible
guards to perfect safety. This case, however, while somewhat startling
to a stranger, illustrates one of the recognised methods for changing
presidents in the Spanish American republics. The President of Uruguay
was summarily disposed of in the same manner only a few months ago,
while his successor is probably awaiting his turn with resigned fate.
The life of a president hereabout is evidently not one of any special
ease, security, or comfort.

The city of Montevideo presents, even from a distance, an air of
thrift, wealth, and comfort. El Cerro, a nipple-shaped mount, is
the only distinguishing feature of the landscape which marks the
sight of the port. It rises in a gentle slope to the height of five
hundred feet, about a half mile from the rugged beach on the western
side of the bay. Its sides are covered with a thin grass which is
now giving place to residences, a result of the recent growth of the
city. The top is crowned by a fort, and within this there rises a
splendid lighthouse, whose powerful revolving light is visible at sea
twenty-five miles from the coast. The main portion of the city stands
upon a peninsula of gently rising ground on the east side of the bay.
From here the town spreads over a large portion of the mainland and
there are several prominent buildings which stand out boldly over the
low houses which compose the body of the city. To one coming from Rio
Janeiro or other cities in the tropics, the most noticeable feature of
this city is the dense volume of smoke arising from its chimnied houses
and thrifty factories: the latter are a certain sign of an agreeable
climate and dry apartments--comforts foreign to torrid America.

It was, perhaps, eight o’clock in the evening before we had finished
reading our letters and were ready for a debarkment. The afternoon was
fairly clear, there had been little wind, and the temperature was
extremely agreeable; but now the aspect changed with such suddenness as
to cause some anxiety for the ship’s safety during the coming night.
Huge fantastic rolls of lead-like sheets of clouds drove rapidly over
the sky from the west, and painted the whole scene in an inky blackness
with such marvellous speed that we were amazed and undecided as to
what it meant for some time; but a few zigzags of coloured lightning
and a deafening burst of thunder soon explained to us the character of
the coming commotion. Thinking that we could reach the shore before
the shower commenced, we descended into one of the tugs, which at once
headed for one of the many lights standing out boldly in the inky
blackness shoreward. But on our way we were pelted and pounded by such
a hail storm as had never fallen to my lot. The globules were about
the size of a large marble, and fell in such numbers that, though the
fall did not continue more than ten minutes, it completely covered the
decks. As we reached the shore, and mounted to the pier with our hats
battered and our pockets full of icy spheroids, we had to face still
another trial characteristic of the Plata, a rain storm. But this rain
storm while interesting from a meteorological standpoint did not arouse
us to a sense of study. Big drops came quickly in the wake of the hail
pellets, and these multiplied with such rapidity that in a few minutes,
and before we could find shelter, it seemed as if all the clouds of
heaven had united to pour upon us a cold torrent.

Drenched as thoroughly as if we had been overboard, we shortly found
our way to the Hotel Oriental, and here the entire upper floor was
placed at the disposition of the members of the expedition. After a
comfortable night’s rest and a cup of delicious Rio coffee brought to
our bedside--a custom which is everywhere in South America a joy--we
prepared for a material study of the city and its resources.

San Felipe de Monte Video is the full name of the capital of the
Oriental Republic of Uruguay, but it is now generally written
Montevideo. It has a population of about 200,000, and of these it
is said that not less than 50,000 are foreign residents. The entire
Republic has a population not exceeding 800,000, hence one quarter of
Uruguayan residences are here closely huddled together near the mouth
of the Plata. The blood of the Uruguayans, aside from the complex
European admixture, which is now entering their veins, is a curious
blend of old Spanish and local Indian. But unlike similar hybrids many
of the good qualities of the bold Spaniard, and of the freedom-loving
Indian have been preserved. Hence the men have developed into a type
of vigorous manhood giving an appearance at once of wild strength and
refined intelligence, while the women must be considered as among the
most beautiful of the world.

The trade of Montevideo seems far beyond what we would expect from a
town of its size. Wool, hides, tallow, dried beef, and, in general, the
products of cattle farming are the chief and nearly the only exports.
But these are gathered from the interior in such tremendous quantities,
and with so little expense, that they form an enviable source of
wealth; and since this is also one of the chief exports of the United
States, it is evident that Uruguay is to us a formidable commercial
rival. The imports are very large, because this is a centre from which
much of the country in the Plata basin is supplied. The imports consist
principally of cotton, woollen and silk fabrics, hardware, wine,
various food products, and, within the past few years, much improved
machinery has been bought. The trade is almost entirely with the
various states of Europe, of which England claims twenty-five per cent.
The means of transportation to the United States is so imperfect, and
the efforts of our merchants have been so feeble that Yankee goods are
little in evidence here.

From our balcony at the hotel we had a charming view of the city and of
the bay which forms the harbour. Twenty-seven steamers of huge tonnage
were anchored at various points, mostly far from the shore. A little
nearer were a series of cruisers from various nations. Among these was
the beautiful little _Castine_ of our White Squadron, and _H.
M. S. Retribution_. Still nearer were a large number of flat-bottom
river crafts, which navigate the Parana and Uruguay rivers. The harbour
thus presented every evidence of thrift and industry, while the many
large warehouses fronting the water were sufficient proof of the great
commerce. The city is composed mostly of tile-roofed two-story stone
houses, neat in appearance, and comfortable in equipments. The law
prohibits the building of private residences more than seventeen metres
in height. But there are many public buildings which are raised much
higher, and notable among these is the imposing structure which now
belongs to the University of Montevideo. It was originally built as
a hotel, but was finally bought by the Government as the home of its
principal institute of learning. The building occupies a good sized
square, is five stories in height, and has a wide open centre with
balconies on every floor. The institution has excellent laboratories,
libraries, and is in many ways well adapted for modern education. It is
thus a proof of the noble and higher aims of our little sister Republic.

Closely connected with the University is the growing fame of a young
Italian bacteriologist--Dr. I. Sanarelli. Two years ago Dr. Sanarelli
accepted a position on the staff of the Institute of Hygiene, and in
addition to his regular work he has devoted much of his time to a
careful search for the germ of yellow fever. His efforts seem to have
been crowned with success, for he is to-day the most noted man in
all South America. I heard the name of Dr. Sanarelli on every tongue
from the Amazon to the Plata, and I expected to pay him a formal
professional visit, but this was obviated by a more natural meeting. We
were taking dinner at the one fashionable restaurant of the town when
the famous doctor came in, and he was promptly ushered to our table.

The story of the discovery of the germ of a disease which has
destroyed thousands, perhaps millions, of human lives, is a matter of
considerable interest and certainly vastly more important than that of
a king who has conquered nations. And if this discovery is supplemented
by a remedy which will cure or prevent the disease, it will surely be
one of the greatest blessings which the world has ever known. Both of
these attainments seem to be within the grasp of Dr. Sanarelli. During
the early part of the present year (1897) he discovered the little
organism which is the cause of the yellow pest. The news has spread
over the entire world, but with the usual conservative attitude of
the medical profession the brilliant discovery has been but slowly
recognised; even at present there are many doubters who will not accept
the newly discovered organism as the sole cause of yellow fever until
confirmatory observations establish the fact more definitely. The
Montevideo doctors, however, one and all, accept the discovery as final
and look with confidence to Dr. Sanarelli for the practical outcome of
the curative plan of treatment upon which he is now experimenting.

To cure yellow fever with its cause in hand, it is proposed to make
a fluid similar to the anti-diphtheritic serums, which are either
destructive or inhibitory to the germs in question. Such a serum has
been made and it has been tried upon beasts and men with what Dr.
Sanarelli considers marked success. The Brazilian government, in
whose domain there is always a nursery of the disease, has recognised
the great possibilities of this work, and will shortly set up an
experimental laboratory for the manufacture of the serum. For a
positive judgment as to the success or failure of the serum plan of
treatment we must wait for a long trial, perhaps several years; but the
glory and the credit of being the first to see in this dangerous little
speck of life, hitherto invisible, an enemy which has caused the death
of uncounted thousands of vigorous human lives, already belongs beyond
a question to Dr. Sanarelli.

Our time at Montevideo was spent in collecting articles of equipment,
provisions, and general supplies, for the use of the expedition in
the icy antarctic. For this purpose the city affords many advantages,
since nearly all foreign goods can be obtained at very moderate prices,
and the local production of fresh provisions are both limitless and
cheap. Under the guidance of our thoughtful Belgian friends, we were
offered every facility to enjoy the warm hospitality of the place,
and to accomplish quickly the objects of our visit. And although we
were anchored here less than three days, we were able to complete our
mission, and see a few of the local characteristics. The stores are
everywhere well stocked with domestic and foreign goods, and if the
buyer is able to speak English or French he will have little difficulty
in being understood. The streets are wide, regular, and well paved with
granite blocks. Tram-ways afford ample but slow transit. Carriages
are numerous, and can be obtained at a very moderate cost. Somewhat
irregularly scattered throughout the city are small parks with neat
arrangements of tropical and semi-tropical plants. The greatest
attention, however, seems to be given not to flowery decorations, but
to the systematic adjustment of wide promenades.

It does not take a party of young bachelors, such as the “personnel” of
the _Belgica_, very long to discover the side of life with which
these promenades are always closely related. Indeed, we soon found out,
without assistance, the reason for their great width in proportion
to the size of the park--a cause which was to us a never-ceasing
pleasure. For we all arrived independently at the conclusion that this
feature of the city must be due to the remarkable number and variety of
strikingly beautiful women in Montevideo, and their desire to display
their qualities to male admirers. So far as my limited experience goes,
there is no street or promenade in the world which can offer so large
a number of charming young women, in a given group and in a given
time, as these palmy promenades of Montevideo. We found it difficult
to assign a tangible reason for this attractiveness. It was not in the
dress, for the costume was that of nearly all the civilised world. It
was not in the form, in the colour of the hair, in the carriage, or in
any noticeable art of manner; for all of these characteristics were
comparable to those of the refined women of New York, Paris, or London.
But in addition to perfection in all these matters there was about them
an indescribable something, which made every woman on sight appear to
be able to speak her own ideas and the meditations of her admirers in
the tongues of the observer, be he French, English, German, Spanish,
or what not. Perhaps we were too much absorbed to have discriminating
powers; but for this we should be pardoned, for it was about the last
glance we had of women, beautiful or otherwise, during four hundred
long, wintry days.

[Illustration: Part of Montevideo.]

The most prominent citizen of the United States in Uruguay is a modest
Bostonian of whom we hear little at home, but who is well-known
throughout South America. It is Mr. Thomas W. Howard, who has enjoyed
the unparalleled distinction of being a consular representative of the
United States for nearly thirty years. The force of character, the
executive ability and faithfulness to the home Government, necessary
to retain such a position through all the political upheavals, must
be evident to every one. The fact is, that Mr. Howard has performed
his duties so faithfully, and is such a favourite at once among his
countrymen and the Uruguayans, that a change has been found to be
undesirable by both the Democratic and Republican parties. Mr. Howard’s
residence is one of the bits of local architecture which is much
discussed and admired. It is situated in the most fashionable part of
the town, on the border of a small but luxuriant park. Its external
appearance is not extraordinary in either size or loveliness, appearing
simply as a substantial structure of bright sandstone with two stories,
but the interior displays wealth and artistic taste. Here expensively
polished marbles, rare antique furniture, and tasteful decorations are
everywhere in evidence. It is the home of a cultivated and refined man
of the world, amid the boundless South American luxuries.

It is impossible for me to give in this limited space the various
phases of interesting life in this merry Paris of South America, so
I will close with a few general impressions: First, Montevideo is a
city of uncounted natural wealth, for prosperity is stamped on the
blocks of every street, on the modest but comfortable homes, on the
stores, the hotels, the clubs, and the churches. Second, it is a city
of charming women, against whom I could bring but one indictment,
that of disbelieving in their natural charms to such an extent as
to lead them into a lavish use of artificial colouring and powder.
Third, the enjoyment of life is here one of the prominent arts of
daily occupation. Merry faces are always in evidence, and the light,
airy laughter of both sexes bursts with the ease of soap bubbles. Deep
meditation, curbing, or melancholy cares, and profound inspirations are
usually out of sight. Among Uruguayans life is indeed a happy, leaping,
bubbling stream.

CHAPTER III

ORGANISATION OF THE EXPEDITION

OFF CAPE VIRGIN, November, 29, 1897.

Quite as interesting as the work of an exploring expedition is
the story of the initial inception of the idea, and the various
experiences, fortunes and misfortunes of its projector. The difficulty
of Columbus in securing the necessary funds for his bold voyage
across the unknown waters of the west are familiar to all. A similar
difficulty has fallen to the lot of M. de Gerlache and every explorer
who, even in the modern days of progress and scientific enlightenment,
has tried to secure the necessary funds for a voyage of scientific
exploration. When an area equal to one sixth of the known land surface
of the globe still remains unexplored, it is easy to formulate plans
for journeys of discovery; but to secure the money for their execution
is quite another matter.

The ambition for antarctic exploration in Lieutenant de Gerlache’s mind
is an old story. “Exploration in general,” he says, “and antarctic
exploration in particular, has always had for me a particular
fascination. When Professor Nordenskjöld announced his project for
south polar exploration in 1892, I at once volunteered, but this, like
many other projected southern expeditions, never materialised. The
disappointment, however, only sharpened my ambition as did every one of
my many subsequent discouragements.”

In 1894 Lieut. de Gerlache presented his first paper to the Royal
Geographical Society of Brussels. It was the prospectus of this
expedition in its infancy. In it he made as strong a plea as possible
for aid to promote exploration of the long neglected antarctic.
The Society approved of the project, but offered, at that time, no
financial assistance and even delayed its moral support. Various
men of wealth were then appealed to, and after many disheartening
disappointments, he enlisted the interest of M. Solvay, a promoter
of science, “and with him the first glimmer of success dawned upon
the horizon of the enterprise which was the ‘apple of my eye’--the
projected Belgian Antarctic Expedition.”

Mr. Solvay laid the foundation of the fund with 25,000 francs, or
$5,000. In addition, he generously furnished the money for a visit to
the arctic regions, a necessary preliminary schooling for an antarctic
explorer. A leave without pay was obtained from the Navy to promote
the germinating interests of the coming expedition. In the early part
of 1895 Gerlache went to Norway, and with the Norwegian sealers to Jan
Mayen and to the East Greenland waters. Here he studied the life of the
sealers at work, their methods, and the strange animal life. He studied
the elements of ice navigation, and above all, caught the never-dying
fascination which enraptures every intruder into the white boreal
regions.

On his return from the Arctic Sea, the expedition had assumed a more
definite shape; the plan was matured, and definite arrangements were at
once instituted. A prospectus was sent to King Leopold with a request
for an audience, but it was refused. Gerlache then wrote a series of
five articles, calculated to awaken interest in south polar regions.
These were published and given much prominence by _L’Independance
Belge_. The articles, with the warm support of the press, aroused
the needed enthusiasm, and created the welcome public sentiment which
carried the project to its final issue.

The Geographical Society, on its next meeting, at the end of January,
1896, opened a subscription list, but the fund swelled slowly. With the
assistance of regimental festivities, cycling contests, exhibitions,
and the help of various special committees throughout Belgium, 120,000
francs ($24,000) were realised. The Government was then appealed to,
and it responded with a grant of 100,000 francs ($20,000). The total
sum was now $50,000. The road to success now seemed very easy, but
other and unexpected troubles followed. The $50,000, with the greatest
economy, did not suffice for the many unlooked-for contingencies.

Active preparations were begun early in June of 1896, though it was
hardly expected that the expedition would be able to start during that
year. Gerlache went to Norway, and there bought from Captain Pedersen
the _Patria_ according to a previous agreement, patriotically
rechristening her _Belgica_. She seemed to be about the only ship
of the Norwegian ice-fleet at all suitable for the expedition, and even
after she was secured Lieutenant de Gerlache had to arrange with Mr.
Christensen of Sandafjiord to put in a new boiler, and to make other
necessary alterations and repairs. At about this time, also, definite
arrangements were made with several of the prospective members of the
expedition--Messrs. Arctowski, Danco, and Amundsen were enlisted in
the project. In spite of many minor discouragements, the prospects now
really seemed bright; the expedition, it was felt, would surely embark.
But Gerlache was then again delayed, though undaunted, by finding
that the fund at his command was not sufficient to properly equip the
expedition.

The final preparations of the vessel, the purchase of the scientific
instruments, many of which were specially made, the want of ready
money, and a thousand little matters which needed attention combined to
delay the expedition. In addition to these drawbacks, other scientific
men were necessary to complete the staff. Special efforts were put
forth to secure a competent zoölogist, one who possessed qualities
essential to a polar explorer, and this proved one of the greatest
difficulties. Belgium and France were searched without avail, and
finally Mr. Racovitza was found in Rumania. But he was doing military
duty, and it was feared that the diplomatic arrangements essential for
his release would be slow. However, he was luckily freed at once to
join the growing family of pioneers.

For south polar exploration it is necessary to leave the northern
hemisphere in July or August. For it should be remembered that the
seasons in the south are the reverse of those of the north. January
is the midsummer of the antarctic. The vessels which are fitted to
withstand ice jamming are slow. The heavy cumbersome timbers, the
blunt bow, round bottom, fuel-saving engines and small canvas, are
all excellent for ice navigation, but they are decided impediments to
speed. The first of September was now at hand, and painful as was the
thought of a year’s delay, it proved unavoidable.

Lieutenant de Gerlache was in close communion with Commander Wandel of
Copenhagen who had charge of the Danish East Greenland Expedition. This
expedition in its scientific aims was more like the prospective Belgian
Expedition than any other venture, and furthermore Captain Wandel was
familiar with the United States exploring ship _Blake_, which had
done splendid work in ascertaining the depths of the Pacific. “From
Commander Wandel,” says Gerlache, “I obtained not only valuable data,
but much of his equipment at a nominal cost.” In this way the end of
the summer was spent in Denmark, and in a similar way the winter was
spent in Norway.

To visit Dr. Nansen, and to prepare himself more thoroughly for the
antarctic, Gerlache made his home in Norway during the early months
of winter. For a like reason Lieutenant Danco accompanied him; they
learned to travel on _skis_, and experimented with sledges,
winter clothing, and camp equipments. The best possible outfit was
selected for the intended sledge journeys over the virgin south polar
lands. Many condensed and preserved foods, admirably adapted for polar
journeys, are best obtained in Norway. From this experience it followed
that most of our provisions were Norwegian.

Returning from Norway with the _Belgica_ early in July 1897, he
found that all the money was spent, and still he needed many, very
many, important things. “Again,” says Gerlache, “I sought aid by
private subscriptions, and again we were doomed to disappointment.
We now decided on a desperate effort. It was to arrange a public
exhibition of the _Belgica_ and its entire equipment, and either
raise the additional financial support, or sell the whole outfit and
abandon the project. The exhibition was very largely attended by
the best people of Belgium, a fresh interest was created, and a new
patriotic pride now arose in behalf of the expedition.

“A subscription feast was prepared, which, through the indefatigable
efforts of Madame Osterrieth, became very popular and profitable. The
festivities were held at a public park in Antwerp which was handsomely
decorated for the occasion. Special military gymnastics and cycling
contests were among the attractions, the attendance was large, and the
welfare of the ‘Expedition Antartique Belge’ was on every tongue. The
occasion won for Madame Osterrieth the title of ‘Mother Antarctic,’ and
for the expedition ten thousand francs.

“Mr. Schollaert, the worthy Minister of the Interior, visited the
_Belgica_ as did many other deputies, and through them the
Government was asked for another sixty thousand francs--an amount
absolutely necessary to assure the successful issue of the expedition.
This was granted, making the entire fund from all sources three
hundred thousand francs, or about sixty thousand dollars. With this,
preparations were at once made to leave Antwerp and the departure was
announced for August 16th.

“Letters and telegrams with good wishes and friendly sentiments poured
in from all sides at the last moment. But of these I can only mention a
few:

“Captain Hovgaard of the Danish Navy, and a member of the famous Vega
Expedition wired his compliments and ‘Good Luck.’

“Dr. Neumayer, of Hamburg, who has advocated antarctic exploration for
twenty-five years wired: ‘My most sincere wishes follow you toward the
south pole.’

“Fridtjof Nansen, whose star of fame had just risen, wired: ‘Chance
and luck follow you and the _Belgica_. May the voyage bring such
rich scientific results as the careful preparations promise, and may it
throw a new light over the darkest part of the world.’

“We weighed anchor and drew out of Antwerp on August 16th. Many people
gathered to see the starting, and all Antwerp seemed on foot to wish
us _bon voyage_. Representatives from many French societies were
there to congratulate us on our good fortune with the organisation, and
to wish the expedition unbounded success. The yachts of the Antwerp
Yacht Club, under whose flag the _Belgica_ sailed, showed their
interest by salutations and a rich bedecking of flags. Amid the storm
of cheers from the people on the quays, the tooting of whistles from
neighbouring crafts, and the thundering of cannons from places which
we knew not, we slowly withdrew. After a few hours Antwerp, with its
friendly hilarity and its bustling activity, sank from view. Then,
after a breath of ease and a moment of reflection, we felt that the
hardest part of our work had been accomplished. At last the hard-earned
project was afloat, and, as if to force the pride of our work upon us,
the Dutch cruiser _Kartenaar_ followed us out to sea in company
for twenty-four hours, an indication of neighbourly affection which
we keenly appreciated. This we afterwards learned was by order of the
Dutch Queen Wilhelmina.

“Head winds, against which no progress could be made, and a small
accident to the engine, made it necessary to put into Ostend. Here his
Majesty, King Leopold, visited us, offering many congratulations on the
success of the difficult task of organising the first Belgian polar
expedition. His Majesty took a sharp interest in the _Belgica_,
and closely examined her many peculiar fixtures, finally offering his
hand and many words of warm encouragement befitting the occasion.

“During the few hot days of August, which were spent at Ostend, a
teeming mass of fellow-countrymen and women crowded the decks of the
_Belgica_. It seemed, with the vessel loaded so heavily, with
every cubic foot of space occupied, and even the bunks and state-rooms
piled full of useful articles, so that there was really no room for
curiosity seekers, as if all Ostend, and a good part of the outside
world, had been aboard. There came a time, however, when the ship
must leave, when we must finally sever ourselves from the friendly
atmosphere of our beloved native land, and leave our friends behind for
the second and last time until our return.”

It was on the eve of the final departure from home, by the way, that
my own name was first suggested as a future companion. There had
been considerable trouble and some disappointment in connection with
the surgeons appointed. The first candidate was put aside, after
acceptance, for personal reasons, and the second declined to go at
the last moment for family reasons. Without a knowledge of this
difficulty I cabled, volunteering my services, though at this time I
had not previously written a line, nor was I acquainted with a single
individual of the expedition, or its representatives. In response to my
cable I received this:

1 B H WH 11 OSTENDE, 10.45P (Via 369 Fulton St Brooklyn,)

DR COOK,
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

FOUVEZ REJOINDRE MONTEVIDEO MAIS HIVERNEREZ PAS
GERLACHE.

To this I answered yes, and it was followed by, “Meet us at Rio, end of
September.” I had only a few days to prepare myself and my outfit for
a journey which might take one year, or ten, or a lifetime. But I was
determined to go, and so it came about that in September I found myself
on the way to meet my prospective companions on the unfriendly bosom
of the Atlantic, seasick and miserable from rough weather and tropical
heat. I should have had a longer time to afford better means to prepare
for a journey of this kind. To consent by cable to cast my lot in a
battle against the supposed unsurmountable icy barriers of the south,
with total strangers, men from another continent, speaking a language
strange to me, does indeed seem rash. But I never had cause to regret
it. The antarctic has always been the dream of my life, and to be on
the way to it was then my ideal of happiness. To be on the way from it
was an ambition quite as strong two years later.

Captain Lecointe describes the final departure and the voyage down the
Atlantic thus: “There was a great storm of sentimental and serious
enthusiasm as we left Ostend on August 24th. Fathers and mothers,
brothers and sisters, and other men’s sisters were there to press upon
us their last tokens of love. This was done in different ways. Some
cried, others laughed and took the matter in a good humor, and still
others were angry that one of their number should, with eyes open, go
from a warm home to what was predicted to be a certain icy grave. Many
of the old seamen about gave gratuitous advice to our friends, based
upon their own experiences about Cape Horn, which in substance was
generally ‘these men will never return.’ As the _Belgica_ drew out
from the docks and we saw for the last time for many months the red
faces of sadness, the pale faces of anxiety, the waving handkerchiefs,
and as we felt the parting girlish kisses coming with the soft breezes,
we were, indeed, half sorry to leave our little land of home delights.
Amid the cheer of enthusiastic voices and the thunder of salutations
from whistles and guns we glided out into the broad Atlantic, whose
beating swells were henceforth to be our home and our highway to the
chosen field of action, the snowy south polar regions.”

[Illustration: The Belgica.]

CHAPTER IV

THE “BELGICA,” HER EQUIPMENT, HER COMFORTS AND DISCOMFORTS

STRAIT OF MAGELLAN, Dec. 2, 1897.

I have now been on the _Belgica_ more than a month, and my
admiration for her becomes stronger as we advance toward the southern
ice. Her history, her fittings, her equipment, and her men, all serve
to enhance this affection, and every day I find in our good ship new
points of interest. She has been dressed and redressed so much on this
voyage down the Atlantic that the original owners would now hardly
recognise her. She has been scraped and polished and painted, and
rearranged inside and out, until she looks quite like a pleasure craft.
Her new name, _Steam Yacht Belgica_, now fits her, for her aspect
and atmosphere as a greasy, sooty sealer has vanished. The almost
inseparable distinction of a sealing craft, the persistent fishy odour,
is also gone.

The more we drive her over this lonely sea, the more we fix and comb
and dress her, the stronger we feel her quivering animation. She
already has a place in our affections as definitely as a pet horse. As
she takes us farther and farther away from our homes, we become daily
more dependent upon her. And as she pitches and tosses in the unruly
seas, and rides out the forbidding storms, we feel we shall love her
better. We may have become sentimental about our little pet, but so
much depends on her. On the ability of the _Belgica_ to plough
through the virgin antarctic ice, depends our success in exploring the
prospective new lands. On her hospitality depends our comfort, and on
her stability depends, not only the success or failure of the entire
expedition, but our future existence, for if she is buried in the
antarctic, we cannot hope to survive, we must go with her to an icy
grave.

To see the _Belgica_ aright, and appreciate her real value,
she should be observed in the polar ice, her natural home. In a
cosmopolitan harbour, like Antwerp or Rio de Janeiro, among the larger
ships and modern ironclads, she seems like a little bull-dog amid a
group of large greyhounds--small, awkward, and ungraceful. In colour
the _Belgica_ is gray, with natural wood and cream trimmings. She
is bark rigged, and has patent single topsails. Her body is one hundred
and ten feet long, twenty-six feet wide, and she has a draft of fifteen
feet. In a good wind, without steam, she is able to sail six knots.
An auxiliary steam power is placed well aft, that the bow may rise
to crush the ice. The boiler is new, and the engine has an effective
horse-power of one hundred and fifty. Burning three and a half tons of
coal, in Belgian bricks (_bricquettes_), and with smooth water,
the _Belgica_ will make seven knots per hour. But we shall only
use her half speed, for with two tons of coal she will make about
four knots, a speed quite sufficient amid icebergs, drifting floes,
pack-ice, and unknown rocks.

There are many points of special interest in the construction of a
modern steam sealer like the _Belgica_. But to describe all these
would lead us into too many long nautical details. In selecting the
framework of the bark, timbers were obtained of double the usual size
and strength of an ordinary vessel of the same measurement. The stem
was inclined, making the bow of an inclination similar to that of a
sledge runner, which enables the vessel to rise on to the surface of
the ice, and crush it rather by its own weight than by the motive
force, as did the older ice-vessels. Otherwise the shape is similar to
that of a well-built modern sealing vessel.

The planking inside and outside of the ponderous framework is of
extraordinary strength, and over all is a special ice-sheathing of
very hard wood. The bow and stern are protected by four-inch planks
of greenheart, a tropical wood possessing the remarkable quality of
being both hard and elastic. Experience has taught that this wood
affords the best protection against the ice destruction. Amidships
the wear is less, and here thick oak planks seem to afford the needed
security, while it is much lighter and cheaper. The stern wall is five
feet thick, and the breast wall about twelve feet in antro-posterior
diameter. Outside of this almost indestructible battering ram, there
is a protective sheathing of soft Swedish iron, to receive the first
cutting edges of the ice.

The rudder is large and specially strong to stand the strain of the
crushing ice, while the vessel goes astern into the pack. The helmport
is large enough to make it possible to dislodge obstructive ice.
The propeller, too, has its special points of interest. It can be
raised out of the water, as occasion may require, to free it from ice
entanglements, or to replace it with a new one, should it be broken,
and also to permit free sailing. And then there is the crow’s nest--a
huge barrel raised to the top of the mainmast, to enable the lookout
to view a greater horizon. We shall often expect to hear, as I have in
the arctic, startling news from the man in this sky-barrel. He will
probably announce the first sight of some new lands, and will often
send down a signal of our approach to some big animal, which will bring
us all on deck armed with rifles, only to find a piece of discoloured
ice or snow as a target.

If by any chance the southern ice-floes should hug us too
affectionately, we are well prepared for its unwelcome caresses.
Our little ship will stand a good deal of hard squeezing; she is
constructed to fight not only with her engines and her armoured
breast, but in her bowels we have stored something like two thousand
pounds of tonite, an explosive said to be superior to dynamite for ice
destruction. With this tonite we hope to blast and shatter and find
freedom for our _Belgica_ if embraced by the Frost King.

Although we do not expect to hunt seals or whales or anything else
for commercial purposes, the expedition is well prepared to take all
kinds of life for scientific study. We have boom and harpoon guns to
capture whales and sea-elephants. We have rifles, shotguns, pistols,
knives, and ammunition to do justice to a pirate ship. Several thousand
pounds of alcohol, and a large quantity of chemicals are on hand to
preserve animal specimens, and also cotton for stuffing birds, as well
as an apparatus for blowing eggs. Our cameras are of all varieties, and
with these we expect to photograph the strange antarctic life with its
immediate surroundings.

The devices for scientific fishing are as complete as the limited
finances would permit. We shall be able to fish on the surface in the
middle stratas, and on the bottom of the deep sea. We can even scrape
the bed of the ocean with huge dredges for low forms of life, and
can drop the thermometer down to register the degrees of heat of the
invisible homes of these strange creatures.

The trawls and dredges are made after the last American Sigsbee system
as improved by Professor Agassiz. There are four large frames, fifteen
nets, and three thousand fathoms of galvanised steel rope with a
tensile strength of five tons to haul the catch by steam. And then
there is the tangle-bar, and much other fishing apparatus, all of
which would make an old-time fisherman stare with envy. In short, the
equipment is such that not only the life of the air and land will be
accessible, but also a systematic study of the marine life inhabiting
the unmeasured depths of the southern ocean will be for the first time
possible.

The new science of oceanography, or as Lieutenant Maury, its father,
called it, “the geography of the sea,” has been constantly in mind in
the organisation and equipment of the _Belgica_. The outfit for
fishing partly belongs to this department; unique devices for sounding
the ocean in all depths by the Monacho machine (with pianoforte wire
and steel rope as a line, sinkers which detach automatically, and a
complicated system of special steam machinery) is now adjusted, ready
for use. We expect to study the submarine currents, temperature,
and the composition of the water. For all of this, we have special
apparatus, perhaps not interesting to the average reader in a
description, but the results are sure to add a new and startling
chapter to the growing annals of ocean science.

The laboratory is in a small, specially constructed deckhouse behind
the foremast. Its dimensions are small, perhaps fifteen feet long and
twelve feet wide, but its capacity for storing instruments, and its
convenience for work is phenomenal. It is intended as the centre for
all scientific work, a sort of “union den” for the working staff,
as the motto painted in large letters over the window “_L’Union
Fait L’Force_,” indicates. It will, however, be principally used
for meteorologic, oceanographic, and zoölogical investigations. When
one first steps into the laboratory, there creeps over one a fear to
move, for everything seems a frail meshwork of glass; straight and
spiral tubes, glass cylinders, thermometers, barometers, test tubes,
bottles, and glass articles, too numerous to mention, are attached
to all the available surface on the walls, the shelves and even the
ceiling. At first appearance one would pronounce the frail fixtures
short-lived, and it certainly seems as if a single sharp toss or sudden
pitch of the ship would send the whole glassy splendour in fragments
to the floor. The vessel, however, has rolled for three months on the
destructive swell of the Atlantic, and, thanks to the carefully planned
attachments, very few instruments have been broken; so we have reason
to hope from this experience that the ice will not be more injurious.

A very complete library is on board. It is a library, like the men,
of various tongues, and descriptive of a great variety of subjects.
Each department has its technical bibliography. The Commandant and the
writer have a general collection of all the antarctic narratives in
all tongues. The Captain has a heap of charts and books on navigation;
Lieutenant Danco has everything pertaining to terrestrial magnetism.
The general scientific library is indeed a cosmopolitan collection.
It contains books in French, English, German, Polish, Norwegian, and
Rumanian print. In addition to serious literature, we have other books
and magazines of lighter character. But these float about, from the
laboratory to the cabin, and then to the forecastle, always in the
hands of those whose spirits need elevating. Weeklies with unusually
good pictures, such as half tones of beautiful women, theatric or opera
scenes are reserved and served after dinner as a kind of entertainment.

The quarters for officers and men are fairly good--palatial, as
comfort is measured on a sealer. The Commandant has a neat little
room behind the mizzenmast, opposite to the kitchen. It is carpeted,
nicely furnished, and the walls are artistically bedecked by old Dutch
sketches, some paintings, and many photographs of polar scenes. We are
so pressed for space, that we are told even this room will be partly
filled with coal at Punta Arenas. The cabin is well aft; like the
laboratory, the Commandant’s room, and the kitchen, it is on deck. As
we enter, to the right of the engines are the berths of the Captain
and the mates, where they have the soot, steam, and smoke of the
engine-room to impress upon them the importance of their work, while
the noise is such that prolonged sleep is impossible. The cabin is
small, but full of comfort. It is as if eight men stood up around a
small table, and a box were built around them, the corners and walls
and ceiling being lined with books and instruments. It is not a very
joyful place in the tropics, but when an endless sea of ice surrounds
us, and the wind is blowing, and the decks are covered with snow, then,
with steaming food on the table, we shall find its true value.

A door through the left of the cabin opens into an aisle, to the side
of which are the four berths where the devotees of science sleep. The
sides are thoughtfully lined with lockers, but every nook, the beds,
the ceiling, and at times even the floor, is covered with clothing,
instruments and books. After a storm it is a sad rivalry in hopeless
entanglement. The forecastle occupies the space between decks from
the foremast to the stem. It is large, light, and, compared with the
officers’ quarters, extremely comfortable. We speak French in the
cabin, German and French in the laboratory, and a mixture of English,
Norwegian, French, and German in the forecastle. The life and order on
board of the _Belgica_ is that of a well-regulated family. Each
man has his duties to perform, but he will also be expected to lend
a brotherly hand to his companions as occasion may require. On clear
evenings the music-box is often brought up on deck, and as the familiar
tunes bound out into the strangely clear atmosphere, some sing, others
dance; some walk about, and still others play games. The scene is truly
melancholy upon reflection. We are going farther and farther away from
home to the most desolate and forbidding part of the known or the
unknown world. Our return is uncertain, our future is dark; but we have
set out with this knowledge before us, and now it is our duty to aid
in keeping up the general family cheerfulness. Whatever else may be
our future success or failure, our domestic comforts are assured. When
we assemble on deck after dinner, with the music to draw out a general
feeling of well-being, a generous and unanimous air of joy rises with
the ascending dew of the setting sun of the South Atlantic.

CHAPTER V

MONTEVIDEO TO PUNTA ARENAS

PUNTA ARENAS, Dec. 14, 1897.

The _Belgica_ raised her anchor and steamed out of the harbour
of Montevideo Sunday, November 14, 1897. We were showered with the
good wishes of the people, and loaded with the good things of the
land. The entire Belgian colony followed us far out into the stream
to bid us a final adieu, while the officers and men were kept closely
occupied in answering the various signal salutations of the many
neighbouring vessels as we passed. The deck strewn with provisions,
hastily assembled at the last moment and alive with visitors, was a
picture to send a thrill to the heart of a navigator about to encounter
the worst sea on earth; but the happy disposition instilled by our
congenial friends made us forget, for a time, all cares for the future.
Soon we ploughed across the choppy waters of the River Plata under an
uncomfortable series of squalls which seemed to come with a hiss and a
force like bombs from a cannon. Before sunset we had left the low, blue
line of hills which mark the northern banks of the river and the site
of Montevideo, far under the northern horizon. We were again on our
way to the snowy bottom of the globe, with intentions to stop by the
wayside at the world’s jumping-off-place, Punta Arenas.

On the following morning a heavy sea was pounding our port-bow, giving
a quick lift, and permitting a sudden fall, to which our stomachs
seriously objected. The sky was clothed with gloomy clouds having
hard, zigzag edges like the margins of torn sheets of lead. We were,
to all appearances, far out in the open expanse of the broad Atlantic,
but, in reality, we were still in the mouth of the River Plata,--which
accounted for the warm humid winds driving over our starboard. Much
of the day was spent in an examination and rearrangement of our newly
acquired equipage and provisions. It was to me a matter of agreeable
surprise to find among these so many of the fruits and vegetables
common to the New York market; but this is explained by the fact
that Uruguay is a land of perpetual summer, where winter frosts are
nearly unknown. The time of our visit was the spring of the southern
hemisphere, November 15th, in the south, corresponding to May 15th,
in the north; and while fruit and vegetable products are plentiful
through the year, they are particularly delicious at this time. We
had strawberries, cherries, apples, lettuce, radishes, peas, beans,
artichokes, new potatoes, cabbage, and a long list of other fresh
productions. There is, however, one great anomaly in the food supply
of South America; it is the difficulty of obtaining fresh milk and the
impossibility of securing good butter.

This is particularly surprising in view of the fact that, in Uruguay
and Argentina, cattle farming is at once one of the principal
industries and a source of the principal wealth of the countries. That
good butter and excellent milk could be made under competent management
is unquestionable. At Buenos Aires several successful efforts have been
made, and the best results have followed the efforts of a missionary
who has taken to the management of cows in preference to the more
difficult task of reforming Spanish American sins.

In the absence of butter one is, however, not so seriously disappointed
after he is accustomed to the Spanish substitute, “_dulce de
leche_,” a sort of confection of milk. Mrs. Huysman, the wife of a
prominent Belgian of Montevideo, had presented the expedition with a
liberal supply of this, and after one or two introductions it proved
quite a delicacy. _Dulce de leche_ is a kind of sweet paste of the
consistency of lard; at ordinary temperature it has a straw colour and
no distinct odour. It is made of condensed milk, cane sugar and the
marrow of the largest beef bones, the ingredients being worked together
in a smooth homogeneous mixture, and then sealed in small tin cans.
In this form it is much in use, and can be obtained throughout all of
southern South America. The mixture is extremely nutritious, and aside
from its position as a substitute for butter it has evidently special
values of its own. I see no reason why it could not be introduced with
advantage into the United States.

On the morning of the 16th, the sky was clear of the heavy clouds
which descend with the stream of the Rio de la Plata. There was a
little air, dry and pleasant, coming from the Patagonian pampas over
our western horizon. The sea was a joy to behold. Its surface was like
a sheet of silver, glassy and luminous, with long, easy and regular
undulations. Through these the _Belgica_ steamed with a grace and
ease quite befitting a pleasure yacht. Under the inspiration of the
morning, we were prepared to deny the evil reports so often made of
these waters. That such an easy sea, and such a heavenly sky could in a
short time be transformed into a howling mockery by the storm demons,
did not seem, to our innocent trust in nature, a possibility; but the
afternoon brought with it signs of uneasiness. The steady air from the
west ceased, and little breezes followed from all parts of the compass.
The exquisite bright blueness of the sky changed to a smoky blue; but
at two o’clock there were no clouds and nothing on the horizon to
indicate danger. The atmosphere became quickly humid and heavy, making
respiration seem difficult, while the barometer was spasmodically
rising and falling. That there was some unusual phenomenon which we
were about to witness, we felt convinced, but we were long in getting
hints as to its nature.

At about four o’clock a sharp dark line, like a perfectly straight bar
of iron, was seen over the southern horizon. It rose with wondrous
rapidity and as it ascended above this central bar there swelled out
a perfectly smooth and even roll of weirdly luminous vapour. Across
the rounded surface were small, ragged films of intense white and
steel gray passing with lightning haste, and this gave the upper line
an awe-inspiring appearance. Under the central bar the cloud was of
a dark steel gray, but we could at no time see the sky, or even the
horizon under the advancing commotion. We were intensely interested in
the sight, but it did not seem to us particularly dangerous, nor did
it strike the sailors with the terror which I have seen less imposing
sky-effects produce. The strangeness of the sight, however, put the
officers on guard, and every surface of sail that could be taken in was
at once furled. The sea now began to rise and it was strange to watch
it. It first boiled, apparently without wind, into short waves. This
the following wind straightened out like the wrinkles of a cloth under
a smoothing-iron. Then other waves rose too high and too solid for the
wind to flatten. These increased in size, and multiplied in numbers,
and rushed towards us in huge coils of spray. The _Belgica_
pitched and tumbled in the resulting sea, but as yet no wind had struck
her. The water and the air was lighted with a sort of vague pearly
glow. At this time the strange line seemed just over our bowsprit, and
extended entirely across the heavens from east to west, but only a
little draught of air crossed the bridge.

I turned to watch the men who had suddenly left their work and were
coming down from the rigging. All at once the bark was struck with
terrific force, and stopped as suddenly as if she had struck a stone
wall; this was followed by a howling, maddening noise as the wind
passed through the ropes and spars such as I had never heard before
or since. Everybody grasped a bar or a rope to keep from being swept
overboard. The bark, after the first thud, raised her bow and drove
her stern into the boiling sea, and then righted, seemingly prepared
for the next assault. After a few other, but lesser, puffs, the wind
came with a steady hiss--like steam from an exhaust pipe, and its
force was expended with the same rapidity with which it fell upon
us. From the commencement to the termination this strange onslaught
occupied but fifteen minutes; but this was as much as I care to see of
a hurricane of this sort, though they are sufficiently prevalent in
this region to receive the special local name of _pamperos_. A
_pampero_ is apt to leave a lasting impression on one’s mind, and
on the _Belgica_ we date all of our events from the time of its
occurrence.

For a few days following the _pampero_ we were gliding along the
coast of Patagonia, but out of sight of land, under the most beautiful
skies and in the most delightful weather imaginable. Pleasant weather,
however, makes the life of a sailor monotonous and far from enjoyable,
because it affords time and opportunity to mend and dress and polish
the ship. Such was the work of the crew here. The tropical sun had
brought out some of the oil and not a little of the fishy odour with
which years of blubber hunting had filled her. The paint, also, which
had been piled on in different colours, year after year, came off
in large sheets like the bark of a dead tree. To mend and dress the
_Belgica_, then, in a suitable garb for the perpetual frost of the
south pole was a matter of considerable work.

The skin of the bark was scraped, and painted, and varnished, and
polished, new sails were fitted, old ones repaired, and all of the
sailing gear was strengthened for the expected blasts south of Cape
Horn. Waterproof covers were made for the various bits of machinery
and the instruments openly exposed on deck. Between decks the
provisions were being examined and restored. Supplies and equipments
were put aside for a wintering party in the antarctic. The cabins and
the forecastles were to be cleared and altered for more prolonged
habitation, and the hammocks were put away, not to be used again for
a long time. Henceforth we must take to our berths, which are like
hermetically sealed cans. These bunks have been made to fit each man,
in length and breadth, according to careful measurement. The result is
that the fit is like that of a snug boot, but the comparison is hardly
admissible, since a neat-fitting boot flatters vanity, and pleases
the eye; but where are the joys of a boot for a bed? I must hasten to
add that such an economy of room was necessary; but, unfortunately,
either the beds had shortened, or the men had lengthened, for two men
presently complained that their bunks were now six inches too short.

The pleasant dispositions and the regular daily occupations, which come
with continued fair weather, were abruptly set aside on November 26th.
Our eyes in the morning opened under a sky dark, gray, and gloomy. This
was soon enlivened by wildly moving cloudy streamers, under which the
sea tumbled in huge cliffs, and our stomachs raised in long reaches.
_Mal de mer_ was the openly acknowledged pastime of the hour,
and it seemed to be in evidence in direct proportion to the mental
development of the personnel. The Captain, for example, was the first
victim, and he was followed by the most capable sympathisers of the
_état major_. These were followed by the ordinary seamen, the
man of lowest mental development being usually the last to loosen the
gastric bonds. Let this be a comfort to victims of Neptune.

The wind poured upon us in hard, steady blasts from the south-west
for nearly two days, which gave us, on our growing menu, a taste of
the normal weather of the “roaring forties”--a relish which a heavy
lumbering sealing craft is apt to impress upon the memory. We were
hungry for the sight of land, which the Captain had been promising us
as an appetiser from hour to hour; for we had been a fortnight without
seeing anything but the blackness and blueness of the Patagonian sea,
and anything in the form of land would have been a feast to our eyes.

Early in the morning of November 29th a low straight line, like a
huge beam of wood, appeared to separate the grayness of the sky from
the soft blue waters in the south-west. It proved to be the northern
cape of the eastern entrance of the Strait of Magellan,--Cape Virgins.
The name is fascinating when one feels he is at the world’s end, and
land in any form in this locality is an encouragement, but there is
nothing about the topography of Cape Virgins which would arouse much
admiration. It is a long, sandy cliff one hundred and thirty-five
feet high, its base descending perpendicularly into the sea with the
interruption of an occasional shingle point, where it appears as if a
boat might make a landing. Its colour varies much with the position
of the sun, the character of the atmosphere, and the cloudiness of
the sky. As we approached, it at first appeared nearly white, with
occasional dark shadows when the surface was uneven, and the entire
wall was crested by a thin but smooth line of green grass. At this time
the direct beams fell upon the coast from the sun, still low on the
eastern skies. A few hours later, when we were nearer and the sun was
under a light cloud, the cliff appeared like a wall of terra cotta. The
cape is the seaward termination of a long range of low hills extending
across Patagonia.

Cape Virgins is one of the most important landmarks on the Atlantic
seaboard, and its discovery marked the beginning of the most
important period of maritime adventures in the history of navigation.
Before we pass it, and enter the now famous Strait, permit me to
give a few incidents in the story of the discovery of this cape
and the hard-earned but triumphant entrance into the narrow path
which permitted the first circumnavigation. The credit belongs to a
Portuguese, Fernão de Magalhães, and the honour belongs to Spain, for
the expedition was under the patronage of the Spanish crown.

Magalhães assembled his fleet at San Julian on the Patagonian coast,
Easter Eve, in the year 1520. Here he spent the few months of southern
winter, from April to October. During this time he first saw, and his
historians first described, the pampa Indians whom, because of their
loosely booted feet, they gave the ill-fitting name of Pata-gones:
a name which all the world of women should detest, for it means
clumsy-hoofed. From this first designation given to the people the
entire country from the Plata to the Strait, has been given the name
of Patagonia. Patagonia, then, fully translated, means the land of the
clumsy-hoofed people. This is unkind when, in reality, the Indians of
this region have feet which are not only smaller, but far neater in
shape than those of Europeans of the same size and weight. At this
anchorage Magalhães had some trouble with his officers who committed
the unpardonable crime of differing from him in their opinions. To one
of these men a letter was sent with a messenger who had instructions
to stab him while reading. Other officers were executed with similar
despatch. Magalhães was evidently a good representative of the saints
of his day, upholding the church with one hand, and committing the
blackest deeds of Satan with the other.

[Illustration:

OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.

Fuegian Boys]

On October 21st, Magalhães entered the Strait for which he had
searched and, though he had killed some of his officers but a short
time previous in a manner which would now be considered premeditated
murder, he honoured the saints by calling the channel Canal de Todos
los Santos--Canal of all the Saints. The cape on his starboard, as he
entered, was named the Cape of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, in honour
of the day on which it was discovered, St. Ursula’s day. Succeeding
generations have thought less of the saints and more of Magalhães,
and have named the canal in honour of its discoverer, but even the
discoverer’s name has changed with time, for to-day we write Strait of
Magellan, and not Magalhães. The cape has also suffered a change by the
later and less religious geographers. Eleven Thousand Virgins, even as
a name, is too flowery for a Cape Horn sand-bank, and furthermore it
was the hunting ground of a people among whom the term virgin would be
useless. Just at present this point of land is charted Cape Virgins,
and its virgin soil is being broken by thrifty gold diggers.

Returning to our present voyage and to the less sentimental, and less
brutal, but I fear less religious modern times, the _Belgica_ has
not only no one to fill the chaplain’s duties, but, so far as I know,
only one Bible (which is kept under cover) and no prayer book. Religion
is apparently not one of our missions. But then I must hasten to add
that on expeditions of this kind land pilots are more necessary than
“sky pilots.”

At noon we rounded the low sandy bar extending southward from Cape
Virgins terminating in Dungeness Point, and entered the historic Strait
of Magellan. The eastern beach was strewn with fragments of iron from
the hull of the iron vessel _Cleopatra_, which was one of the many
vessels wrecked here. The skeleton of the _Cleopatra_ was still
fighting the sea some distance off shore, and presented a picture which
would run into delight under the brush of an artist. The western shore
of the point was strewn with fragments of wooden vessels, and two hulls
well ashore rocked like cradles, but were apparently not much injured.
This point seems to be a convenient graveyard for marine crafts.

To our south under a dark bank of cumulus clouds was the white cliff of
Cape Espirito Santo, which, like Cape Virgins, is the termination of
a long range of hills on Tierra del Fuego. The waters were alive with
innumerable forms of life, many of which were new to us. Whales, seals,
porpoises and penguins were darting about in the sea like birds in
the air, while resting on the glassy surface, hovering over the land,
rushing over and around the _Belgica_ were strange members of the
feathered tribe; among these, albatrosses, gulls, petrels, ducks, and
geese were most numerous. The profusion of animal life around us, the
blackness of the lowlands to each side, and the encouraging prospect of
the channel before us, furnished a sort of wild fascination which is
probably as great in our day as in the time of the early pioneers.

Passing westward we had, by midnight, reached the entrance of the first
narrows. Here we anchored for the night. For three long months we had
gone steadily and persistently southward in one general direction;
such a monotony of course draws the Atlantic out into an unimaginable
length, but now we were headed westward, away from the Atlantic with
its fickle winds to the more friendly Pacific; and our course in the
future will be more varied--a circumstance which seems to arouse an
agreeable train of thoughts. These thoughts, with the peculiar and
continual interest of the scenes around the ship, kept us awake for a
large part of our first night in the Strait.

From time to time I left my bunk and paced the poop that I might better
see the wide panorama under the varying shades of the night. There were
marvellous changes in colour and in the general aspect of the land,
with imperceptible changes of light. This I had noticed earlier in
the day and it continued throughout the night; but of this I can hope
to give only a crude outline, for the delicate shades of colour and
the infinitesimal grades of light cannot be spread out with black and
white under a quill. As the sun sank behind the hazy outline of the
Cordilleras Mountains, over the Patagonian pampas, the grassy surface
everywhere assumed a bright yellow tint, in harmony with the gold which
is now scraped from the ground. The sandy cliffs which walled the
shores were inky black on the north, and bright gray or brown on the
south. The water retained its dark green hue until the semi-luminous,
semi-liquid, purple of the long twilight flooded the whole scene. Then
followed the short blackness of the night which again blended into
an exquisite purple morning. As the sun rose over the cliff of Cape
Virgins, the vast treeless plains were marked into sharp figures of
brown and yellow and red. Hence these regions, like tastefully dressed
women, have a special dress for every part of the day, and this garb
changes the appearance of landmarks in such a manner that at times
they are difficult of recognition. I will not force the parallel--but
thus in one of the elements of beauty in this Strait, lies one of its
greatest dangers to navigation.

We tipped our anchor in the morning and advanced to the mouth of the
second narrows, where we anchored at 4 P.M., December 1st.
Here we learned from the latest budget of the French coast-pilot that
there was a French settlement, and from the _Belgica_ a number of
farm-houses were visible, which seemed to confirm the information. We
accordingly prepared to pay the occupants a visit, and also to search
the surrounding territory for specimens. Landing in the bend of Gregory
Bay with a corps of scientific collectors, hunters and sailors, all of
an adventurous turn of mind, we soon spread over the grassy pampas in
every direction. Three of us who went to visit the farm-houses soon
discovered that the coast-pilot’s information was not up to date. The
Frenchmen in question had disappeared about ten years previous, and the
entire region, practically everything within sight, belongs to a very
wealthy Chilean sheep farmer, by the name of Menendez.

At the first farm-house we found a couple of Scotch shepherds who
informed us that the main station of the farm was a few miles east,
and to reach this they offered us horses. The Captain and I accepted
and were soon mounted, but before we returned we had some regrets. The
animals objected to their burdens from first to last, and I might add
that we objected to their manners at once and for all times. Like all
Patagonian horses, they are trained to take their direction by the
throw of the reins, and not by the traction of the bit. If the rein is
thrown against the left side of the neck, the horse goes to the right,
and _vice versa_. It is hard to adopt the method at once without
a certain amount of traction on the bit to which one is accustomed;
but this lateral traction the pampa horses will not permit. If you will
hold a tight rein you must hold it with equal tension on both sides,
and hold it steadily, or the animal will stop at once, and perhaps
with such suddenness as to make you test the hardness of the ground.
The horse also has a motion and a gait which is absolutely peculiar to
the pampas. These peculiarities soon drive chagrin to the heart of a
northern horseman.

We galloped eastward in a beaten path close to the placid waters of
Magellan Strait. To our left were a low series of hills--the Gregory
Range--and behind these the sun had fallen, throwing its parting rays
on the shore-line of Tierra del Fuego opposite, and over the distant
Fuegian mountains. The novelty of the ride and the fascination of the
scenery helped us to forget the bruises and accumulating pain--of
which, however, we were forcibly reminded later. In an hour we reached
our destination and had an opportunity to see, for the first time, one
of the end-of-the-century wonders,--the re-discovery of Patagonia and
Tierra del Fuego by the sheep farmers. Here were the men by whom, and
the method by which, the hopeless sterility of the end of the continent
has been turned into a field of industry with a farming profit perhaps
equalled in no other part of the world.

A young man with a sporting air advanced from one of the buildings
to meet us. He was Alexander Menendez, the chief of the place, and
the son of the Cape Horn Vanderbilt. Spanish is the official language
of this region, but neither the Captain nor I spoke it, and thus we
were a little anxious to know the tongue in which we might interchange
ideas. We could handle between us French, Flemish, English, German, and
Eskimo, and we rather flattered ourselves that the man who could not
converse with us in one of these tongues could have few ideas worthy of
exchange. We had no need for anxiety, however, for our new host spoke
English and German and some French, in addition to his national tongue.
Indeed, English seems to be the general language of the sheep farmer.
Mr. Menendez took us to his little home, a one-story wooden building,
with three or four rooms. Our mission was hardly more than a formal
visit, but pampa customs are such that one immediately enters into
the inner life of the ranchmen from which it is difficult to separate
quickly.

Here we found a sheep ranch in its youth, but its proportions were
already such as to startle most North American farmers. Upon a
treeless waste of 90,000 acres, spread out in easy undulations along
the Magellanic waters, were 120,000 sheep. The climate and the grass
are such that the animals require no shelter and no extra feeding,
not even during the coldest winter months, and they are so nearly
self-supporting that one shepherd manages a herd of 2,000 animals. When
sheep thus thrive and multiply at next to no expense, and on ground
which was first obtained for the asking and taxes, it is not difficult
to understand the success of Patagonian farmers.

[Illustration: Indian Mission Huts.]

[Illustration: Part of Punta Arenas.]

The same enterprising Menendez has several other farms, the most
promising of which is across the Strait, and to this our eyes were
directed with considerable pride by our host. This farm occupies the
lowlands of north-eastern Tierra del Fuego, which is said to be the
best sheep land of the entire region. Here, upon about 120,000 acres,
there are 150,000 sheep turning wool into gold faster than any gold
mines could be expected to offer yellow metal.

Mr. Menendez, however, like all managers of great enterprises, had his
troubles: “Sheep farming is very profitable,” said he, “but we have
one great difficulty--it is to secure good help.” This ought to be a
cheerful notice to the unemployed thousands of Europe and America, but
it should be accepted with a proper appreciation of the life and work
in question. A Patagonian shepherd lives the life of a wild man. In the
saddle he roams about on the pampas with his sheep, and at night he
makes camp like an Indian. But there are many men who enjoy just such
a life, and for such there is plenty of room in this region. The usual
pay is about thirty dollars (gold) per month, but expenses are next to
nothing, and an additional income is added to the regular pay by the
products of hunting, such as ostrich feathers, guanaco skins, etc. The
men at present employed are mostly Scotch shepherds, but some of the
best ranchmen have been made from ordinary seamen. In the newer methods
of shearing and other improved mechanical contrivances, machinists and
other artisans are in demand. Many of the men who have come here as
workmen are now ranch-owners themselves, and few who have once tasted
the elixir of pampa life ever leave it again for the noise and the
strife and the gilded glitter of the upper world.

When we again mounted our horses to return, we were somewhat disposed
to lay aside polar exploration and become sheep farmers, but this idea
was soon dissipated by our efforts to return to the _Belgica_. The
purple twilight was just deepening into the darker shades of night as
we left the little group of buildings which constitute the headquarters
of the Menendez ranch. The horses seemed more than ever opposed to
their inexperienced riders, and our discomfort was such that we did not
hurry them. We preferred to leave to them the selection of the path,
and the rate of progress, while we drank in the sharp antarctic air
and enjoyed the glory of the night scene. It was nearly midnight when
we reached our canoe. Here we found our companions impatiently waiting
for us, some seated on boulders, others stretched out on the grass,
and a few chatting with the shepherds in the nearest hut. But we were
somewhat dejected as we gazed upon the sight before us; the water had
run out with the tide to such an extent as to leave our boat high and
dry some three or four hundred feet from the nearest launching-place.
Every foot of this distance had on it a covering of a soft semi-liquid
mixture of clay, sand, small stones, and shellfish. The _Belgica_
must start with the tide at daybreak, and her whistles were already
tooting the signal to hasten on board. To wait for the tide was
impossible, so we started our canoe over the debris. If the surface
had been tar it could not have offered more resistance, nor could
it have caused more discomfort. After an hour of almost superhuman
effort we reached the water, but we were covered with slime and mud and
perspiration from head to foot, and we agreed that our first Patagonian
debarkment was a decidedly expensive luxury.

We reached the _Belgica_ as the eastern skies brightened with the
coming morning twilight. The anchor was raised immediately, and while
our aching muscles were resting, we were transported through the second
narrows to Elizabeth Island. In three hours we were opposite the island
and accordingly prepared for another debarkment. Our object in stopping
here was principally to obtain a supply of the wild geese for which
this island is noted. We landed in a cave near a lonely shepherd’s hut,
and scattered over the island, being careful to leave two men to keep
the canoe afloat that we might not renew our experience of the previous
night.

We found the geese extremely numerous, but either they were too well
acquainted with firearms, or our workmen had been too long seasick,
for, from the result of our hunt, we were able to produce only a
dozen birds. Elizabeth Island, like all of the grassy ground of this
region, is devoted to the interests of sheep-farming. It is upon this
notable island that the first Magellanic sheep-farming experiment was
made. Mr. H. I. Reynard, an Englishman living in Punta Arenas, first
conceived the idea early in the seventies. Perceiving that sheep and
cattle thrived in the Falkland Islands, whose climate and vegetation
was in most respects similar enough to that of Elizabeth Island to
warrant the expenditure necessary for a proper trial, he accordingly
established here the first sheep colony. The sheep took so kindly to
their new home, and multiplied so rapidly that, though the island is
eight miles long and two miles wide, it was very quickly so thickly
stocked that numbers of the sheep were transferred to the mainland.
From this experiment in farming Mr. Reynard was reported, in 1894, to
be enjoying the princely income of a hundred thousand dollars annually.

Among our collections from this island were a number of flint arrows
and spear points, which seem to be abundant in the numerous heaps
of mussel shells and other sites of old Indian encampments. But the
island has long been deserted by the Indians, for, even at the time of
its discovery by Drake, three hundred years ago, none are mentioned.
The discovery and naming of this island is thus described by the old
records: “The 24th of August (1578) being Bartholomew’s day, we fell in
with three islands bearing trianglewise one from another; one of them
was very fair and large and of a fruitful soil, upon which, being next
unto us, and the weather very calm, our General with his gentlemen and
certain of his mariners then landed, taking possession thereof in her
Majesty’s name, and to her use, and calling the same Elizabeth Island.”
The other islands are those now known as Santa Marta, and Santa
Magdalena Islands, upon which Drake found penguins so numerous, that,
in one day, not less than three thousand were taken and subsequently
used as food.

[Illustration: The Wind-swept Rocks of the Western Fuegian
Islands.]

We left Elizabeth Island at 10 o’clock in a mist of cold, drizzly
rain and steered westward close to its low sandy cliffs. The mist
occasionally raised and gave us a glimpse of the land. There is a ridge
of small hills running parallel to its length through the centre, the
highest of these being one hundred and eighty feet above the sea. The
hills were made more conspicuous by various clusters of a bluish shrub,
but aside from these there were no trees and nothing but the hardy
pampa grass to cover the sandy soil; nevertheless, with its shepherds’
huts, and its vast herds of sheep, Elizabeth Island is not without an
air of attractiveness.

At noon the atmosphere had cleared and the ever-present dark, feathery
clusters of vapour shaded the water and gave it a despairing blackness.
Over our port bow a low buff-colored point extended far out into the
widening strait. This was our first sight of the famous Sandy Point,
whose notoriety is sure to reach the ears of every South American
voyager. Here also we noticed a striking change in the topography
of the land and in the character of the vegetation. We had left the
smooth, treeless pampas behind us, and before us appeared a wild rugged
country, the lowlands covered by a dense forest, and the highlands
white with snow. These were the the foot-hills of the terminating
Andes, a place well calculated to shelter the Cape Horn capital from
the never-ceasing stormy blasts.

Early in the afternoon we rounded the point and at four o’clock we
anchored in Sandy Point Road. The harbour presented an air of thrift
quite out of proportion to the barrenness, sterility and gloomy
wildness of the region. Five large ocean liners were at anchor, and
many small coasting steamers, with a host of lighters and small
crafts, were scattered about on the unruly waters; but the town from
its distant appearance was a disappointment. One hears so much about
this settlement, its rapid growth, and marvellous development, that
one naturally expects to see a substantial city. “Thirty years ago,”
said a native, “we were less than two hundred settlers here; to-day we
number six thousand, and you have before you a good-sized city. Don’t
you think our growth has been remarkable and quick?” One must naturally
answer in the affirmative, and to the average European the phenomenon
is wonderful; but to an American it is wonderful in quite another
direction. The town is in most respects a miniature reproduction of
the mushroom town of the western states: a wilderness of low wooden
and sheet-iron huts which are quickly and cheaply constructed and as
quickly destroyed. Punta Arenas has been building for thirty years.
Towns of the western United States of a similar nature spring up in as
many days. A Yankee, then, wonders not at the reported rapid growth,
but asks, “Why has it taken so long?”

[Illustration: Terminating Ridge of the Cordilleras, Beagle
Channel.]

After we became accustomed to this appearance of cheapness and
unstability which characterised the place, we found much of interest
and some things absolutely astonishing. Punta Arenas has a character
and a life which mark it at once as one of the most peculiar towns on
the globe. We were boarded long before we came to anchor by agents
of provision houses, boarding-houses, hotels, saloons, and health
officers; but strangely enough no custom officers paid us even a
friendly visit. Our business arrangements and not a few social
arrangements had been made by Mr. Racovitza, who had preceded us, and
shortly after we came to anchor we made our headquarters in the little
French Hotel where a welcome bag of correspondence awaited our arrival.

CHAPTER VI

PUNTA ARENAS, THE SOUTHERNMOST TOWN

USHUAIA, Dec. 22, 1897.

We decided, before we left, that Punta Arenas, as a town, is very
extraordinary in many ways when you come to know it. Aside from the
fact that it is the world’s southernmost city, the metropolis of the
lower end of the American continent, the dumping ground for so much
of discontented humanity, the capital of Chilean Tierra del Fuego and
Patagonia, and a host of other large sounding, but small meaning,
names,--it is one of the most cosmopolitan towns of the universe. Its
life and its business are absolutely astonishing.

There is a sort of effervescent interest which one quickly acquires
in this little speck of bright life and its gloomy wilderness. The
interest begins with its misty history and ends, perhaps, to-day
with the modern re-discovery of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego by
sheep-farmers and gold-seekers. After Magellan discovered the Strait,
and led the way across the jewelled waters of the Pacific, the
enterprising Spaniards, with the important permission of the Pope,
gathered easily and peacefully the accumulated wealth of the fertile
islands and opulent empires of the South Sea. Any competition from
other nations was forbidden by the Pope and prevented by the supposed
danger of passing through the Strait. Both of these dangers were braved
by the bold half-pirate, half-explorer, but entire seaman, Francis
Drake.

Drake entered the Pacific through the Strait in 1578, and, with
a scurvy-pestered crew, deprived the Spaniards of their gold and
silver somewhat more easily than they had taken it from the Indians.
To prevent this re-harvesting of their easy-gotten profits, Pedro
Sarmiento de Gamboa was despatched from Lima, in 1579, to survey
the only supposed entrance into the Pacific, the Magellan Strait.
Sarmiento advised a fortification of the straits, and, accordingly,
two colonies were placed on commanding points. These were the cities
Nombre de Jesus, near the first narrows, and San Felipe, at what is now
called Port Famine. But eight months’ provisions were left these poor
protectors of Spanish gold, and they perished miserably before relief
was sent them. Only two survived to tell the tragedy, and these were
rescued by the British seamen--the men whom the Spaniards were sent to
destroy. Sarmiento, who placed the colonies, was captured by one of Sir
Walter Raleigh’s cruisers on his return voyage to Spain.

As this first chapter in the history of the Magellan Strait closed,
its importance also vanished, with the discovery of the passage around
Cape Horn by the Dutch navigators, Schouten and Le Maire; and for two
hundred and fifty years following the region was left to the possession
of the arctic life with which nature had stocked it.

In 1843, with no knowledge of the real worth of the Magellanic regions,
but with a sort of natural pride to possess the historic strait, Chile
placed a colony at, or near, the ancient site of San Felipe. This was
a penal settlement where political prisoners were sent. It was a sort
of Chilean Siberia, just as Staten Island is to-day for Argentina, and
thus the venture filled two missions: it held for Chile the Strait of
Magellan, and placed the troublesome convicts far from the capital,
Valparaiso. This was a particularly appropriate spot for that large
class of Spanish-American citizens, the ever restless revolutionists.

But men whose occupation is revolt, whose life is a constant navigation
of dangerous rapids, are not the proper sort of citizens to build a
town. This was soon learned in “La Colonia de Magellanes,” by which
name this antarctic exile colony was officially known. Anything which
savoured of work was opposed to their natures. War, riot, massacre,
brutal freedom, were more to their liking, and this revolting spirit
was not a little fired by frequent famines, when the infrequent vessels
from Valparaiso did not arrive. The place thus acquired, by hard
experience, the name of Port Famine. One day the exiles rose to arms,
killed the Governor, and took the town. For this they were all strung
up by the necks from the yard arms of a Chilean gunboat.

The buildings of Port Famine having been fired, the Government, after
deciding on a re-establishment of the colony, selected for the site
of its town a long tongue of sandy ground a few miles farther north.
This is the site of the present famous town, Punta Arenas, and it
takes its name from the sandy point on which it rests. Punta Arenas,
or Sandy Point, like the first colony, had as its principal reason
for existence a penal settlement, and its population was composed of
men of the same class--mental and moral outcasts, revolutionists and
high-handed criminals. The new town met a fate similar to that of the
first settlement. The prisoners revolted and, assisted by the soldiers
who were sent to protect the town, they sought the Governor. But to
keep his own blood from being spilled, this unworthy official deserted
his wife and children, and left for parts unknown. They caught the
commander of the garrison, and massacred him in a shocking manner,
after which they took the town and held a sort of drunken festivity for
three days. The Governor, in his retreat, had found a Chilean cruiser,
and as this came in sight of the town the rioters, to save their necks,
took to the pampas. Here most of the miscreants came to a miserable
death by starvation, fatigue, and cold. A few reached the Chubut River
and were taken to Buenos Aires, where the liberty for which they had
struggled was given them.

This last destruction of the colony occurred in 1877. At this time
Punta Arenas had already risen to some importance. It numbered, among
its exile settlers, several independent citizens; and these were
the creators of the true Magellanic metropolis. No more prisoners
were sent. The town was left to live and flourish, according to its
resources, or to die a natural death. Fortunately, its resources
had already been discovered. Some of the desert-like pampas, upon
which the liberators famished, had been stocked with sheep, and they
thrived unexpectedly. Gold had been found in the creeks, coal had been
found but a short distance off, the forest appeared inexhaustible,
and steamers were beginning to cut the solitude of the Strait.
Dissatisfied, rejected and venturous sailors cast in their lots with
the builders of the town. Shepherds, gold-diggers, traders, adventurous
wanderers, and striplings from the world’s population--a heterogeneous
mixture--came to rest here as a last resort. The semi-Yankee life of
Punta Arenas takes its origin from this mass, and the town owes its
growth, very largely, to the fact that its site is a terminal morain to
a restless stream of human life.

With this preliminary understanding of the causes for the metropolitan
life of the Strait of Magellan, one is not so greatly surprised at
the first glimpse of the strange street scenes. We naturally looked
for some marks of nationality in the people we first met, but quite
in vain. Spanish is the language of the place. At one street corner,
however, one hears English; at another, German; at another, French;
and at still another, Italian. Negroes are few, but Indians are quite
numerous. One of our new acquaintances took us about town. He was, I
believe, a German by birth, but he talked with us in French, and took
us to a bar where he talked English; to a magazine where he addressed
the clerk in Spanish; to the church where he addressed the Holy Father
in Italian; and others told us that he could speak the various Indian
tongues, and was not puzzled with Latin and Greek, though he never had
had a college education.

The streets are ordinary country roads, in very bad order. They are
most remarkable for their number of stagnant pools of water, and the
various heaps of ashes and debris. Stumps of trees, broken carts, tin
cans, packing boxes, dead dogs, and a host of other refuse serve to
ornament and pave the sandy bottoms. Scattered about these, and usually
not far from a bar, are groups of visitors in various attitudes. The
most numerous of these are the cowboys or gauchos, as they are called
some on horses with ponchos over their shoulders, and wearing huge,
broad-brimmed hats, and loose pantaloons; others steeped in alcohol
with a soft bed of sand for a couch, and a boulder for a pillow; and
still others, in new suits, moving about like a girl in an Easter
bonnet to display their annual acquirements. But the gauchos move in
groups to themselves, discussing sheep and squaws and the hunting
sports of the pampas. In another group one finds quite different types
of humanity. Here are the gold-diggers, men of extremes, either without
a copper or with a fat bag of gold, according to the luck of their past
season. Unlike the cowboy, who is usually in neat attire, the miner is
careless of dress, and, rich or poor, is rigged in rags; but he is a
bit of a lion in his way. If he has found rich deposits, his pocket
is the ambition of the local tradesmen, and his information is eagerly
sought by all the loafers of the town. He discusses pay-diggings,
nuggets, methods of washing gold, the relative qualities of food and
drinks, and his last feminine acquaintances in Sandy Point. And then
there are the groups of sailors, soldiers, and of tramps. The citizens
of the town one rarely sees; they are always occupied within doors, for
everybody who is anybody in Punta Arenas keeps a store and owns one or
more sheep-farms.

The location of Punta Arenas is rather unique in its natural
surroundings, and in its commercial advantages. To the west and
north-west are the slowly rising forest-covered highlands, terminating
in the high, ice-covered peaks of the Cordilleras. To the north-east
and east are the endless undulating plains of Patagonia. To the south
and south-east is the Strait of Magellan and beyond are the blue hills
of the northern plains on the main island of Tierra del Fuego. To the
south-west are the bleak islands belonging to the Fuegian group. This
location has helped to make the town the trade centre of the great
regions south of the Rio de la Plata.

[Illustration: Ona Women, in Full Dress, with Papoose Strapped to
the Shoulders.]

[Illustration: Ona Men on the Chase.]

The two very important discoveries already alluded to have made life
and a prosperous population just possible in this vast savage land.
Only a few years ago all of South America south of the river Plata was
believed to be a useless waste of barren ground, peopled by man-eating
savages. Even to-day this is generally believed to be the state of
affairs in Patagonia. But it is not true. The pioneers here are in
better health and are accumulating gold more rapidly than in any other
part of South America. The reasons for this great transformation are
the discoveries that sheep will thrive and that gold is strewn on the
various sandy beaches. The possibilities, thus afforded, have brought
the people and the capital to America’s southern end, and have made
Punta Arenas the centre of a population of pioneers, mostly rich in
profitable land and in sheep, but poor in worldly comforts.

When the far-seeing Englishman, already referred to, brought the first
sheep from the Falkland Islands about twenty-five years ago, they
thrived so well in their new home, that soon many others did likewise.
To-day almost every acre of available ground is stocked with sheep.
This sheep-farming, however, is done on such an immense scale that even
a Yankee farmer will be compelled to feel his littleness. Space will
not permit me to dwell on this interesting subject, but a man owning
ten thousand sheep is considered to be a small and poor farmer; one
owning fifty thousand is quite ordinary; and men who have a hundred
thousand are not uncommon. The Cape Horn millionaire is not noted by
the number of dollars he possesses, but by the number of sheep he
shears.

Gold mining is the occupation of the poor, and the idle population.
This is not because gold is scarce or the occupation unprofitable, but
because it requires little capital, and yields immediate returns. With
a shovel and a pan, inexperienced men earn five dollars daily. The
gold is widely diffused, but is seldom in very rich placers. Many of
the creeks and the beaches of Patagonia, both on the Atlantic side and
in the Strait of Magellan, are known to contain gold. The same is true
of Tierra del Fuego. Even the mud of the streets of Punta Arenas is
said to contain the yellow metal.

The architecture of Punta Arenas is similar to that of the mushroom
towns of the western plains. The houses are made of corrugated
sheet-iron, and are altogether uninteresting, except in that they are
constructed of material brought six thousand miles, while within a
thousand yards is a virgin forest of excellent wood. During the short
time of one year, electric lights, telephone, and telegraph plants have
been established, a really good theatre has been built and several
churches are in the course of construction. Nearly every house sells
intoxicating drinks. Alcohol is said to be served even in the churches.
Indeed, alcohol is at the base of all the crimes and most of the
pleasures of Punta Arenas.

[Illustration: Chief Colchicoli.

One of Colchicoli’s Wives.

Types of Onas.]

Unlike the immigrants to the United States, the new-comers to Patagonia
have remained as separate little colonies, and never made a homogeneous
mixture as in our States. They await with yearly anticipation an
opportunity of returning to their mother countries. The sheep-farmers
and bankers are mostly British, the storekeepers generally German.
The Anglo-Saxon is the ruling spirit, and in a very short time this
long deserted no-man’s-land will be a gilded paradise stocked with the
healthy mixture of northern races which has made the United States
the most progressive of the new nations of the world. Southern South
America is to be the Yankee land of the far south and for this, their
absorption as stupidly suggested by Rhodes is entirely unnecessary. The
people here are able to take care of themselves, and the Republican
governments of Chile and Argentina are quite capable of managing their
own affairs.

CHAPTER VII

FROM PUNTA ARENAS TO USHUAIA, THROUGH THE FUEGIAN CHANNELS

USHUAIA, Dec. 28, 1897.

After spending a fortnight at Punta Arenas, restocking and refitting
the ship, studying the surrounding regions, and accepting the warm
hospitality of the citizens, we tipped our anchor at midnight of
December 14th. We then set a course almost due south for Famine Reach.
The little gunboat _Torro_, detailed by the Chilean officials,
escorted us for several hours. The early part of the night was clear,
which permitted us to see Sandy Point, with its glittering sheet-iron
houses, for a long time. In the morning we were off the northern
shore of Dawson Island, and from this time until we reached Ushuaia
the weather was extremely unsettled. Cold rains, drizzling fogs, and
sweeping squalls of wind were the normal weather conditions. At 2
o’clock in the afternoon we anchored in Hope Harbour, a snug little
cove at the entrance of Magdalene Sound. We soon assembled in small
companies and went ashore to explore as best we could the regions
about. Everything here had for us a special interest, for, in a
scientific sense, all was unexplored. There were glaciers, unsealed
mountain heights, unknown water depths, and a savage wilderness of
land, with gold in many streams. We should have enjoyed a prolonged
stay here but the time for exploration in the more icy south was
already far advanced, and since this was the principal part of our work
we must hasten to it. The afternoon was given to examinations ashore.

The narrow beaches were lined with mussel shells and in one place
there were two bee-hive shaped frames of old Indian huts. There were a
great many birds about, but we saw no large life. Where the land was
so exposed that the vegetation was sheltered from the sudden squalls
of winds, here called “williwaws,” there was a forest of large beech
trees, and under these there was such a rank profusion of underbrush
and moss that it was difficult, generally impossible, to force a
passage. Near the open blast of the regular winds and the williwaws the
land was mostly barren of trees but covered by a thick, velvety carpet
of wet moss. It rained and snowed nearly all the time we were ashore,
and we came back with our boots full of icy water, our clothing torn,
soaked, and hanging to us like wet leather, and our heads bruised.
We had made some notes and some studies, but altogether our personal
discomforts were such that we were ready to throw science to the dogs.
He who attempts to properly explore this region will find conditions to
try his patience nearly as bad as at either pole.

On the following morning we steamed through Magdalene Sound. The scene
was desolate but wildly beautiful. The westerly banks rose out of
the waters with an easy slope, terminating in low hills of polished
stones. The ravines, the gullies, and the shore-line were covered by
a dense growth of stunted beech. The uplands, where soil and rooting
surface was possible, were carpeted by heavy sheets of moss. The
easterly banks, though far more barren, were of greater interest to
us. Nine glaciers poured their crystal currents down from the majestic
heights of Mount Sarmiento which was draped in a white mist. The
glaring whiteness of these glaciers, separated by black weather-worn
dome-shaped mountains of solid rock, made a scene of rare delight. At
11 o’clock we rounded Cape Turn, and then the interesting polished
rocky slopes of the banks and islands of Cockburn Channel lay before
us. Here we felt the disturbing influences of the airs coming out of
the Pacific. A violent puff of wind struck us as we passed each break
in continuity of the mountains, and this was followed by a rain squall
and a choppy sea. We were indeed glad when we turned our backs to this
region of battling storms to enter the less dreadful channels eastward.
At 6 o’clock we were amid a labyrinth of uncharted islands in Whale
Boat Sound. Severe storms came here also, and these, with frequent
clouds of fog and increasing darkness, made navigation uncomfortable
and dangerous. At midnight we dropped anchor on the eastern bank of
Basket Island; but the bottom was rocky and both the wind and the sea
were too dangerous to remain, so at 3 o’clock in the morning we started
again to plod along as best we could. The chart was so imperfect
that we were compelled to pick our way, as if exploring regions
entirely new. We counted not less than twenty islands which we could
not find on the charts. It would have been interesting also to linger
here and explore this locality but we had a stronger interest ever
pulling us on to regions farther south. As the sun rose and we advanced
farther eastward, the atmospheric conditions were such that rainbows,
complete and in fragments, were in the south and west almost constantly
for several hours. The bows were generally arched over a chain of
islands touched by bands of green and brown and gold, and altogether
the effect was full of delightful colour and fascinating harmony.

[Illustration: An Ona Home.]

[Illustration: Onas on the March.]

At noon we anchored at the eastern end of Whale Boat Sound in a small
bay on the northern shore of Londonderry Island. Soon after dinner we
went ashore to bag specimens for the laboratory. The land around the
bay is about a thousand feet high, rising rather abruptly from the
waters, but the mountain crests are everywhere accessible. As we landed
we found close to the water-line a number of old Indian fireplaces
with great heaps of mussel shells about. These were the sites of
ancient Indian huts. The lowlands were covered by a thick meshwork of
vegetation, mostly mosses and grass. In sheltered places there were
a few beech trees, but the tallest were not more than fifteen feet
high. We had not ascended very far when we found everywhere evidences
that the whole land had at one time been covered by glaciers. Massive
boulders were seen in lines, and all the rocks were polished and
scratched in a typically glacial manner. There were many lakes which
marked the beds of old glaciers. Before dark we came down from the
heights with our bags full of specimens and our note-books full of
observations, but our clothing as usual was wet and torn. Near the
shore we built a camp-fire, and then tried to dry our clothing and
extract such comfort out of life as Indians, in a similar position, do.
I think it was Darwin who said that the people of this region did not
enjoy any of the comforts of home. Certainly he never built a fire in a
cold, drizzling rain, and sat beside it to eat his lunch. If he had, he
should have learned to enjoy the first comfort of the home of primitive
man. We spent a few days in this neighbourhood, visited a glacier, and
then steamed through the northern arm of Beagle Channel to Ushuaia,
where we anchored late in the evening of December 21. After breakfast
on the following morning we went ashore. The manner of our going was a
matter of some anthropological interest. It portrayed our developing
disregard for formality and our resignation to the savage life to which
a constant force of circumstances drove us. At Rio we were done up in
good style before we left the ship; dress suits when necessary, the
newest thing in neckties, and neatly pressed trousers. At Montevideo
our garments were crinkled and showed the effects of the sea. We began,
here, to be a little indifferent in personal appearances. At Punta
Arenas we did not even try to fix up, but walked about the town as
careless of dress as bricklayers; and here at Ushuaia, well--the man
who dressed and brushed his hair was an outcast; he was not regarded
as an explorer.

[Illustration: Ona Archery.]

Ushuaia is a small town of about twenty-five sheet-iron houses, built
at the base of the terminating hills of the Cordilleras. The background
of the town is savagely picturesque. Two chains of mountains run
eastward parallel to each other along the southern border of the main
island of Tierra del Fuego, and these mountains give the surroundings
of Ushuaia a remarkably wild but pleasing effect. The town has in
itself very little of importance. It is a military and convict
station for the Argentine Republic, and at present there is a pier in
construction from which vessels can coal.

The government of the Argentine Republic with commendable liberality
offered us coal and supplies free of cost at their stations. At
Lapataia, a neighbouring town, the _Belgica_ remained a week to
coal. At Ushuaia and at Harbourton, we took in our last supply of fresh
provisions. We were indebted to the Argentine government for the kind
treatment at her hands, and to Mr. John Lawrence and Mr. Thomas Bridges
(now deceased) and their families, for valuable aid in furnishing
supplies and help in making Indian studies. It will not be possible to
give more than a passing notice of our work among the very interesting
tribes of Indians of this region. The anthropological observations,
measurements and vocabularies will be given separate publication. For
the present, the reader must be content with a few notes on the Onas.

CHAPTER VIII

A RACE OF FUEGIAN GIANTS

HARBOURTON, Jan. 6, 1898.

The Fuegians have been described, from time to time, since the country
was first sighted and named by Magellan in 1520; but to-day they
still remain almost unknown. In connection with the voyage of the
_Belgica_ we had unusual opportunities for studying their wild
life and their weather-beaten land. They are not, as it is generally
supposed, one homogeneous tribe, but three distinct races, with
different languages, different appearances, different habits and homes.

[Illustration: Comparative Size of an Ona and a Caucasian.]

In the western Chilean channels, living in beech-bark canoes and in
dugouts, using mussels, snails, crabs and fish in general as food, are
the short, imperfectly developed Alaculoofs. These are met by many
vessels navigating the Strait of Magellan and most of our reports
of Fuegians are limited to hasty glimpses of these people; but they
are now nearly extinct, and they were always the lowest and the most
dejected of the Fuegians.

Closely allied in habits to the Alaculoofs are the Indians inhabiting
the islands about Cape Horn and northward to Beagle Channel. These are
called Yahgans. They have been the most numerous and the most powerful
of the Fuegian people, but to-day they too are nearly extinct. They
are dwarfed in stature, dwarfed in mental development and, like the
Alaculoofs, live in canoes and feed upon the products of the sea.

The third tribe is a race of giants. They are called Onas by their
neighbours, the Yahgans. The Onas have, thus far, evaded all efforts
at civilisation, have refused missionaries, and have, to the present
time, with good reason, persistently mistrusted white men. They have in
consequence remained unknown.

The homes of the Onas are on the main island of Tierra del Fuego. For
centuries they have fought to keep this as their preserve; but the
Yahgans have been allowed to pitch their tents on the southern coastal
fringe along Beagle Channel. In a like manner the Alaculoofs have
been permitted to use the shore-line of the west. Neither the Yahgans
nor the Alaculoofs, however, nor white men, until very recently, have
dared venture into the interior. The great prairies of the north and
the mountain forests of the middle of the island, with the still
unknown lakes, have been guarded as hunting-ground exclusively for
the Onas. The island is nearly as large as the State of New York.
The boundary-line of Chile and Argentina, running from north to south
through the centre of the island, gives each republic a nearly equal
share of the country. Gold has been found in the sands along the beach
of various parts of the land. This is being mined with considerable
success. The pampas of the north and a part of the southern ground have
proved to be some of the best sheep-farming country of the world. The
gold-diggers and the sheep-farmers have thus re-discovered Tierra del
Fuego as they have Patagonia. The mining camps and the wire fences are
crowding the once ruling race of Onas into the useless forest-covered
lowlands and the ice-covered highlands of the interior, where they must
either starve or freeze or perish at the hands of Caucasian invaders.
The old happy hunting-ground of the Ona has gone the way of all other
Indian homes; but he has fought bravely for it, and he will continue
to do so until the last skeleton is left to bleach on the wind-swept
pampas.

The first sheep-farm was started here by Mr. Steubenrach, the British
Consular agent, Punta Arenas. Steubenrach, anticipating trouble with
the powerful Onas, who have always been the dread of white settlers
in this vicinity, secured, as one of his shepherds, a missionary to
preach the gospel and morality and some other things to the Indians.
This mission service was a diplomatic stroke which was thought to be
the most effective way of gaining the favour of the Chilean Government;
which favour was a valuable aid in obtaining grants of land. It
was also thought possible by this method to tame the aborigines and
make shepherds of them. The good preacher tried to Christianise and
civilise the Indians. During the day they congregated in large numbers
to hear the new medicine-man. They were indeed interested; but they
proved their interest in an unexpected manner. At night, when all was
quiet and the shepherds were asleep, with confidence in the effect of
their pious training upon the Indians, the wild hunters came among
the herds, cut the wire fences, and drove off such numbers as suited
their appetites. These night raids continued month after month, but
the Indians came in fearlessly in increasing numbers to listen to the
gospel pow-wows. At length, driven to distraction, the prospective
makers of Christians sent to Punta Arenas for Winchester rifles.
Preaching was then abandoned, and the murderous sound of firearms has
taken its place ever since. The wire fences have been extended, the
Winchesters have been multiplied, every available acre of Fuegian
ground has been covered with sheep, while the Indians, never known and
never understood, have been swept from their ancient homes.

In defence of the pioneers it should be said that the Indians from
the first have waged a constant and relentless warfare. A mutual
understanding has at no time seemed possible, and if the settlers would
follow their business a vigorous defence was necessary. In spite of
the destructive onslaughts of the Indians, however, the farms have
flourished so well that to-day the number of sheep raised individually
and collectively by the Fuegian rancheros is perfectly astonishing.
There is one farm not yet quite stocked which will support six hundred
thousand sheep. The profit over and above all expenses averages about
fifty cents annually for each animal. This would give, for a farm of
moderate size, a clear gain of $50,000 yearly, which is certainly a
princely income for a farmer. The proprietors of these ranches are
mostly men of large finances, who live in luxury and comfort in the
cities of South America and Europe.

The Onas, as a tribe, have never been united in a common interest,
nor have they ever been led by any one great chief. They have always
been divided into small clans, under a leader with limited powers, and
these chiefs have waged a constant warfare among themselves. Up to the
present they have had their worst enemies among their own people, but
now that sheep-farmers and gold-diggers want their country, they are
uniting to fight their common enemy. But this enemy, these white men
with Winchesters, will be their doom.

The Ona population, is at present about sixteen hundred, divided into
sixteen tribes of about one hundred each. From this number there is
a constant diminution. Many of the children have been taken from
their wild homes bordering on the sheep-farms, and placed in European
families about Punta Arenas. These children thrive well at first, and
are capable of considerable education, but few reach adult age. The
minor children’s diseases, such as measles and whooping-cough, are
extremely fatal to them, and those who escape other diseases are
almost certain to succumb to tuberculosis. For a number of years the
Indians, watching the encroachment of white men upon their territory,
have made it as uncomfortable as possible for the intruders. To bag a
settler was quite as much sport as to secure game, and the white men in
return have shot Indians with as much elation as if they were dropping
panthers. Killing has been in vogue on both sides, but the battle is
uneven. The Indian must vanish before the lead of Christians--such is
the mission of modern civilisation.

Migration from one part of the island to another, and from one clan
to another, has been common, but the Ona has seldom left his chosen
land. A few have been found in Patagonia, and occasionally one has
strayed over among the Yahgans and the Alaculoofs; but these have only
been stragglers who, by accident, have been separated from the main
island. The Onas possess no canoes with which to cross the Strait of
Magellan, or the canals south and west; but they barter with the other
Indians along Beagle Channel and the west, and within recent years
they have extended these trading operations to the white settlers
along the south. The men have a great admiration for women of other
tribes, and this admiration induces them to make raids among the other
tribes to capture women. So much was this done in the past that in the
south-eastern part of the island there sprang up a new race, a hybrid
mixture of Yahgans and Onas; but these are now extinct.

Physically the Onas are giants. They are not, however, seven or eight
feet in height, as the early explorers reported their neighbours and
nearest relatives, the Patagonians, to be. Their average height is
close to six feet, a few attain six feet and six inches, and a few are
under six feet. The women are not quite so tall, but they are more
corpulent. There is, perhaps, no race in the world with a more perfect
physical development than the Ona men. This unique development is due
to the topography of their country and the distribution of game, which
makes long marches constantly necessary. The Ona men are certainly the
greatest cross-country runners on the American continent.

The mental equipment of the Ona is by no means equal to his splendid
physical development. He understands very well the few arts of chase
which he finds necessary to maintain a food-supply. His game in the
past has been easily gotten; his needs have been few, which fact
accounts for the lack of inventive skill displayed in his instruments
of chase. The home-life, the house, the clothing,--everything portrays
this lack of progressive skill. Instead of the children being well
dressed and well cared for, as is the rule among savage races, they are
mostly naked, poorly fed, badly trained, and altogether neglected, not
because of a lack of paternal love, but because of the mental lethargy
of the people. It is the same as to shelter and the garments. They have
abundant material to make good tents and warm, storm-proof houses; but
they simply bunch up a few branches, and throw to the windward a few
skins, and then shiver, complaining of their miserable existence.

[Illustration: Ona Hunter Ready for Action.]

It has never fallen to my lot to listen to a language so odd, so
strikingly peculiar, as that of the Ona. Some of my companions on the
_Belgica_ used to amuse themselves at my expense by declaring
that from a distance the talk of a group of Onas was like that of a
group of Englishmen. To this I have protested, for that statement is
certainly a libel upon English. This might be said, with considerable
truth, of the Yahgan tongue, which is smooth and easy, but of the
grunting, choking, spasmodic talk of the Onas it is decidedly untrue.
Many of the words are not difficult of pronunciation, nor is the
construction of sentences hard, but in every fifth or sixth word there
is a sound impossible of reproduction by any one who has not had years
of practice. These sounds offer sudden breaks in the flow of words and
the speaker, by efforts which suggest the getting of sounds from the
stomach, struggles for something far down in his throat. He hacks, and
coughs, and grunts, distorting his face in the most inhuman manner
momentarily, and then passes on to the next stumbling block, or hot
potato, or whatever it is which makes the poor mortal suffer such
tortures of speech. I always felt like giving an Ona an emetic when I
heard him talk.

Like all the American aborigines the Onas feed principally upon
meat, and this meat was, in former years, obtained from the guanaco.
The guanaco roamed about in large herds upon the pampas and grassy
lowlands; regions now in use as sheep-farms. The guanaco, like the
Indian, is forced to the barren interior mountains, where life is a
hard struggle against storms and barrenness and perennial snows. Owing
to the present greater difficulty of hunting these animals and their
reduced numbers, the Ona has taken most naturally to the sheep which
have been brought to occupy these lands. That the sheep are owned by
other men is a fact not easily recognised by Indians, to whom the
world of Fuegian wilderness has always been free. The many thousands
of _guanaco blanco_, as the Onas call sheep, grazing peacefully
upon the Indian hunting-grounds, make a picture full of irresistible
temptation, as the aborigines, hungry and half naked, look from icy
mountain forests down over the plains. Shall we call them thieves if,
while their wives and children and loved ones are starving, they boldly
descend and, in the face of Winchester rifles, take what to them seems
a product of their own country?

Unfortunately, the Indians have had so many causes for revenge against
the white invaders, that they no longer capture sheep, as they did
primarily, to satisfy the pangs of hunger, but to obtain vengeance. The
wholesale manner in which they do this, however, would make a beggar of
an ordinary farmer in a single night. In the neighbourhood of Useless
Bay they have been known to round up two thousand sheep in one raid,
and they seldom now take less than a few hundred at a time. While
stopping at a farm on the Rio Grande I had an opportunity of being in
close proximity to this kind of warfare. Two Indians came in and asked
for an interview with the chief of the farm. The man in charge was a
bright young fellow who knew the Indians very well. He treated the
delegation kindly, fed and clothed them, and listened to their story.

[Illustration: A Bull Sea-Lion at Rest.

(_Otaria Jubata._)]

[Illustration: Den of Sea-Lions, Staten Island.]

The Indians spoke in broken Spanish, and said that they had been sent
by the great chief Colchicoli to ask if the manager of this farm would
make an arrangement for amicable and peaceful relations in the future.
Colchicoli and his people had, for a long time, been on friendly terms
with Mr. Bridges, a farmer on the southern shore. While here, many had
died and many others were sickly. It was the wrong season for them in
the south; the winter was too cold there, the spirits were against
them, and for reasons of health alone they must seek their old haunts
on the sunny northern shores for the winter. They had been ten days in
crossing the island over the snowy interior mountains. They had been
several days without food. The women and children were starving. The
entire tribe were at the edge of the forest about one hundred miles
to the south. Would Mr. Menendez give them a little food for present
needs, and a preserve where the people might live and hunt in their own
way, undisturbed by the soldiers and the shepherds?

Mr. Menendez replied in the affirmative, and then went on to qualify
his offer. He said that at first he was not inclined to treat
their demand seriously. He had suffered so much at their hands by
unlimited thefts of so many thousands of sheep, and by their heartless
destruction of his fences, etc., that he was not in an easy mood to
harbour them near his farms; but if they promised to be good, if they
agreed to steal no more sheep, he would give them the southern bank of
a river, about ten miles southward, where they might pitch their tents,
hunt and fish, and live undisturbed. He further agreed that he would
give them such meat as they required.

The Indians returned to their chief to report the success of their
mission. Owing to their lengthy stay, however, the chief thought they
had been killed, and in retaliation ordered the raiding of five hundred
sheep which, of course, made the consummation of an amicable agreement
impossible. In defence of the Indians, however, it should be said
that one year previous a similar arrangement had been entered into in
good faith. The Indians came, trustingly, to a camp where the entire
company, men, women, and children, were seized by soldiers, and exiled
from the island.

The Onas have been masters of Tierra del Fuego, not because of the
perfection of their implements of war, but because of their splendid
physical force. The only destructive weapon which they have brought to
effective use is the bow and arrow. The bow used by them is made of
the wood of the antarctic beech, which is scraped and worked into the
desired shape by the sharp edge of one of the numerous shells which
everywhere are found on the beach. The string is made of the sinews of
the guanaco, neatly braided. The arrow shaft is a reedlike branch of
a tree called the Winter’s bark; it is winged with feathers of native
birds, and tipped with a unique glass point.

In former years, before vessels entered the Strait of Magellan and
before the passage around Cape Horn was discovered, the Onas tipped
their arrows with flint; but since white men have invaded these waters
their misfortunes have been the fortunes of the Indians. From the many
wrecks thrown upon the rocky shores during the past three hundred
years the aborigines have obtained glass, with which they now point
their arrows; and also iron of which they make knives. Within the last
twenty-five years they have occasionally bagged an unwary gold-digger,
and his kit has been added to their own imperfect implements of chase.
But they have never been able to obtain ammunition, and so the rifles
in their camp are of no use. The traders and farmers on the border
lands, with whom these Indians have to come in contact, have always
been alive to their own interests. They have prudently refused to
sell firearms or ammunition. If the Onas were able to obtain guns and
supplies they would clear their island of pale-faced settlers in less
than a month.

With the bow and arrow as their sole implement of chase the Onas
roam about, always in the footprints of the guanaco, from the barren
interior mountains to the forest-covered lowlands, and during the
winter from the forests over the pampas to the sea shore. If they fail
in securing their favoured game, the guanaco, they capture a kind of
ground rat or gather the snails and mussels of the beach; but the one
aim of life is to hunt guanaco.

I wish I could paint a picture or secure a photograph of this chase.
It is certainly a most charming bit of aboriginal life. Day after day,
the whole family marches over wind-swept plains, through icy streams,
into regions seemingly ever deserted by animal life. The women and
children travel in one group, generally in gullies, winding around low
hills where they are out of sight of the game. The men scatter about
as sentinels, mounting little elevations now and then, to search, with
their eagle eyes, the undulating plains for a herd of guanaco. When on
this weary chase they are always hungry and generally but half-clothed.
The sick and the helpless aged are left by the wayside to starve or
support life as best they can, while the more vigorous individuals go
on and on famine-stricken until they come upon their game.

When in sight of guanaco the men seek to surround the entire herd by
creeping on hands and feet and covering their bodies with a robe to
imitate the animals. As they close in on them they rise, drop their
robes, and spring naked upon the guanaco, killing such as they can with
arrows. Then, as the animals stand in utter amazement, they rush upon
them with knives and clubs. In this onslaught they often secure the
entire herd. Next, a gluttonous hilarity begins, which knows no bounds.
It continues while the meat lasts and then famine is again their lot.
Thus their life is one of short feasts divided by long famines.

[Illustration: Dr. Frederick A. Cook.]

The matter of clothing with the Ona is a very simple affair; although
the climate of their region is cold, stormy and even humid, they are
very imperfectly dressed. The children run about in the snows either
naked or nearly so. The men have a large mantle made of several
guanaco-skins sewn together. This reaches from the shoulders to the
feet, but it is not attached by either buttons or strings; it is simply
held about the shoulders by the hands. The woman, when well dressed,
wears a piece of fur attached about the waist and another loosely
thrown about the shoulders, but she is not often well dressed and must
generally be contented with a kind of mantle, carelessly suspended from
the shoulders, which is allowed to fall upon the slightest provocation.

Nothing could be less like our idea of a home than an Ona house. It is
proof to none of the discomforts of Fuegian climate. Rain, snow, and
wind enter it freely, for it is a simple accumulation of tree branches
thrown together in the easiest possible manner. Sometimes it has a
conical shape, but more often it is only a crescent or breastwork,
behind which the entire family sit or sleep. To the windward are
thrown a number of skins to keep out the full blast of the wind, but
from overhead the cold rains drizzle over poorly clad bodies, while
the ground is always uncovered and cold. In the centre of this circle
of shivering humanity, or just outside of it, is a camp-fire which,
however, serves better for cooking purposes than for heating. The
arrangement of the house is such that the heat all escapes. At night
the fires are allowed to go out, and the adults, lying in a circle,
place the children in the centre, with blankets of guanaco-skins
spread over all. To keep the blankets from being blown off, and to add
additional warmth, they next call the dogs, who take their positions on
the top of the entire mass of quivering Indians. In former years it
was a poverty stricken family who had not enough dogs to cover it out
of sight; but the shepherds have now killed the dogs, and the Indians
must rest cold and comfortless without their canine bedfellows.

There seems to be considerable love expended among the members of an
Ona family. It is kindled with the first days of childhood, and it is
still burning at ripe old age. It is, however, a love which is never
appreciated by a white man, nor is it ever tendered to him except
for little spasmodic periods. Nothing illustrates this point better
than the experience of the pale-faced new-comers. Everybody who goes
as a pioneer to the Cape Horn region is a bachelor. All buy, borrow,
or steal wives when they decide to settle down upon a gold-mine or a
sheep-farm. The Indian women, it must be confessed, are not unwilling
to be bought or stolen, but they are not to the white man what they are
to the copper-faced rival. In the Indian household she may be but one
of several wives; she can claim only a small share of her husband’s
affection; she must work hard, is poorly dressed, and is always
half-starved; but she prefers this life as a steady thing to the entire
heart of a pale-face, with the luxuries which he brings her.

[Illustration: Sunset Over Brabant Island.]

One miner, a man with considerable experience and a collegiate
education, gave me the following story bearing on the behaviour of the
women of Fireland:

“The Ona girl is a queer and unnatural being; she may live with a white
man, or even be lawfully wedded to him, but tender sentiments like
love for her white admirer never enter or leave her dusky bosom. I came
here ten years ago and struck a pay dig. I hadn’t time to go home to
look for a new or to bring out an old sweetheart. Some Indians always
remained unfriendly, but a few came with good intentions to the camp;
these would now and then leave one or two of their wives for me to feed
and dress, and in this way I learned to like them. One day there came
to the camp an old couple with a young and bewitching daughter. She was
only fourteen years old, but in form and manner she was just the jewel
a gold-digger would be likely to pick up. I knew a little smattering of
the native lingo and began to talk love to the girl at once; she didn’t
seem to understand me. All the tender and nice things I tried to say
seemed to be wasted. I talked to the parents; they quickly understood
me, but they said a red woman might admire and respect a pale-face, but
the warm fire, which was the principal charm of an Ona woman, was never
kindled by a white man.

“In a short time I had learned to love the girl, and she didn’t seem
to hate me, so I asked the parents if they would not leave her with
me for a while that she might learn to like me, but they objected,
whereupon I determined to steal her. After a lonely walk one evening
in the forests, she agreed to be stolen. When the family left for the
mountains I followed and picked the apple of my eye. Things went along
happily--the honeymoon was a short dream, and the parents, for a long
time, did not come to disturb me. I congratulated myself upon the
success of my theft. Later, however, I learned that the parents knew
about it all the time. I dressed the girl in expensive clothes, for
which I had sent three thousand miles; fed her three full meals daily;
built a nice warm hut; and did nearly all the camp work myself. She
had not been fully dressed before, never had more than one meal a day,
sometimes not one square fill in a week, and at home she always worked
like a slave, shivering out a miserable, homeless existence in the
forests. I showered her with luxuries and kind, gentle treatment.

“By this means, and by another which I shall mention presently, I was
generally able to keep her as a permanent fixture about my household.
About once a week, however, she found it necessary to go into the
forests to gather certain fungi, which she said were necessary for her
health. At first she returned promptly from these little jaunts and
she always seemed livelier and refreshed by the recreation, but later
she remained away one or two days at a time. This absence I could not
endure, so I sought the reason for it and found that she was meeting a
big, manly young buck. I could not blame her for being enamoured with
him for I admired him myself. I took him into our camp and ever since
there has been peace, and restfulness, and divided love in our wild
home.”

This suggests a consideration of the aboriginal marriage relations,
and the arrangement of the bonds of the family institution. Marriage,
like almost everything Ona, is not fixed by established rules. It is
arranged and rearranged from time to time to the convenience of the
contracting parties. Women generally have very little to say about
it. The bargain is made almost solely by the men, and physical force
is the principal bond of union. For ages the strongest bucks have
been accustomed to steal females from neighbouring tribes, and from
neighbouring clans of their own tribe. The Onas being by far the most
powerful Indians, have thus been able to capture and retain a liberal
supply of wives. This easy gain of women has made polygamy a necessity,
and the system is not condemned by men familiar with the people. A
missionary who has been in constant contact with these Indians for
thirty years gives it as his opinion that a plurality of wives was
entirely satisfactory to their peculiar emotions and habits of life.

The relation between the women who possess but one husband in common
in the family wigwam is of novel interest. As a rule, they are no more
jealous of each other, or of their husbands, than our children in the
home circle. The principal reason for this is that the several wives
are often sisters. A young man takes by force, by mutual agreement,
or by barter, the oldest daughter of a family. If he proves himself a
good hunter and a kind husband, the wife persuades her sister to join
her wigwam, and share her husband’s affections. Frequently, when a girl
is left an orphan, she is taken into a family and trained to become
the supplementary wife of her benefactor in after years. In the hut
each wife has her own assigned position, always resting in exactly
the same spot, with all of her belongings about her. The wealth of the
household is not common to all the occupants. Each woman has her own
basket of meat fragments or shellfish; her own bag with implements,
needles, sinews, and bits of fur, and each wife has her own assemblage
of children.

The unwritten laws which govern the actions of the tribe as a whole
are very vaguely understood. There never has been any very great need
for the Onas to assemble and unite against an enemy. Any one of the
numerous clans under one chief has been more than equal to overcome
the feeble onslaughts by other Indians and white men. Hence the lack
of tribunal organisation. In the family, however, the relations are
firmly fixed by habits which never change. The loose arrangement of
marriage and divorce does not seem to disturb seriously the equilibrium
of the home circle. The camp is pitched from day to day at convenient
spots for the chase. This makes elaborate houses or complex fixtures
impossible. It never requires more than a half hour to build an Ona
house. The work of the man is strictly limited to the chase. He carries
his bow and quiver of arrows; and his eye is ever on the horizon for
game; but he seldom stoops to anything like manual labour which is not
connected with the actual necessities of the chase. He kills the game,
but the wife must carry it into camp. In moving the women take up all
of their earthly possessions, pack them into a huge roll, and, with
this firmly strapped across their backs, they follow the unencumbered
lead of their brave but ungallant husbands. Thus the women carry, day
after day, not only all the household furniture, but the children and
the portable portions of the house. The women certainly have all the
uninteresting detail and the drudgery of life heaped upon them, but
they seem to enjoy it. In defence of the men it should be said that
they are worthy husbands. They will fight fiercely to protect their
homes, and they will guard the honour of their women with their own
blood. It is a crying sin of the advance of Christian civilisation that
this redman of the far south should be compelled to lay down his life
at the feet of the heartless pale-faced invaders, to shield the honour
of his home.

I doubt if regular missionary work will improve the hard lot of
this noble band of human strugglers. The efforts thus far made have
certainly had the contrary effect, and altogether they do not need a
new system of morals as badly as we do ourselves. I do not mean to
infer that missionary work, in general, is hurtful to aborigines. There
is a legitimate field for such efforts, but it is not among Onas,
unless the work is conducted in a new manner by a thoroughly practical
man. They need to be placed in a position where they may follow their
wild habits without the infectious degeneration of higher life.
Individually and collectively they have fewer sins than New Yorkers. It
is true that there are among them no faultless characters, but there
are also no great criminals. There are some good and others bad, but
the worst and the best are found side by side. The bitter and the
sweet of human life among them, flows in the same stream. It has the
same origin, and the same termination. The lesson of ages to untutored
man has impressed upon him a prescription of moral direction, which is
quite as good as and far more appropriate for him than the white man’s
code of ethics.

CHAPTER IX

DISCOVERIES IN A NEW WORLD OF ICE

On January 3, 1898, we started eastward through Beagle Channel,
intending to push southward at once, but an incident happened which
changed our progress and also disturbed our ease of mind. This incident
proved to be the _Belgica’s_ first geographical discovery. While
trying to find Harbourton, a missionary station on the south-eastern
shore of the main island of Tierra del Fuego, she struck a reef.

We were steaming eastward through Beagle Channel. It was late at
night, and before us there was the dim outline of a long panorama
of islands; behind lay the ice-covered mountains of the tail of the
Cordilleras. On each side were the black forest-covered steeps of the
wild and melancholy Fuegian Islands. At 11 o’clock the twilight was
still pouring over the white glacial sheets of the west; the tops of
the islands were aglow with a curious pearly light. The water was
as smooth as that of the Hudson, but deep down rested the feeble
white reflections of the mountain heights. The coastal outline was
indeterminable. We pushed along slowly, searching bay after bay for
some signs of human life. On a neck of land an object was reported
which might be a house, but we could not decide the question even with
our best telescopes. We aimed for it. In a few minutes we discovered
that our progress through the water was arrested. This was a mystery
to us. The engines were forced to their limits, but we remained
stationary. Soundings indicated that we were aground on a reef of
rocks, but we had gone on so easily that no one had felt a jar. We
hoped the tide would rise and lift us off, but it fell and left us
stranded. At 4 o’clock in the morning the _Belgica_ began to
careen, and at 6 o’clock she had a list, making it impossible to stand
on the floor. We tried to brace her up with spars, but they broke like
pipe-stems. We now made out the object on shore to be a house and saw
also some signs of life about it. Presently a group of men came from
it to us. They were Indians, under the direction of Mr. Lucas Bridges,
a sheep-farmer. Mr. Bridges volunteered to help us in our efforts to
save the ship. I went ashore with him to get the services of as many
Indians as possible. The sailors and the Indians, working side by side,
began at once to lighten the ship by removing cargo to the shores.
Only two or three boat-loads were landed when a sudden storm rolled
down the gullies from the high mountains to the north-westward, piling
up a sea which made further communication with the ship impossible.
From the shore we could see the _Belgica_ rock and roll in
response to every gust of wind which passed over us. On the shore and
on the ship there was little hope of saving the vessel. Following
a tremendous squall we saw the Belgian colours go up and then felt
relieved of fear. She drifted with the wind and in an hour disappeared
behind a black head of land. The next day she returned and reported no
serious injury.

[Illustration: Mount William, Antwerp Island.]

[Illustration: Mount Allo, Liege Island.]

From Harbourton we steamed eastward to the storm-washed shores of
Staten Island, where we took our last water-supply, and bade our
friends and the known world a final adieu. From the time we left
Staten Island, on January 13, 1898, until our return to Punta Arenas,
on March 28, 1899, we were in another world--a new icy world, where
communication with home regions was impossible. We had troubles of our
own, and a little warfare, too--but we were totally ignorant of the
Spanish-American War, the Dreyfus case, and the other great national
and international troubles which had made history in our absence.

Our first large task was the seemingly impossible work of making a map
of the sea bottom and a study of the waters south of Cape Horn. This is
a belt of ocean famous as being swept by the most destructive storms
on the globe. It is difficult enough for ordinary navigation, but to
attempt to remain stationary for three or four hours daily, and sink a
wire two miles, with delicate instruments attached, was a venture which
did not appeal to us with much promise of success. We were favoured,
however, with good weather until we got a glimpse of the South Shetland
Islands, and were thus able to make a line of soundings across the
previously unfathomed sea. The general depth here was considerable.
After passing over a narrow submarine shelf south of Staten Island, the
lead dropped suddenly to 13,300 feet. The ocean-bed then rose gradually
in an easy slope to the South Shetland Islands, thus proving a rather
sharp disconnection between the mountain-ranges of southern South
America and those of the imperfectly known antarctic lands.

The first iceberg was met the day before we saw the snowy outline of
the South Shetlands. It appeared a long way off, over our port bow, at
about 8 o’clock in the evening of January 19th. We all went on deck to
get a glimpse of our first antarctic berg, but we made no efforts to
get nearer. The sky was sooty, and the air so heavy that the coming
twilight was lost in a gloomy mist. Around the dull white mass there
was a cloud of vapour which rose and fell, now offering a peep at the
strange block of ice, and again veiling it from view. Half sorry to
leave it without further observation, we steamed onward until it sank
into the stormy sea over our port quarter.

The night which followed was dark. The sea rolled under our stern
in huge inky mountains, while the wind scraped the deck with an icy
edge. We kept a sharp lookout for icebergs, which might come suddenly
into our path out of the impenetrable darkness ahead. The sudden fall
of the temperature and the stinging, penetrating character of the
wind seemed to warn us that ice was near; but we encountered none.
Life was plentiful, but melancholy. Curious albatrosses and petrels
hovered about us, uttering strange cries, and in the water there was
an occasional spout from a whale. It was a night of uncertainty, of
anticipation, of discomfort--an experience which only those who have
gone through the wilderness of an unknown sea can understand.

[Illustration: Weddell Sea Leopards of Belgica Strait.

(_Leptonychotes Weddelli._)]

The morning dawned, as it usually does over Cape Horn seas, without
the sun, and with a smoky, low, lead-streaked sky. At noon the icy
mist overhead melted and an occasional sunburst gave life and colour
to the scene. Our soundings indicated a proximity to land, which
caused us to skim the horizon constantly through our glasses with
keen interest. A small white speck here and there indicated distant
icebergs. At about three o’clock in the afternoon a series of low
pyramidal masses appeared under the southern sky. It was like a
bank of blue fog fringed with snowy bands. The whole length of our
seaboard formed an ill-defined, cloud-like aggregation resting on
the black waters and extending the entire length from north-east to
south-west. As we steamed on, the central groups became more distinct
and the whole line rose above the horizon. We now recognised it as the
northern exposure of the South Shetland Islands. During the afternoon
a gentle but piercing wind came from the land, bringing with it a
glassy air and an easy, silvery sea, over which the new land stood out
in bold relief. We could distinguish Livingston Island over our port
bow, and north-eastward, melting into the blue airy distance, were
numerous similar islands. Over our starboard bow was Smith Island, its
base still under the water, and its table-topped crest rising into
mouse-coloured clouds, sixty miles away.

We hoped that the night would not again be darkened by the
ever-present black mist, and pushed rapidly landward to get a good
view before midnight. But this was not to be, for as the sun sank in
the south-west the wind came out of the north-east with a sooty smoke
which blocked out our horizon. The distance was too great to make a
good study of the land. In a general way this coast-line resembles
the northern parts of the Greenland landscape. About the largest
islands there are many small, ice-free isles, or rocks, which serve
as resting-places for seals, penguins, cormorants, and gulls. On the
larger islands, and especially on Livingston Island, there are high
peaks and rounded, dome-like hills, which are crowned with snow, but
whose sides are mostly bare and wind-rasped. The valleys are filled
with huge glaciers, which send tongues out to the sea. We saw no
glaciers, however, which came out from any distance into the water.
The limit of the ice was generally at high-water mark, where it wasted
away in small fragments. From what we later learned of the lands
farther south, it is extremely probable that moss and lichens are here
abundant, but there is no hope for grass or trees.

It is very curious that this group of islands, about one hundred in
number, with a thousand miles of accessible coast-line, and several
good harbours, free of ice for much of the year, should remain
unclaimed by any government, and unsettled by human efforts. It would
be a humane mission if our government would take possession of these
islands, and place there a lighthouse, with a supply station, for
the preservation of ship-wrecked sailors. Vessels are lost in this
vicinity almost every year, and we do not know but that some poor
seamen are not now stranded on one of the many desolate islands,
awaiting the relief which never comes.

During the night of the 20th, the ship was kept moving slowly
southward. It was another night of anxiety, though there were few
icebergs about, and no pack-ice; yet the proximity to an unknown coast
and the uncertainty of our position, with unsettled weather, made
us all but comfortable. In the morning it was misty. Numerous small
icebergs were about us, and while trying to dodge these we made another
discovery--we struck a rock. This time we did not go on to it as easily
as we did in Beagle Channel. We struck with a force that made the ship
tremble and crack from stem to stern. We needed no call to come on
deck, but after reaching it, we could not see what had happened.

“We struck an iceberg,” some one said.

“Yes; a black one,” said Knudsen.

A few moments later the fog lifted, and we saw white crests and black
rocks about us on every side. The good old ship was turned; she rolled
off and struck two or three other rocks, and then steamed away, none
the worse for it. As we withdrew we watched the small icebergs being
dashed to pieces on the same rocks, and wondered if that would not be
our fate with the next encounter.

At about noon on the 21st, the horizon cleared a little, giving us an
opportunity to pass safely from the rocks and bergs around us. Sail
Rock was visible on our port, but nothing else except the dim outline
of Deception Island and the rocks eastward. Sail Rock is remarkable
from a distance; it has the appearance of a ship under sail; but
at close range it is more like a house with a gable-roof. It is a
solid rock about four hundred feet high, a thousand feet long, and
five hundred feet wide. The sides for three or four hundred feet are
perpendicular, offering no beach, and no ledge as a resting-place for
birds, except at the peak. As we had Sail Rock over our quarter, the
weather changed; the bright gray of the waters became black, the sky
grew lead-coloured, and penguins jumped out of the water and then
rushed through it landward with electric swiftness, as if to warn us of
a coming storm. The storm, however, did not come until the morning of
the 22d.

[Illustration: Cormorants at Home.]

[Illustration: Arctowski gathering Geological Specimens, observed
by a Megalestris.

(Cape Lancaster in the Background.)]

This storm proved to us a melancholy affair. The wind at first was not
strong or steady, but the sea which rolled under our starboard quarter
tossed us about upon its bosom as a child does a toy. Occasionally it
broke over us amidship, flooding the laboratory and the galley. There
was a large quantity of coal on the decks, and some of this was carried
by the swash into the scuppers, making escape of the water impossible.
To free the scuppers one of our youngest sailors--Wiencke--was at
work periodically during much of his watch. In the afternoon the
tempest increased and gathered force hour after hour. Great seas
broke over us with increasing violence, while the wind came and went
with a cannon-like roar. Everything movable on the decks was swept
overboard. At about three o’clock in the afternoon Amundsen and I
were on the bridge, straining our eyes and levelling our glasses on
a mysterious black object ahead, directly in our course; while thus
engaged, we heard an unearthly cry,--a cry which made me shiver because
of its force and painful tone. We turned about quickly, but saw nothing
to indicate the direction of the noise. Amundsen, thinking there had
been an accident in the engine-room, rushed in that direction. I went
aft to the quarter-deck, and, looking astern, saw a man struggling
among the foamy crests. It was Wiencke--in trying to free the scuppers
he had lost his balance, and in falling, he had uttered the awful
cry which had startled us. With quick presence of mind he sought the
log-line and grasped it. I caught hold of the other end, and began to
draw it slowly in, but he slipped until his hand was stopped by the
log; upon this he held with a death-like grasp. Before I had pulled in
the full length of the line everybody was on deck; but there was little
to be done. With the sea tossing the ship about like a chip, and the
wind blowing a gale, it was impossible to lower a boat. As I brought
Wiencke close to the stern, Lecointe, with a bravery impossible to
appreciate, volunteered to be lowered into the icy sea to pass a rope
around the poor fellow. He followed his offer with demands for a rope,
which was securely fastened around his waist. With two men at the rope,
Lecointe was lowered into the churning waters, but he sank at once with
the counter-eddies, and nearly lost his own life without being able
to keep near Wiencke. Lecointe was raised, and without delay or undue
excitement, we managed to tow Wiencke to the side of the ship, where we
expected to lower another man. But while we were doing this, he gave up
his grip on the log and sank. We waited there for an hour, but saw no
more of our unfortunate shipmate. Wiencke was a boy with many friends,
and his absence was deeply felt in our little party.

* * * * *

Before night the fog raised, and exposed under it a continuous wall of
ice about one hundred and fifty feet high, extending as far eastward
and westward as we could see. At first we thought it an iceberg. It had
every resemblance to one, but its enormous size led us into doubts. We
steamed eastward, keeping from it a distance of about four miles, and
presently were able to make out a black line above the water, which
later we determined to be rocks. Around the eastern termination were a
number of small peaks of volcanic rocks, and from them came, first the
odour of guano-beds, and then the deafening squawk--_gha-a-ah_,
_gha-a-ah_,--of countless millions of penguins. This was Low
Island. We rested here in the lee of its walls for the night, but owing
to persistent fogs we did not get a glimpse of its interior.

[Illustration: A Penguin Rookery, Isle Cobalescou.]

[Illustration: Penguins--A Family Gathering on the Pack-ice.]

On the morning of the 23d the sea was easier but choppy, and the
weather offered promises of clearing. We took advantage of the
conditions to cross Bransfield Strait, which separates the South
Shetlands from the mainlands of the true antarctic. The promise of a
clear horizon was not realised, for it remained misty all day. Icebergs
were passed in great numbers, most of them being table-topped and
square cut, with great blue lines, crevasses, and cavities. The mist
destroyed the fine outlines and the fascinating colours of the ice.
The knife-like corners of the crowns were ill-defined, and the usual
exquisite blues and greens were covered by the gloomy gray of the sky.
There was about these bergs, even with their subdued colours, something
wildly picturesque, but there was also a real danger in our proximity
to them in hazy weather.

Historically the record of our predecessors in the region which we are
about to enter is short. Early in the twenties the islands about Cape
Horn and the South Shetlands were besieged by American fur sealers.
They did their work of execution so thoroughly that in the short period
of five years almost the entire race of fur seals was exterminated.
One of these sealers, Captain Nathaniel Palmer, in a little shallop
of forty tons, while seeking new sealing grounds southward, found an
extensive country covered with ice and inhabited by penguins and seals.
Some years later Captain Biscoe, a British sea-elephant hunter, saw a
part of the same country somewhat farther to the south-west, and still
later a German sealer, Dallman, saw a part of the same northern coast.
To Palmer belongs the honour of the discovery of this vast tract of
land. It is a disappointment that his records are so imperfect, but the
record of everything antarctic is of a similar nature. Palmer has been
forgotten by his own countrymen and ignored by foreign cartographers.
In the arrangement of the new chart the Belgian Expedition will attempt
to place his name where it belongs--on the land which he saw first of
all men.

At 3 o’clock in the afternoon of the 23d a curious white haze appeared
upon the southern sky. A little later an imperfect outline of land rose
into this haze. It extended as far as we could see to the east and to
the west. The top was everywhere veiled by a high mist, and this mist
had within it a mysterious light, which is one of the most startling of
all the south polar effects. As we drew nearer we noticed that the land
was not as it at first appeared, an endless wall of ice, but rough,
irregular and disconnected, though it was buried under a mantle of
glacial ice, extending to the water’s edge. Here and there were large
bays, and one directly over our bowsprit was so wide that it offered
us a tempting path southward. Now the maps were carefully studied that
we might be able to fix our position on paper; but in this effort we
failed.

Over the starboard bow rose two beautiful headlands, mountains of
moderate height, perhaps two thousand feet; the first (Mount Pierre)
having around it a circular cloak of ice extending from a black crown
of rocks at the summit to the sea-line, where it terminated in a
perpendicular wall of ice of about one hundred and twenty feet in
height. The second (Mount Allo) had a similar form but was much more
heavily laden with snow. In front of these remarkable headlands there
was a bay, and beyond a long series of mountains, clothed in the same
sheet of perennial ice. Eastward there were a number of small islands,
mostly free of ice, and beyond, low under the south-eastern sky, was
the dim outline of an extensive white country. We set our course
somewhat east of south to examine the interruption between the high
mountainous land before us and the more even country eastward.

That the reader may better understand the positions I will give the
names, which have since been affixed to the discoveries, as we steam
along through the undiscovered country.

We headed for a small island (Auguste Island), steaming slowly; for
with the ordinary lead we found no bottom to the sea, and being in
absolutely unknown water we might at any moment strike a reef, as we
had done twice before. It was ten o’clock at night before we were near
enough to make a landing. Then a boat was lowered, and into it we
piled, eagerly seizing the first opportunity of our mission to study
the antarctic lands and life. It was a curious night. Everything about
us had an other-world appearance. The scenery, the life, the clouds,
the atmosphere, the water--everything wore an air of mystery. There was
nothing in our surroundings which resembled the part of the antipodes
with which I was familiar. Greenland and antarctic landscapes are
apparently as widely different as the distance between them.

Though the sun was sliding eastward just under the high mountains to
the south-west it seemed perfectly dark. Nevertheless, on the water,
as we paddled over it, there was a curious luminous gray light, by
which it was possible to read coarse print even at midnight. This
light rested on the new lands to the east and west, and brought out the
snowy outlines so perfectly that it was possible to take photographs
throughout the night. The sky, however, continued black, made so by the
sooty clouds which ceaselessly rose out of the Pacific to drop their
white cargoes of snow on the neighbouring lands. There was at this time
no wind. The water was smooth and glassy, the land far off and restful;
but the life was otherwise. Awe-inspiring and strangely interesting
were the curious noises of the cormorants, the penetrating voices of
the gulls, the coarse _gha-a-ah_, _gha-a-ah_ of the penguins,
the sudden and unexpected spouts of whales, the splash of seals and
penguins, and the babyish cries of the young animals on the rocks
before us.

There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this land upon which
we were about to embark. It was a heap of hard rocks, mostly granite.
The northern exposure was bare, the ravines were still levelled with
winter ice, and the southern point had on it a small ice-cap. We
afterwards saw a hundred others of a similar nature, and all will pass
under the same description. We landed in a small bight, upon a ledge
of rocks. I think Arctowski, with his hammer and geological bag, was
the first to step ashore, and he was followed by Racovitza, with his
paraphernalia to capture natural history specimens. Gerlache and I next
stumbled over fragments of ice, and stones and impertinent penguins,
who disputed our landing. We wished to get a view of the new land, but
the force of the swell was such that we were compelled to return to
the boat and push away from the rocks to save it from being smashed.

We rested on the oars while Racovitza and Arctowski did the honours
of the expedition; we tried to follow them with our glasses as we
rocked about in the boat, but soon lost sight of their movements in
the darkness. We were able to locate Arctowski by the dull echo of
his hammer, and we were able to trace Racovitza by the chorus of
penguins which greeted him from rock to rock. The alternate interchange
of the music of the hammer and the war song of the penguins was an
entertainment which to Gerlache and myself, will be a long and weird
remembrance. At about midnight we returned to the rocky ledge to
pick up our companions with their loads of rocks and bags of game.
The inhabitants did not like their visitors. The penguins assembled
about us, picking at our feet; the gulls hovered threateningly about
our heads; and even the harmless cormorants dashed to and fro over
us, stretching their long necks to ask our mission. Worst of all the
sea-leopards clambered over the rocks near us, snorting and defiantly
showing their teeth and rolling their large, glassy eyes. As we left it
was too dark to see the movement of an animal one hundred yards from
shore, but the peculiar whiteness which rested on the scene made it
possible to take a photograph of the island with good details.

During the few hours of night we rested under easy steam, and in the
morning we found ourselves well into the bight (Hughes Inlet) which we
had entered. The land before us retreated and offered even greater
hopes of a passage southward. At five o’clock the sun had already
risen over the snowy heights of the east and was under the banks of
black clouds which sailed out of the west. There was a solitude and
restfulness about this sunburst, and the new world of ice under it
which is difficult to describe. Our position at this time was in the
centre of a wide waste of water, about twelve miles away from the
nearest land. We were too far from the rocks to see birds, and except
for an occasional spout of a whale there was nothing to mar the dead
silence. A strange pang of loneliness came over us as we paced the
deck. There were indications of channels to the south and west, but
from the distance at which we reviewed the lands every projection
seemed a continuous mass of impenetrable crystal solitude. Could there
be a place more desperately silent or more hopelessly deserted?

CHAPTER X

DISCOVERIES IN A NEW WORLD OF ICE

(CONTINUED)

Before going south it was determined to examine a large bay to the
eastward for a possible opening into the Weddell Sea (Brialmont Bay).
The morning was foggy; but by noon the mist raised a little and we
found ourselves off a bold, black cliff (Cape von Sterneck), with an
altitude of about fifteen hundred feet, on a projecting point of land,
with a few islands to the north and one to the south of it. This bluff
forms the eastern headland to the entrance of what we later discovered
was a strait opening into the Pacific, (Belgica Strait). Passing within
a few miles of the shore we examined carefully the glacial wall which
everywhere offered a check to our passage eastward. The interior of
the land was covered with a cloud which did not lift during the day,
but the coastal edge was distinctly visible, and offered us excellent
opportunities for surveying.

During the night of the 24th we steamed leisurely across the channel
and in the morning we found ourselves under a clear sky before a series
of icy

walls from 60 to 150 feet in height. From the sloping snows over these
cliffs there was showered upon us a light which was perfectly dazzling
to the eye. We selected here two points, where the ice had been partly
melted, offering a footing and a place for making observations.
The boat which took us ashore was loaded with men and instruments:
Lecointe, with his nautical instruments; Danco, with his magnetic
outfit; Racovitza, with guns and knives and what not, to take specimens
of life; Arctowski, with his big hammer and dozens of bags for stones;
Amundsen and the writer with snowshoes and camera, and the sailors with
boat-hooks and guns to keep off and capture seals. If we had started
out to make a month’s siege on the new lands and life we could not
have been better supplied. The cove in which we landed (Harry Island)
was a slope of rounded ice-worn granite rocks, upon which Lecointe and
Danco fixed their tripods. Racovitza turned up the stones along the
shore where he found mysterious crawling things which he hailed with as
much delight as if he had found nuggets of gold. Amundsen remained in
the boat and sought to secure a few Weddell sea-leopards asleep on a
pan of ice, while Arctowski and I mounted the inland ice to study its
character.

[Illustration:

Brialmont Bay. Cape Murray.

Sunrise and Sunset, Together, over the Eastern Shore of Belgica
Strait.]

The view which we obtained from the upper slopes of the land-ice was
superb indeed. To the east was an island (Two Hummock Island) with
two bare hummocks about two thousand five hundred feet high, and from
these, expanding in every direction, was a bed of ice and snow many
hundred feet deep. Beyond this, just barely visible and about fifty
miles from our position, was the feeble snowy outline of the great
country (Dancoland) which offered us no hope for a passage eastward.
Scattered about in the channel were numerous icebergs with petrels on
their crests, as tenants. Near one of these rested the _Belgica_
as easy and as stationary as if at anchor. We were on an island; except
at the sea line, however, there was not the slightest indication of
land. Everything was buried under a weight of snow and ice, about five
hundred feet in thickness. There were dome-like elevations and some
irregularities, but all was cold, white and lifeless. To the west of
this island there was a canal with several arms offering excellent
harbour facilities, and beyond, apparently within a stone’s throw,
though really five miles off, was Liege Island with Mount Brugmann,
making the most glorious snowy landscape I ever saw.

Later in the day we followed this land northward and then proceeded
to our first landing-place. It was a clear, silvery day, with only
an occasional cloud rising out of the black waters of the north. The
temperature was close to the freezing point, but the air was calm and
dry. We were dressed in ordinary clothing, without overcoats, and
when engaged in rowing, or climbing, our jackets were removed. Even
lightly dressed, we perspired while trying to scale the cliffs of ice.
The water was a joy to behold. It was like a mill-pond. Easy ripples
deflected the sunbeams on the mirrored surface, and everywhere, on the
surface and under it, could be seen the soft whiteness of the land-ice
and the savage blackness of the _noonataks_. We kept the coast
within five miles on our port side; at this distance it presented a
scene such as one sees nowhere else in the world. There were in the
foreground a few rocks too steep for snow to rest upon, black except
on the north-eastern face, where a little moss added a flush of red
and green; in the background everything was loaded down by continental
ice. The inland ice, unlike that of Greenland, was irregular, and took
the general outline of the mountain ridge under it. There was in view,
for a distance of twenty miles, extending north-east and south-west, an
unbroken series of mountains and ice-walls.

[Illustration: View Eastward from Neumayer Channel.

Part of Wiencke Island. Sierre Du Fief in the Background.]

[Illustration: Brooklyn Island.]

We spent the afternoon surveying this coast, and at 5 o’clock we were
off the rounded peak (Mount Allo) which we first saw on the 23d. We
then steamed again for the little island (Auguste) upon which we made
our first debarkment. Here we rested under steam for the few hours of
twilight, during the midnight hours, and on the 26th a number of sights
were made for triangulation. The morning of the 27th was spent in a
similar way. In the afternoon we steamed south to a number of small
rocks (Gaston Islands), which we thought might be the islands laid down
by Larsen on the east coast. Larsen claimed to have looked northward
from his islands without seeing land, but we found it otherwise. The
day was hazy, and, though the ice-wall of the coast was constantly
visible, the interior of the country to both sides of us was obscured
under clouds. A debarkment was made on one of the supposed Larsen
Islands. They were three in number, of irregular shape and in size;
the largest was not more than a mile in its longest diameter. The two
largest islands had, in the centre, cone-like peaks of bare rocks, from
which an ice-mantle spread out to the shore line, as it does on all
the antarctic islands. The smallest one upon which we landed was not
more than a half mile wide and three quarters of a mile long. There was
about it nothing to indicate land except a shelf of volcanic rocks upon
which we placed the geologist with his hammer, while the boat withdrew
to keep from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. The tide was low,
and if Arctowski had been left there, or if our boat had been lost, we
should have been forced to climb a vertical cliff of ice one hundred
feet high, or take to the rising sea of ice-water, as did the seals and
penguins. Neither prospect seemed agreeable, and the danger of falling
ice from the cliffs was such that we soon returned to the ship. The
haze of the morning thickened to a dense fog, which entirely blocked
out our view of the main shore-lines on both sides. We steamed westerly
in a line over which the channel seemed to open into a large body of
water.

The prevailing query on board was, “Is this the Pacific or the
Atlantic?”

The weather continuing foggy, we took advantage of the time to augment
our water supply. Up to this time we had made eight debarkments, but
found no place where fresh water could be taken. There were about us a
large number of icebergs. One of these offered an even side as a dock,
and to this we attempted to anchor the _Belgica_ that we might
secure ice from it, which could be melted and put into our tanks.
The ship was taken to the side, while men with ice anchors and axes
mounted to the berg. The men succeeded in placing the anchors, and also
chopped a supply of ice; but the motion of the berg was such that it
nearly stove in the ribs of the vessel in the effort to load. We were
compelled to cast off and leave the unruly berg. A few days later,
however, we found a small glacial stream from which we secured a good
supply of water, which served us for several months.

Being still unwilling to advance into the unknown region before us
while enshrouded in mist, we drew near a prominent mountain peak (Cape
Anna), whose front was perpendicular and free of snow to the seashore.
This peak was, as we learned on the following day, one of a number
extending far into the south-west. We made a debarkment at its base.
Here was life in profusion, as indeed it was on every rock where life
could gain a footing. The noise from the birds which re-echoed from
cliff to cliff was so deafening that our attempts at conversation
were inaudible. The lower rocks were lined with snoring and grunting
sea-leopards. Columns of vapour rose above the water followed by a
hiss like that of a steam-engine, and a second later the blue back of
a whale, with its long fin and ponderous tail, lashed the water into
a foamy whirlpool. The great wall of land-ice, which rose to each
side of the black cliff, gave us a shelf as a landing-place, and from
this wall came frequent sounds like the explosion of a cannon, each
followed by a great splash and a commotion in the water. With such
reports, parts of the wall would constantly break away and explode into
a million pieces, strewing the water with small fragments of ice, but
not with icebergs. Above us rose a cliff to an altitude of about two
thousand feet; out from this were projecting mantel-like rocks, which
served as resting-places for cormorants and sea-gulls. Here the young
ones, dressed in gray down, coaxed their mothers for food. We expected
to see the little things drop from the narrow resting-places to be
destroyed on our heads or on the rocks below, but such an accident
rarely happened. Our greatest surprise here was the discovery of large
quantities of moss and lichens, which gave the spot an appearance of
life that to us, after having seen nothing but ice and black rocks for
so many days, made it a true oasis.

From this point we were able to see in a splendid manner almost the
entire length of the channel explored to this time; but we had not yet
been able to make a running survey of the regions in our immediate
vicinity. To get a better view it was decided to ascend to the interior
of the land and scale one of the _noonataks_. In a bay (Buls
Bay) to the westward the land offered an easy slope and to it we
steamed on the following day. In our preparations for this ascent we
made arrangements to camp on the inland ice for a week. A tent was
taken, sleeping bags, and fur clothing were gotten out, and bags of
provisions were packed, all of which was lashed on two small sledges.
Volunteers were called for and those who responded were Arctowski,
Danco, Amundsen, and the writer. Led by Gerlache we landed late on the
afternoon of the 31st on a little point of land (Cape d’Ursel) with a
northern or sunny face. We climbed the steep slopes for five hundred
feet, and then camped for the night. The first night was one of stormy
discomfort. A wind came out of the bed of a glacier above us, against
which we could hardly stand. It took two men to hold up the tent, and
the combined efforts of all hands to keep from having our effects
scattered over the cliffs but a few yards away. On the 1st of February
we made another effort and mounted a few miles into the interior, but
fog and wind and crevasses made frequent halts necessary. The sledges
were heavily loaded and were difficult to drag, and altogether the work
of travelling and the discomfort of camping were such that the life was
generally miserable. We succeeded, however, in mounting to the peak
of a _noonatak_, with an altitude of about fifteen hundred feet,
and from there Gerlache and Danco were able to get the observations
necessary for the rough survey of our surroundings. The view before us
was even more beautiful, if possible, than anything we had seen since
our first entrance into this new white world. To the south-west there
was an opening through a new land and into a new sea, which remained
for us to explore later. To the north-east, descending into the white
airy distance, were the two high banks of the new highway. Before
us was a small island, shaped like a biscuit, and like everything
antarctic, it was covered with ice to the water’s edge. Around this
berg-like island were a number of icebergs, stranded on submerged
rocks, and these, by occasional mysterious explosions, sent up the
noise and the commotion of a thousand cannons. The opposite shore
here retreated, making two large bays. In these bays were a number
of islands, beyond which we could see clearly a narrow canal. The
land which spread out under the southern and eastern skies offered no
promise of a passage eastward; it had a series of black cliffs parallel
to the coast about five miles beyond the edge of the sea, and beyond
these the white outline of the land rose into the clouds.

[Illustration:

Lemaire Channel. Wandel Island.]

[Illustration: Cape Cloos.]

After a stay of seven days, which was our first camping experience in
the antarctic, and the first in the history of south polar exploration,
we gladly betook ourselves to the good old bark, which had returned
from a cruise southward. During our absence the _Belgica_, under
Lecointe’s direction, had been on an exploring cruise to the south. The
effort was brilliantly successful, for Lecointe reported the discovery
of several islands, upon one of which Racovitza had discovered the
metropolis of Belgica Strait, a city of forty thousand penguins, and
beyond these islands there was what promised to be an unobstructed
highway into the Pacific. To examine this and the extension of the
waters before us was our next mission; but Lecointe was not yet
satisfied that the wide bay opposite our encampment (Wilhelmina Bay),
did not extend through Dancoland to the Atlantic. During the night of
February 6th we steamed across the Strait, and early on the following
morning we were off Cape Murray. Keeping close to the shores we
followed the great wall of ice which lined the shore-line from Cape
Murray to Cape Reclus. At noon we rounded Cape Reclus, a long tongue
of land-ice with a saddle-shaped mountain in the center, and entered a
canal-like body of water, with the high ice-walls of Dancoland on the
east and the shore lines of Nansen and Brooklyn Islands on the west.
This was certainly a fairy-like scene; but a heavy fog settled down
over us, blocking out, for a time, the savage peaks which pierced the
heavy spread of snow and reared their towering heights far into the
dull skies. In this fog the water had the colour and the glimmer of
polished silver, while the walls of ice rising from the shore-lines
stood out in great lines of ultramarine blue. We continued our search
along the mainland, and in the evening we found ourselves opposite
Sophie Rocks, which we had seen from the other side. The body of water
through which we sailed on this day has been given the name “Chenal de
la Plata,” in honour of the capital of the Argentine Republic.

A scene which I photographed at midnight on February 7th pictures
this land in a faithful manner. The sun was just under the land-ice,
painting the sky in orange and the land in gold, while gliding
northward behind a great crested peak 4,000 feet in height. To each
side of this black peak were rugged edges of stratified rocks which had
once been under the sea, but were now raised to an elevation of two
thousand feet, and buried under a sheet of ice of more than a thousand
feet in thickness.

[Illustration: Ascending Icy Mountains.]

[Illustration: An Encampment.]

On the morning of February 8th we had completed a rough survey of
the mainland eastward, and a running survey of the eastern banks of
the Liege and Brabant Islands. We did not follow the channels leading
northward and westward, nor did we prolong our examination of the
lands in that direction beyond the banks of Belgica Strait. We steamed
around Cape Anna, and then headed for a remarkable cliff, at the base
of which we made our fourteenth debarkment. The day was a delight. The
sun showered its full wealth of rays on the sloping snows with such
force that the reflected beams made the air and the water perfectly
dazzling. It was a photographic day. As the ship steamed rapidly along,
spreading out one panorama after another of a new world, the noise of
the camera was as regular and successive as the tap of a stock ticker.
Not less than three hundred photographs were taken on this day. Surely,
in the hundred miles of land which we discovered on this memorable day
there were no landmarks which were not on our plates. Everybody was
on deck with pencil and paper, some making nautical and geographical
notes, others geological and topographical notes, and all recording the
strange other-world scenic effects. Even the sailors, the cabin-boy,
and the cooks were out with paper and note-books, taking long looks and
then bending over their paper.

The landscape was not materially different from what it had been along
the scores of miles which we had discovered during the days previous,
but the clearness of the atmosphere made it possible to see to the
limit of every point of the horizon. There were on this day many
notable sights, but I shall mention only two. Early in the afternoon we
saw on the northern side of the channel a great red cliff of granite.
Its bare face was only about one thousand feet high, but, with its
snow-covered base and its icy crest, it stood up boldly to an altitude
of three thousand feet against the clouds, which now came from the
south-west. A little farther south the channel was divided into two
arms by an island, with a bold round rock as a headland (Cape Eivind
Astrup). We took the western arm. This passage was not more than from
two to five miles in width, and its length was about forty miles. We
entered it at four o’clock, and steamed for six hours in a silvery
fjord, whose walls of ice and rock rose over us to a height of from
three to four thousand feet. At ten o’clock we saw the black sky of the
Pacific and the terminating banks of the newly discovered Strait.

Here, within sight of the Pacific, was a large bay (Borgen Bay)
surrounded by mountains (Osterrieth Mountains) fully three thousand
feet high and covered with snow to their summits. In this bay we rested
for the night.

The morning of the 9th was as beautiful as the day previous, and under
the warm rays of the sun we made two debarkments to fix the position
of the landmarks of the southern opening of the new Strait, and to
make the usual scientific collections and observations. The time from
the 9th to the 12th was spent in exploring this region. The country
was somewhat higher than any we had seen farther northward. Glacial
discharge had a greater tendency to be sent out by tongues into the
sea. The northern cape (Cape Lancaster) has a long tongue of ice rising
with an easy slope to a single mountain of moderate height. This agrees
well in position with the Mount William of Biscoe. The southern cape
(Cape Reynard) is made prominent by a number of needle-like peaks,
which are too steep to offer a resting-place for snow. Between these
two prominent capes is a large island (Wiencke Island), which has
running through its center a ridge of high peaks (Sierra Du Fief),
nearly free of snow. The northern point of Wiencke Island is a black
bluff crowned with an even sheet of ice which breaks off into the water
to both sides of the cape. This point has been named in honor of the
faithful companion of Lieutenant Peary, the friend of Mr. Amundsen and
myself, Eivind Astrup (now deceased). The southern cape (Cape Errera)
is remarkable, because upon it is a unique pyramidal peak. Just beyond
the southern termination of Wiencke Island there are a number of small
ice-capped islands (Wauwermans Islands).

In the past three weeks we have been remarkably successful in
discovering new regions. Without encountering any serious difficulty
we have passed through a new highway from Bransfield Strait, two
hundred miles south-westerly, through an unknown land to the Pacific,
which has been given the name “Detroit de la Belgica.” This highway
is perfectly free, in summer, for ordinary navigation. The scores of
new islands which dot the virgin waters are inhabited by countless
millions of penguins and cormorants, while great numbers of seals are
in evidence on every accessible rock or ledge of ice. In the waters
are large numbers of finback whales which, with the seals, will in the
near future offer a new industry. To the west of Belgica Strait there
are four large mountainous islands (Liege, Brabant, Grand, and Anvers
Islands). These islands are probably guarded seaward by a great number
of small islands. Over this group we have written the American name,
Palmer Archipelago, in justice to the young Yankee sealer, Nathaniel
Palmer, who first of all men saw the outer line of this still unknown
coast. The various islands, mountains, capes, bays, and headlands have
been named in honour of Belgian friends of the expedition. We have not,
however, forgotten prominent outside workers, as is clearly shown by
Neumayer Channel and Nansen Island. The honor of bestowing some names
fell to the lot of each officer. Two islands, which it has been my
privilege to name, are called Brooklyn and Van Wyck Islands; Brooklyn,
in honour of the city of my home, and Van Wyck, in honour of the first
Mayor of Greater New York.

To the east of Belgica Strait the shore-line is unbroken. It has
many deep indentations, but there is no passage into the Atlantic. A
continuous wall of ice, from fifty to one hundred feet high, fronts
the coast everywhere. This land is from two thousand to four thousand
feet high, with mountains farther inland perhaps six thousand feet in
altitude. Every valley and every surface which is not perpendicular is
buried by a sheet of never-melting ice. We were not able to follow the
coast of this country far enough south to determine the interesting
question whether it is continuous with Grahamland or not. This land
has received the name Terre de Danco, in memory of our late faithful
companion, Lieutenant Emile Danco.

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.]

CHAPTER XII

ACROSS THE ANTARCTIC CIRCLE--FIRST EFFORTS
TO PENETRATE THE PACK

[Illustration: Snowy Petrel, (_Pagodroma nivea_).]

On the evening of the fifteenth we had sunk the land and the drift-ice
under the north-eastern horizon. There remains, in that direction, an
ice-blink, a bright, cream-colored zone on the sky, which indicates
that ice and land is not far off. Icebergs are about us in great
numbers, but they are all small, hard, rounded masses, showing the
effect of stormy seas. None are over one hundred feet high, and all
have a polished surface with huge blue cavities, into which the
sea rushes with a cannon-like roar. Giant petrels, cape pigeons,
albatrosses and gulls hover about the bark in the air, but in the water
we see no life. The night promises to be clear, with a continued fair
wind sending us along at the rate of six knots without steam. We are
all on deck watching the good old ship plough her way merrily through
the virgin antarctic seas, feeling proud of her sterling qualities,
and of her sailing capacity, when the Captain suddenly springs into
an ecstasy. He acts like a boy with a new toy. We look about for the
reason for all the commotion, and he points to the heavens; there,
through a break in the low stratus clouds, gleams a star. It is a
lonely speck in a narrow strip of blue, but it is the first star which
we have seen while along the edge of the south polar lands.

If our dead reckoning is correct we shall cross the antarctic circle
to-night, but we have had no opportunity for several days to fix our
position. The intermittent fogs and heavy clouds which hang over us
constantly have deprived us of the necessary glimpses of the sun, the
moon, and the stars, with which to make the nautical calculations. At
present our positions by account are only guesses at an actual location
because of our absolute ignorance of the currents. During the day and
the preceding night we passed great numbers of icebergs, but they
were all of the sea-washed and storm-rasped type; irregular in shape,
few over a hundred feet high, and all of a dull gray blue colour. The
bergs here seem to be fragments of larger tabular masses. Early in the
evening a yellow cloud-like figure rose out of the south-east. This, on
a closer approach, proved to be a continuation of the mainland. There
were tall angular peaks which stood out boldly against the ice-blink
thrown upon the vapour which hangs over the land. Between these black
peaks were blue valleys filled with glaciers, pouring their frozen
streams down the slopes and out into the sea.

At eight o’clock on the morning of the sixteenth we came on deck to
gain the first view of the new panorama which the lifting fogs had
unveiled. The land here, behind a very bold black headland marking the
bluff point of a projecting cape, trends suddenly eastward and sinks
under the horizon. The north-western side of this cape is remarkable
for its great tongue of ice spreading out smoothly from a snow-covered
ridge far interior, and breaking off in an even uninterrupted wall of
ice at the seashore. The southern shore has also a great ice-wall, but
this wall is interrupted by several black, rocky cliffs which separate
the land-ice into numerous glacial streams. Beyond the black headland
there are two sharp peaks, about four thousand feet high, and to each
side of these are a few dome-like mountains of a lesser height. About
ten miles beyond this ridge there is a chain of white peaks, with a
general height of perhaps six thousand feet, running parallel to the
eastward trend of the coast. Far to the south, still fifty or sixty
miles off, we saw a great mass of high land which later proved to be a
group of islands. Between the headland eastward, upon which our eyes
first landed, and the great cliffs to the south, there is a break
in the land which may be a bay or a strait. It is filled with heavy
sea-ice and studded with countless icebergs, making an examination of
the continuation of the coast impossible. We were compelled to set a
course southward, leaving open the question as to whether the coast of
Grahamland ends here or extends farther poleward.

Leaving this land behind us we steamed southward during the day,
pressing as closely to the land in that direction as the pack-ice,
which was held close to the shore, would permit. We decided, at this
time, that the land before us was Alexanderland, and behind us,
probably, that which is charted as Adelaide Island; but there is
nothing about this latter land, as we view it over the stern, which
indicates that it is an island. If an island, which Lecointe doubts,
it must be a very large one, with the eastern termination beyond our
horizon. On the whole, it seems to us like a very large country, ridged
by at least two high mountain chains, which are covered with ice to
their peaks. We have formed the impression that it is a part of the
mainland, and conclude that a strait probably separates Grahamland from
the farther antarctic. But this is merely an impression; the facts are
that the land, though agreeing in position with the assigned location
of Adelaide Island, does not bear any resemblance to the discoverer’s
meagre description. As to the land before us, there seems to be no
doubt among the officers but that it is the country charted Alexander
I. Land, by the Russian explorer, Bellingshausen, seventy-six years
ago. He saw it only from a great distance and it has not been seen
by human eyes before or since. Now the _Belgica_ is heading for
it; but there is so much heavy pack-ice, which appears to embrace the
shores, that we do not entertain any hopes of effecting a landing.

At noon our latitude was 67° 58′ south, the longitude, 69° 53′ west
of Greenwich. We hauled a little westward of the outer drift of the
pack, and Alexanderland rose up over our port bow still forty or fifty
miles away. There are scattered in the waters westward, and in the pack
eastward, forty-four icebergs of moderate size. About half of these are
tabular in form; the other half are of the pinnacled and sea-washed,
or weather-worn variety. A few small black-billed penguins are in the
water, darting over the surface and again into the deep, with electric
swiftness. Close to the pack-ice, there rises from the black surface
of the sea, a number of columns of vapour-like jets. Through our
glasses we see under these the black backs of whales with large dorsal
fins, and occasionally a ponderous tail whips the water into a foamy
whirlpool. On some of the pans of ice are seals basking in the sun, and
over the ship, apparently touching the masts and the ropes as the bark
rocks to and fro, are giant petrels, Cape pigeons, gulls, white, brown,
and blue petrels, all pointing their bills and stretching their necks
to examine, perhaps for the first time, human beings and their crafts.

There is a dreamy stillness in the air, in spite of the frequent stirs
of wild life, and a charming touch of colour to the sea, the ice, and
the land, though the sky is dull, gray, and gloomy. At first glance
all seems white and black, and we are impressed with the weight of the
awful snowy solitude into which we are entering. A sense of chilly
loneliness is more and more forced upon us by the passing panorama of
snow, and ice, and deserted rocks. But, critically considered, after
the first pangs of desolation have passed, there are a few of us who
find some cheer and colour in the harmony of the perennial chilliness
before us. This morning there was a break in the clouds, and through
this came a flood of yellow light which made the bergs and the icy
cliffs of Alexanderland stand out like walls of gold. Shortly after
noon a pale blue was thrown over the white glitter of the pack, which
increased the high lights, darkened the shadows, and made the moving
mass of whiteness, as it rose and fell with the giant wave of the sea,
a thing of gladness.

[Illustration:

OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.

Midnight At Midsummer Over The Antarctic Mainland]

At four o’clock in the afternoon we had made a rough outline of the new
land before us. It proved to be a group of islands (Alexander Islands)
about twenty-five miles long and from ten to fifteen miles wide. There
is one large central island, about eighteen miles long, with a high
ridge of mountains running approximately from east to west. In this
ridge there are three peaks not less than four thousand, five hundred
feet in altitude. These are quite pyramidal in form and are covered
with snow to their summits, with only an occasional bare, perpendicular
rock. This ridge of mountains tapers gradually towards the west and
terminates abruptly in the east. Running parallel to this central
ridge, about four miles southward, there is a lesser chain of mountains
about two thousand feet high, whose sides sink almost perpendicularly
into the sea. There is also a similar ridge to the southward. The two
valleys between these three ridges of mountains are filled with great
sheets of glacial ice. We had a splendid view of these glaciers as
we passed about twenty miles off the western end of the island. The
northern valley was rough, much crevassed, and generally irregular,
extending its tongue out over the sea for several miles. The valley
south of the central ridge appeared like a great plain with easy slopes
toward the sea, where the frozen mass seemed to project over the waters
for a short distance. Around this one large island were a number of
small islands, angular rocky masses, mostly covered with caps of
glacial ice. These, from a greater distance, appeared to be a part of
the main central land mass. The vast number of icebergs to the eastward
of the land gave it, also, from a greater distance, the appearance of
being connected with some larger land eastward; but from our various
positions we were able to make out distinctly that the islands are a
separate group with no other land eastward within sight. Our positions
northward in the morning and southward during the night, proved this.
We saw some signs of land to the south during the afternoon, but these
vanished later. It was evidently a mirage.

We lost sight of the Alexander Islands at about ten o’clock last night,
when it became too dark to see more than a few miles. During the night
we steamed slowly over a south-westerly course close to the edge of
the pack. At 6 a.m. (February 17) the fires were covered and the sails
braced to a fair wind, sending us along, south-westerly, at the rate of
about four knots. There was some rain and snow during the night, which
lined the decks, covered the ropes, and sheeted the sails with ice. So
thoroughly were the sails incased that we were unable to set the patent
topsails. We hammered and pounded the sails and then we pulled and
lugged at the ropes, but our efforts were in vain. The steam-winch was
brought to our aid, but it, too, failed to bring down the icy sails. At
eight o’clock, when I came on deck, there was no land or ice in sight.
(We saw no more land for thirteen months.)

An hour later we passed along the outer fringe of small fragments of
drift ice. The weather changed every few minutes. Alternately we had
rain, and sleet, and fog, and snow. Our speed was increasing and the
wind came in strong puffs. We had seen very few bergs in the forenoon,
but the horizon was constantly hazed by thick weather, so we must have
passed many without being able to see them. Just before noon, while
trying to walk over the slippery decks, my attention was suddenly
directed to a dark spot in the fog over our port bow. I watched this
for a second or two, for the spot grew curiously lighter as we went on.
Everything was stiff, and dark, and dull. The lookout on the capstan
threw his arm easily, but anxiously, on the anchor and leaned over
to fix his eye on the same object, but he gave no signal, and I said
nothing, for there didn’t seem to be anything tangible to report. The
Captain now walked from the chart table to the port-side of the bridge;
just as he caught sight of the curious object it brightened with a
blink and a fraction of a second later a great wall of ice, towering
far above the masts, stood before us. “Hard-a starboard,” shouted the
Captain, with such abruptness and such force that a quiver went deep
into the heart of everyone on deck; a few moments later we grazed
the marble-like cliff of a huge iceberg, gliding by so closely that we
nearly scraped its knife-like edges.

[Illustration: The _Belgica_ pressing Southward through the
Drift-ice.]

[Illustration: Iceberg off Cape Tuxen.]

During the afternoon we sailed westerly, keeping the streams of
drift-ice within sight. There were fewer icebergs as we advanced, but
it continued foggy, with alternate squalls of rain and snow, which
prevented our seeing to any long distance. The ice which we have passed
within the past few days, and the pack to the southward, are not, at
any place, formidable except in the choked channels, Bismarck Inlet,
and the inlet north of Alexanderland. If we had awaited an easterly
wind, which is the prevailing wind of summer, no doubt we might have
forced a way southward along the coast of Grahamland. The season for
antarctic navigation, however, is already past, and if we are to make a
point far south this year, which the Commandant desires, we must push
on with all force.

Early in the evening the prow was turned southward. With sails and
steam the good ship was rushed through the light streams of drift-ice.
The sea rolled under her in great inky mountains and the ice, in
response to the wave, gave off a noise like the crackle of a silk
garment. At midnight we came to a region where the sea was closely
covered with ice, but the pieces were still small and separated by
bands of water covered with brash.

6 a.m. February 18. Those of us not directly connected with the
navigation of the bark, and the men off watch, slept very little last
night; the noise of the larger pans, as they struck the ship, and the
grating and rasping of the smaller fragments, as the _Belgica_ was
forced through the ice, was such that sleep was impossible. We were all
anxious and uneasy. There was little wind, but it was dark and foggy,
and icebergs were everywhere to be expected. Mentally another berg
collision was constantly before us and every unusual thump suggested
a calamity. As the purple gray of dawn illuminated the horizon
eastward, our hearts beat more easily, and our minds were more at rest,
though the new scene which now lay before us was the most hopeless
icy-desolation which, to the present, it had been our lot to see.

All about us the ice was very closely packed. There was a seemingly
endless sea of ice, waving on the swell of the great restless waters
under us. It was the first really good view which we had had of
the characteristic ice, which covers the limitless expanse of this
circumpolar ocean. Farther northward the true sea-ice was so much
melted and weather-worn, and so much mixed with small angular fragments
of icebergs and other land-ice, that the pack was a conglomerate mass
entirely different from the true pack-ice. Now, as the sun rose and
the mist dissolved, we saw pans of ice of an average diameter of one
hundred feet, with a thickness of five feet, whose surfaces were raised
here and there, by old wind-rasped hummocks or miniature mountains,
from one to two yards high. Between these pans there were zones of
water covered with closely packed pulverised ice, in which there were
some pieces a few feet in diameter. In our efforts to push southward
we selected these lanes between the larger pans, but the fine ice
so effectually stopped our progress that even by using the full power
of the engines we could not make more than two miles in six hours. A
long and continuous swell of the Pacific was responsible for the steady
pressure and forced continuity of the pack. Here, also, were large
numbers of icebergs scattered in the pack, and from a distance they
seemed to offer a continuous barrier. While this was not true when
the horizon was closely examined, their influence, however, coupled
with the power of the great swell of the sea, was an effective bar to
farther progress.

[Illustration: Penguins on a Sea-worn Iceberg Resembling a Whale.]

On the ice we see a number of crab-eating seals, mostly in pairs, but
some in groups of five or six. They are in a sleepy mood and evidently
enjoy the sharp sunbursts which now and then light up the beds of snow
and the projecting icy spires with an electric glow. There are a few
penguins about, and also some giant petrels; but the ornithological
surprise of the day is the countless thousands of terns resting on, and
hovering about, the icebergs. Great rows cover the ridges, and in some
places the air is one hustling mass of bird life, all seeming to strive
for a place to fly, or fighting for a resting spot on the higher angles
of the bergs.

During the afternoon we saw a black zone along the northern horizon.
It was a water-sky indicating that under it there was open, ice-free
water. To the south, to the east, and to the west, however, there was
everywhere the dazzling whiteness of the ice-blink on the heavens,
offering no hope of advance.

We now tried to retrace our path, but we were held with such a firm
embrace that we could not gain sufficient room to turn. At six o’clock
the pressure slackened a little and, at the same time, we saw a black
line of open water about two miles westward. We headed for this and
for seven long hours we struggled with full force to press between the
firmly packed floes. After midnight we were again in free waters, and
set a course westerly along the edge of the pack-ice.

February 19, noon, latitude 69° 06′, longitude 78° 27′ 30″. The
conditions permitting nautical observations are rare at the edge of
the pack, because here the atmosphere is in a constant whirlpool of
agitation. Storm, fog, rain, sleet and snow, are the normal conditions.
One rarely gets a peep of the sun, and if by chance it should break
through, it is seldom at noon or at an hour convenient for the
Captain to make his reckoning. If then it happens, as it has to-day,
that we obtain the observations which fix our position accurately
in this lonely world of desolation, a kind of boyish rejoicing runs
along the line of men on the decks; and even in the cabins, one
hears comparisons. One says, “Now I am nine thousand, nine hundred
and eighty-nine miles from home. It is noon, but at home they are
just taking breakfast.” Another says, “Everybody that I love is nine
thousand miles over our starboard quarter. They are just entering upon
the duties of the day.” It has suddenly occurred to every one to think
of home and of civilisation, for we are going farther and farther
away from the known world of life and comfort into the unknown world
of sterility and discomfort. To-day we know the exact spot on which
we are being thrown about by a great unknown sea of mystery, and this
knowledge seems to bring us nearer home because it offers us something
tangible with which to make comparisons. In reality, however, we are
as hopelessly isolated as if we were on the surface of Mars, and we
are plunging still deeper and deeper into the white antarctic silence.
A man at the verge of starvation takes a certain comfort in knowing,
though it is out of his reach, that food exists. So with us, we extract
a certain amount of satisfaction out of the numbers which record our
latitude and longitude to-day, though our homes are proven by the
figures to be out of all possible reach for months, perhaps for years,
and possibly forever.

All day we have steamed westerly along the edge of the pack, passing
very many icebergs and running through occasional streams of drift-ice.
We have been looking for an opening into the ice offering us a passage
southward, but we have found no promising break in the compact mass.
Excepting the sunburst at noon it has been a dark, dull, gloomy day.
A light fall of snow, mixed with a cold drizzling rain, has fallen
over us almost constantly. This has again made the decks like a
sliding pond. It is humorous, but also sorrowful, to see the men,
whose clothing is sheeted with a plate of ice, stumble and glide and
slip from rope to rope, always holding on to something to keep from
spreading on the floor or glancing overboard into the icy waters. If
one falls he swears and warms the cold air by heated language, but he
is at once subdued by a companion, who says, “What! you complain of
such little accidents, and you an explorer? No! that is the voice of a
kitchen adventurer.”

CHAPTER XIII

ALONG THE EDGE OF THE PACK-ICE

For the last few days we have had under discussion a striking
peculiarity of the antarctic pack. It is a noticeable yellowness in the
second sheets of newly broken pieces of ice. We saw this first in the
ice close to Dancoland, and at this time most of us thought it due to
earthy material from the neighbouring lands. But we have seen it to-day
and we have seen it every day since we left this land now hundreds of
miles eastward. Can it be earthy matter? In the laboratory there have
been a number of experiments made. Almost every department claims the
mysterious yellow as its special preserve, but all are at work either
guessing or making painstaking experiments, or observations. The
discussions grow quite heated. The navigating officers, with whom I
coincided, held that it was earthy matter brought down upon the sea-ice
by glacial streams. The fact that it is seen most close to the land,
and only in patches in our present position, seems to bear out this
fact; but the geologist, who is a chemist of ability, will not agree to
this, and heaps upon us all sorts of mild humourous abuse. Arctowski
has experiments in hand which he thinks will prove a chemical origin
of the knotty yellow question. None of us are chemists, and of course
we cannot dispute the theory of a chemical origin, but we hold fast to
our first idea. The zoölogist would not venture a theory, but he said
it belonged to his department, and we tried to talk him down also, but
he would say little and took our unkindly jests goodnaturedly. Late in
the afternoon Racovitza came out of his laboratory all aglow with good
humour, but he heaped upon us of the majority, a stream of abuse which
made us, for the time, abandon all theories. He has examined the yellow
stuff carefully under the microscope and finds the ice literally alive
with sea algæ, which prove to be the cause of the yellow colour. For a
short time this is hailed as a discovery, but presently some one finds
that it had been noticed by Hooker sixty years ago. Then followed a
discordant murmur on the strains, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

[Illustration: A Tabular Iceberg, Seen at the Pack-edge in the
South Pacific. About 200 Feet High.]

Shortly after noon we made a sounding. We found the water 480 metres
deep, under which there was a gray clay bottom. There is very little
variation in the temperature of the sea at various depths. At the
bottom it is 1° C.; coming up there are little variations of a half
degree, and at the surface it is -1.5°C.(29.3°F.). At the time of
making these soundings there were seventy-eight icebergs on the
horizon, most of them southward, a few miles within the edge of the
pack-ice. There were also a few lines of drift-ice flowing northward
in the trough of the sea. The sea is running in easy undulations with
an oily, unbroken surface of blue, and though the sky is slaty, there
is a charm in the solitude and a fascination in the scenic effects as
the pearly mountains and streams of ice rise and fall with the sea of
sapphire.

At ten o’clock to-night we turned around a point of heavy drift-ice and
headed southward. Before us here there seemed to be little ice to offer
an obstruction to our ambitions to reach the regions beyond. To the
east and the west there was a distinct ice-blink, but southward we saw
a smoky water-sky. The sea, as we advanced, became even smoother than
it had been, and was entirely free of ice.

We seem to select the nights for our attacks upon the barriers of ice
which everywhere have threatened to prevent our entry into the snowy
preserve beyond. During the night the temperature falls, the fog,
which always screens the ice in daytime, is congealed and deposited
as snow; and, though the sky here at the edge of the pack generally
remains dark at night, there is an incomprehensible metallic glow on
the glassy surface of the water, and a sharp phosphoretic glitter
from every spire and pan of ice. The night is a long twilight, and
when the demons of storm are not hovering about it is a long, dreamy
spell of joy. The inspiration of this solitude, the transcendental and
indescribable something about this continued twilight from sunset to
dawn, and the wine which one drinks with the wintry atmosphere raises
the soul into a plane of superhuman existence. The glory of these
midnight glimmers will haunt me for the rest of my days. But we are
below the antarctic circle, and the average reader will expect that
we are flooded by the almost perpetual light of the polar summer day.
This would be true earlier in the season; but now the sun is low on the
horizon. The darkness, which is soon to throw the icy splendours into
a hopeless, sooty gloom, is gathering its hellish fabric to cover the
laughing glory of day. The sunless winter of storm, of unimaginable
cold, of heart-destroying depression, is rapidly advancing. We are
hoping to continue our voyage of exploration as long as possible, and
when the darkness and cold become too great we expect to steal away
and winter in more congenial latitudes. (How utterly we failed to gain
freedom from the icy fetters of this heartless Frost King of the night
is shown by our imprisonment later.)

[Illustration: Bird’s-eye View of the Pack-ice Near the Outer
Edge.]

February 20, 8 a.m.--We have steamed south by east, since midnight,
through a sea free of drift-ice, but icebergs are in great numbers on
all sides. Over the port gunwale, about two miles off, there is still
the white line indicating the edge of the main body of the pack. There
is a little swell, but the sea has a gray and cold aspect. There is
almost no wind stirring the glassy air. The temperature has fallen to
-2° C. (28.4° F.). The sky above us is smoky, with leaden streaks here
and there. To the south a narrow strip of horizon is clear, and above
this there are a few divisions with ragged silvery edges, beyond which
is the gladdening blue of the unscreened heavens, which is so rare
here. Nearly everywhere on the horizon to the south there is reflected
the glitter of the ice-blink. The narrow sooty bands, however, which
interrupt this blink, indicate that the ice is separated by open lanes
of water. We shall try these lanes, so nicely mapped on the sky, for
our benefit, and as our bowsprit is laid for one due south, we again
stir our hopes and discouraged spirits to fresh ambitions of further
discoveries. “Shall we succeed, or will the ice seize us with a final
and relentless embrace?” A fog soon fell over the scene, but we
continued our renewed efforts to push poleward with increasing vigour.

At ten o’clock we reached a point where the main body of the pack
again refused us a path. The _Belgica_, however, will not be
discouraged. She ploughs on between the heavy masses of ice, to some
open lakes beyond, where she seems to gain fresh courage, and then
rushes upon the offending fields with a spirit of animation altogether
in keeping with that of her directors. There are about us great numbers
of white and gray petrels seeming to urge us on. The fog rises and
falls offering a peep, now and then, into the white world to which we
are so anxious to force our way. Most of the men are standing about on
the decks, offering words of encouragement to the bark as she batters
and breaks the offending floes which hinder her passage. A few men,
sitting on the anchor chains, have premonitions of impending danger
and discuss the prospects of an antarctic winter, and the incidents of
starving and freezing, cast adrift on the ice. While thus making our
way energetically, and with our hopes raised to the highest pitch of
anticipation, some mystic force brought the ice together, and early
in the afternoon we found ourselves again beset--powerless either to
advance or retreat.

Again, disappointed and discouraged, we tried to turn the bark in an
effort to retrace our track. The entire afternoon was devoted to this
effort, but we were held with fetters not easily broken. This battle
with the ice has been the worst to the present. We go full speed ahead,
then full speed astern. Each change in direction is followed by crash
after crash, until it seems that every part of the good ship has been
loosened. Either the ice or the _Belgica_ must go to pieces. After
many hours of hard struggling the _Belgica_ obtains sufficient
room to give her a good headway, and then she rushes against and upon
the ice in a manner to make her mistress of the situation. Ploughing,
and jamming, and crushing her way through the huge masses of ice, she
scraped off her new dress of paint, and tore away many pieces of her
outer sheathing. Her path was marked by specks of paint and pieces of
wood, the result of scratches and bruises, but as she fought her way
again out into the open sweep of the new antarctic sea she had the
appearance, and we had for her the admiration, of a battleship after a
destructive engagement.

While the _Belgica_ was engaged battering the ice, Racovitza,
Tollefsen, and myself, started out over the ice to study the life and
to secure zoölogical specimens, as well as photographs. We saw numbers
of penguins, some giant petrels, and a few crab-eating, or white
antarctic seals; but the surprise of the day was a lone seal with a
thick neck and a big head, altogether different from any variety which
we had seen before. We at once recognised it as the “new seal” claimed
to have been discovered by Borchgrevink, in 1894. While it agreed in
every particular with the descriptions of the adventurous Norwegian
sailor, the animal proved, upon minute examination, to be a yearling of
the true sea-leopards. Borchgrevink’s discovery then, in this case as
in another, which will be cited later, is a myth, for the sea-leopard
has been known for about one hundred years.

February 21, 10 A. M.--During the night we skirted the pack,
steaming slowly westward. Now we are steaming south-west by the
compass, whose variation is here 39° west. The prow is cutting clear,
blue waters entirely free of ice. Along the horizon, from the north to
the south-west, there is a marked ice blink. In the south-east, just
over the horizon barely visible, is the edge of the pack. There are one
hundred and ten icebergs visible from the mast head; of this number ten
are true table-topped masses ranging, in height, from one hundred to
two hundred and fifty feet, and in length from a thousand feet to one
mile. All of the others were of the usual arctic type, with fantastic
towers of every conceivable shape. Some five or six had the form of
an easy chair, others that of a giant couch, still others assumed the
forms of human faces. Some of the forms were particularly striking and
needed no explanation; but at nearly every hour of the day some one
went into raptures about a fetching figure, which generally required a
vivid, and often a poetic imagination with a liberal artistic license.

It is curious that the eye generally sees what the mind intends to
picture. An illustration of this point is the different forms which
we ascribe to these icebergs. The Captain points to a berg, not
particularly attractive to anyone, but he insists in describing upon
it the face and the form of a beautiful woman, chiseled in walls of
alabaster. We look, and try to be interested while Lecointe grows
enthusiastic, but we see only dead white cliffs. There are some
irregularities, a few delicate blue lines, some suggestive hummocks,
and various dark cavities; but these we see in every berg, and with our
different mental attitudes we fail to recognise the ascribed topography
of a human figure. We dare not, however, admit our ignorance, for such
a lack of sympathetic support, especially on a sentimental subject,
would be equal to a challenge for a duel on the _Belgica_.
The naturalist comes along next, he is always realistic, sometimes
poetical, but never sentimental. Upon a small tabular berg there is
a shapeless mass of ice-blocks, and these blocks are so piled that
one cannot help but notice them. To me the thing seemed like a marble
statue of England’s Prime Minister, Salisbury, raised upon a huge,
rounded block of granite. I heard Arctowski suggest the Egyptian
Sphinx, but Racovitza insisted upon the likeness of a polar bear and
some one shouted, “It moves!” At once the picture became real, and the
sailors refused to believe that it was not a living bear. Racovitza’s
imagination was accepted by all, for to doubt him was to have humorous
abuse and sarcastic caricatures heaped upon us for weeks. There was,
however, one man with a glass. He looked intently for an hour at the
thing without saying much. This was Michotte, the cook. After we had
all finished our discussions, and had come to a general agreement about
the bear, he shattered our allegory with a little giggle and followed
it by the announcement that it was all a mistake;--“to me it looks
like a pot of boiling soup.” Next to the Captain the cook is the most
important personage on the ship; there are short instances when he even
rises above the Captain. It was so in this case. Michotte canvassed
the observers one by one, gave them his glasses and pointed out the
rounded base of the huge polished kettle, and then he made steam out of
our beautiful statuary in the centre. Dobrowolsky suggested that pots
were generally black, but Koren, the cook’s assistant, took a look at
the thing and said, “That’s just like our pots, they are always clean
and white and polished.” I noticed that everybody, even Racovitza,
gave a hearty assent. We dared not do otherwise, for it meant no soup
to-morrow, and Kydbolla every day. We can afford to dispute with the
naturalist somewhat, we can even doubt the Captain’s eyesight, but we
cannot dream of endangering the good-will of Michotte,--it is, then, a
pot of boiling soup, and I think Koren added it was “hot stuff;”--even
this is granted.

10 P. M.--It is still light enough to write on deck, but
there is a little wind coming out of the south which makes ungloved
fingers stiff. The temperature is -4° C. (24.8° F.). At two o’clock
this afternoon we again came to a region of pack-ice which loved us too
well. It closed about and squeezed our sides with such force that we
were powerless to resist. We have remained here since, and shall remain
for the night. The engine fires have been burned down, but Gerlache
says he will make another attempt to push southward to-morrow.

There has been considerable animal life about us to-day. In the air
we have seen the usual songless and noiseless birds, the giant and
the white petrels. Finback whales have been spouting and showing
their huge blue backs in the open triangles of water. Seals have been
stealing about the ship under the water, curiously examining the hull
of the bark without coming to the surface to vent their curiosity by
a look upon us. The speck of blackness which the _Belgica_ makes
in their world of perennial whiteness must be of rare interest to
these semi-human subaqueous denizens. On the ice we have seen a few
king penguins, uttering, now and then, a weird _gha-a-ah_. They
were always alone, generally standing to the lee of hummocks with
heads bowed, looking as solemn and dignified as deacons at a love
feast. Roaming about on the floes we see the ever-restless little
black-billed, yellow-footed pack penguins. This flightless bird
is gregarious and sociable, and must have companions to be happy.
It congregates in groups, numbering from six to thirty, and these
gatherings are the only cheerful signs of life in the great silent
circle around the south pole.

The air is cold and bracing, bringing with it a wine of action which is
opposed to fatigue. With it we seem to require little sleep, keeping
at hard physical and mental work from early morning till midnight.
With the much lower temperature the air is now getting glassy, the fog
is dispersing, and the sky shows signs of clearing, with considerable
colour. Mirages were seen to-night for the first time. All along the
horizon, from the north-east to the south-east, there are elongated,
raised and distorted masses of ice, with their bases resting upon the
water. There seem to be no inverted images, as in the arctic regions.

The sun set in the south-south-west to-night at 7:30. We rarely have
a sky at the edge of the pack permitting a view of this phenomenon,
but we can notice that the days are rapidly getting shorter, and
the light is progressively fading. Only two weeks ago we could take
instantaneous photographs until ten o’clock, but now, a picture taken
at eight is very feeble. With the sun almost perpetually screened by
a black icy mist the sky has remained cheerless and depressing, but
southerly winds seem to brush aside this gloomy curtain. Along the
southern sky to-night there is a streak of gold, fringed with orange
and a suggestion of carmine. At best, however, colours are sparingly
distributed along the outer fringe of this antarctic pack. We have seen
the stars and the moon but once since entering the Pacific, and, to the
present, there have been no auroras visible.

[Illustration: Lecointe Making Observations. The Nautical
Observatory.]

[Illustration: Dobrowolski Measuring the Depth of the Snowfall.]

February 22, 8 A.M.--During the night we have rested easily in a
triangular space of water, which was surrounded by large pans of ice.
At about midnight a half gale of wind came out of the south-south-east
and rushed through the masts with a bitter howl, but the sea remained
quiet, and in our position we rested as peacefully as if in a sheltered
harbour. This changed direction and augmented force of the wind
separated the pack and sent it drifting northerly over the boundless
sea. Taking advantage of this favourable loosening of the grip upon
us, we got up steam at six A. M. and started in a renewed effort to
push southward. The navigation, at best, is extremely difficult. We go
ahead squeezing through breaks in the ice until our headway is barred
by a floe, then we go astern to give the ship time for a new onslaught.
In this way we batter and ram the ice until it seems as though every
timber must break; but excepting the bruising, scraping, and polishing
of her sides, the _Belgica_ receives no hurts. She complains and groans
and cracks and shivers, but she goes on cutting great pans of ice five
feet thick, and pushing aside floes two hundred feet in diameter. She
is ploughing the ice-littered sea like something animate.

To the south there is a water-sky coaxing us on to the frozen mystery
beyond. Perhaps this is a temptation of the manless antarctic to
ensnare and keep us for the winter; perhaps it is to reveal to us new
lands and new glories in the unknown white expanse. But whatever our
reward, or our punishment, for this forced intrusion, the task is
difficult. There are about us to-day many signs of land, and this also
urges us on in our hopeless effort to navigate the seemingly endless
sea of ice.

Toward the south-east there are yellow land clouds, which slide over
each other as though their mission was to hide the outline of some
heaven-guarded coast from human gaze. Above these low-hanging clouds
there are black bands of sky, indicating open lanes of water near what
promises to be land. The ice, too, is what is usually termed bay-ice,
with freshly broken edges, with icicles hanging from some points, and
having upon the surface only small hummocks. There are no signs of
pressure and the whole scene is weighted down with about twenty inches
of soft snow. The animal life also indicates an approach to land. We
have about us large numbers of ossifrages and magalestris, which are
supposed to keep land within easy reach. The penguins and seals seen
to-day are indicative of a near land mass; while the meteorologist
vows that the cold dry wind coming from the south-south-east rolls
off from some continental ice-capped country. Even the engineer comes
forward with a sign. He has a keen nose, and says he smells the mossy
rocks. But where is this mysterious land? We are not within a thousand
miles of any known land. Shall we discover this land, or is it an
illusion? (We afterwards saw many similar signs of land, but all proved
deceptive. We saw no real land, except what came from the sea-bottom,
from the time we got the last glimpse of Alexander Islands until we
returned to Tierra del Fuego thirteen months later.)

[Illustration: Hauling Snow to Augment the Water Supply.]

[Illustration: Making Soundings.]

Early in the afternoon our hopes were shattered. We again reached a
zone, as we so often had, farther east, where it was impossible to pass
between the sheets of heavy ice. Here we rested for the balance of the
afternoon and the night. We continued to search the horizon for further
signs of the promised land, but most of the indications disappeared
during our stay. The engine fires were burnt down. Everything about the
_Belgica_ is non-restful. There is little wind; the temperature
remains low -7.5° C. (-18.5° F.) An easy swell keeps the ice in a
constant groan, and penguins send out their social calls. We are now
accustomed to all this noise. Indeed, when tired and weary, as we are
at present from long-continued anxiety, the groans of the ice and the
cries of the penguins serve only to impress us with the awful solitude
and the uninterrupted pearly monotony of the antarctic.

A beautiful sunset to-night has served to reawaken our interest in
this world of white sameness. Throughout the day the sky has been a
cheerless gray from the zenith to a few degrees from the horizon. Low
down there have been changes, now an ice-blink, now a water-sky, and
again a series of seeming land clouds. The little play and change in
colour, which has been evident for brief periods, is limited to a
narrow strip under and over the cloud-hidden sun in the west and south.
The comparative rarity of brilliant sunbursts and sunsets, in the smoky
skies at the edge of the pack, has made the phenomenon to-night a real
joy. At seven o’clock the long stratus clouds in the south-south-west,
which were slaty in colour, became fringed with a touch of luminous
gold. This increased gradually until the entire body of the clouds was
gilded; then the sun, a great yellow ball of dull orange, sank under
the creamy sheets of waving snows. The great fiery ball was only fifty
seconds in passing from view, but in this time its face changed into
at least ten distortions. There is a weird sadness in these faces: an
expression which is singularly appropriate, because we know the good
old luminary is quickly leaving us to brighten the top of the globe.
She seems to feel it, for her face is like that of a dying mother sorry
to leave her children alone in a world of hazard. The final parting,
however, was more prolonged and more glorious than the actual presence.
Soon the upper stratus of low clouds were showered with a scarlet
light, which remained without apparent change for thirty minutes. Below
and above this were narrow belts of bright and glistening silvery blue,
while the ice was all aglow under a veil of pale magenta. Then followed
a long purple twilight, which, in itself, is full of delightful charm.
It is all an unimaginable dream.

February 23.--We are still firmly fixed by the compact sea of ice
about us. New ice formed on every open space last night. Winter is
coming over us quickly, and the season for navigating these unknown
seas is now past. The rapidity with which the new ice forms, the
increasing cold, and the fading light of the sun all prove this, but
the Commandant is hoping against hope to push still farther into the
mystic gloom of the south. Throughout the night the sky was a clear,
pale purple blue, while stars of the first and second magnitude were
struggling to display their icy glitter. The Captain obtained an
observation and was able to find our position by fixing a planet and
a star. Latitude 69° 46′ 30″, longitude 81° 59′. It is curious how a
little thing like the definite knowledge of our position raises the
hopes and anticipations of everybody on board. Though such a knowledge
is a mere play of figures, it assures us that we are at least on a
fixed point upon the unknown under surface of the globe. We make
calculations accordingly; some plan work and pleasure for the return
to the world of living, and others lay down a system of effort for
exploration of the new regions to which we expect to penetrate, and
surely all are elated at the prospect of some other view except the
inhospitable whiteness, at present on every side of our position.

At noon we made a deep sea sounding, with a long series of temperatures
at various depths. We lowered five hundred and sixty metres of wire,
and brought up a cup of blue clay. The temperature at the surface was
at the freezing point, and at the bottom slightly warmer. We have made
various excursions to obtain photos of the ice and the life, and to
study the physical laws which govern the construction and destruction
of the sea-ice. The pans are closely packed, but in some places there
are soft buffers of pulverised ice and snow, and these are dangerous
to the traveler. Gerlache stepped on such a place and promptly sank
into the icy water beneath. Fortunately I saw him before he sank too
far, and jerked him out by the coat collar. I tore his collar, and
disturbed his buttons, but I had the satisfaction of keeping him from a
complete bath at a temperature six degrees below zero.

The sunset is again superbly beautiful to-night. All day we have
remained firmly held by the ice. The sky has been of a pale, wintry
blue with alto-stratus and fracto-stratus clouds of a leaden and
steel-gray colour. In the north-west and the north-east there is a
water-sky, but the hopeless ice-blink is in every other direction. A
dazzling whiteness has made the pack glitter to such an extent that it
has become painful to walk about without smoked glasses, but to-night
there is a restful lilac over the white glitter, which is a charming
relief from the intense brilliancy of the day. As the sun descended
into the invisible mist of ice-crystals, which always hangs over the
pack, it poured out a wealth of golden light over the clouds and onto
the pack. For a very brief period the clouds had the appearance of
streams of hot metal, and the projecting snows were aglow like mounds
of fire. As the sun sank from view a great bunch of cumulus clouds, in
the south, suddenly lit up with a brilliant rose light. The yellow then
vanished and the rose was thrown on the snows. The rose later faded
into the purple of twilight, which for several hours gave a steady glow
of lilac to the pack.

[Illustration: The Sailor’s Recreation.]

[Illustration: Bow of the _Belgica_ After a Collision with
an Iceberg.]

We did not retire until late to-night. There is something about our
present position which suggests many premonitions. For forty-five
hours we have not consciously moved, and the ice holds us with a grip
which promises us no relief for forty-five weeks. There is a cheer
and a new joy in the curious colour effect of the coming night, and
this is about the only encouragement in our present prospects. We
have persistently tried, to-day and to-night, to steam northward and
southward, and eastward and westward, but the _Belgica_ refuses
to mind the helm, while the ice disputes our right of way. The fact
is forced more and more upon us that we are fixed for the winter, and
destined to pass through the first long antarctic night. Gerlache has
all along manifested an inclination for wintering in the pack, but
every officer has been so much opposed to this that the Commandant did
not openly betray his disposition. To-night Gerlache is sounding the
sentiments of all hands, upon their willingness to winter in the ice.
Everybody is opposed to it, but if it must be, they are inclined to
submit gracefully to the unquestionable fate.

The main objections offered to our voluntary stay in the pack are the
ignorance of the home authorities of our whereabouts, and the certain
death which would follow the loss of the _Belgica_ by pressure,
or by other accidents. If an expedition has planned to winter in the
unknown antarctic pack she should have two vessels, so that if one is
crushed another might remain to bring home her precious cargo of human
life, and the records of the equally precious work. If this is not the
fortune of an expedition, there should, at least, be left at home a
clear outline of the prospective route. It is unnecessarily hazardous
to trust to the pitfalls and certain misfortunes of polar work without
such safeguards. In our case no one knows of our whereabouts. If our
vessel should be lost, no relief could possibly reach us, because it
is not definitely known where we may be found. Death by freezing and
starvation would be our lot if our trusty ship were disabled, and such
a possibility must always remain in view, in a battle against the
ponderous polar-ice. With this prospect before us we do not take kindly
to a voluntary berth among the ever restless floes during the many
weeks of sure darkness and unknowable cold.

February 24.--A sharp southerly wind has been blowing all night. The
sky is again gray and cheerless and full of promise for an early
tempest. Sailors at sea rarely pray for a tempest, but this is the only
hope we now have of securing freedom from the ice. We are longing for
a gale of wind. We are not particular from what direction, anything
will do so long as it breaks the ice and gives us a little room. With
this promise before us, and while still beset, the Commandant comes
forward with the first of a long series of new programmes. We are to
gain the open sea northward, as quickly as possible, from here make
a line of soundings from the edge of the pack northward, and another
line parallel to the western shores of Grahamland, then go to Yankee
Harbour, Deception Island, and return to Belgica Strait for a short
period. As the season for ice exploration ceases we are to go to
Ushuaia, where Racovitza and I are to be left for the winter to make
zoölogical and anthropological studies of the Fuegian life, while the
_Belgica_ returns to Buenos Aires to winter. Next season we are to
go south of Australia to Victorialand.

[Illustration: The Hummocks of a Pressure-Angle.]

[Illustration: Cestrugi.]

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.]

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.

CHAPTER XV

HELPLESS IN A HOPELESS SEA OF ICE

We are now doomed to remain, and become the football of an unpromising
fate. Henceforth we are to be kicked, pushed, squeezed, and ushered
helplessly at the mercy of the pack. Our first duty is to prepare
for the coming of the night, with its unknowable cold and its
soul-depressing effects. Aboard, the crew are re-storing coal and
re-arranging the store of provisions. The scientific men are making
plans for a year of observations, while the cook is racking his brain
to devise some new dishes to appease our fickle appetites. His soups
are full of “mystery,” and the “embalmed meats” are on every tongue
for condemnation. Outside there has been a rapid transformation. The
summer days of midnight suns are past, and the premonitory darkness
of the long night is falling upon us with marvellous rapidity, for in
this latitude the sun dips below the southern skies at midnight late in
January. This dip increases, and sweeps more and more of the horizon
every day until early in May, when the sun sets and remains below the
horizon for seventy-one days. When we first skirted the pack-ice in
February there were a few hours, at midnight, of bright twilight.
The darkness then was not sufficient to prevent navigation throughout
the night; but now it is really dark for eight hours. The temperature,
too, is falling rapidly. We have been led to believe by the experiences
of previous antarctic explorers that the temperature, compared with
arctic, would be more moderate; but in this we are disappointed. An
icy wind comes from the south, brushing the warm, moist air seaward
and replacing it by a sharp, frigid atmosphere. The temperature falls
to ten degrees below zero, then to twenty (and later it descends to
thirty, forty, and finally forty-five).

[Illustration: Racovitza at the Microscope.]

[Illustration: Arctowski in the Laboratory.]

Soon after we entered the main body of the pack a fortnight ago, it was
discovered that we drifted with the ice in a south-westerly direction.
We concluded, at that time, that we were in a current. The shallow sea
and the speed with which we moved were in favour of this theory; but
now we are drifting north-westerly, and we begin to doubt the existence
of a current. The ease with which the entire horizon, with its numerous
mountains and fields of ice, sails over the invisible sea makes us
anxious as to our destiny. If we remain here, on this blank space of
the globe, where will we find ourselves a year hence? Will it be north,
south, east or west? In this drift it is possible that the ship may be
dragged over a submerged reef, and it is also possible that we may be
carried onto a rocky shore, or against the formidable land-ice. In each
case destruction of our vessel and a miserable death for all must be
the inevitable result.

To forestall such a future we now ascend to the crow’s-nest daily and
with the telescope search the horizon. New bergs come over one part
of the circle, old ones disappear in other directions. Appearances of
land are often noted, but such appearances are no longer credited. New
crevasses form, old ones close, but on the whole it is, day after day,
the same heaving sea of frozen whiteness. Nevertheless the views are
encouraging, and they now and then revive the dying hope of release
from the icy prison. There is promise in the movement of the bergs,
the continued swell of the sea, and the slow mysterious turning of
the floes, together with the present northerly drift. The fact that
each floe persistently remains as a single individual, and refuses to
unite with its neighbours to form a conglomerate mass, which would
effectually and finally cut off all hope of a retreat this year, is a
pleasant thought. A brisk storm would easily separate these floes, and
the open water, but ninety miles north, would carry us on its stormy
bosom to a more congenial climate for the winter.

Last night was clear and blue. We knew from the stillness of the air
and crackle of the ice that it would be very cold, and so it proved.
At six o’clock it was -14.6° C. (5.72° F.), at midnight, -20° C. (-4°
F.). A number of royal and small penguins and some seals were led
by curiosity to visit us. They called, and cried, and talked, and
grunted, as they walked over the ice about the ship, and were finally
captured by the naturalist and the cook, who had an equal interest in
the entertainment of our animal friends and in their future destiny.
A few nights past a sea leopard interviewed the meteorologist,
Arctowski. The animal sprang suddenly from a new break in the ice onto
the floe, upon which Arctowski had a number of delicate meteorological
instruments, and without an introduction, or any signs of friendship,
the animal crept rapidly over the snow and examined Arctowski and
his paraphernalia with characteristic seal inquisitiveness. The
meteorologist had nothing with which to defend himself, and he didn’t
appear to relish the teeth of the leopard as it advanced and separated
its massive jaws with a bear-like snort. He walked around the floe, the
leopard after him. The seal examined the instruments, but they were not
to its liking, and as to Arctowski, it evidently did not regard him of
sufficient interest to follow long, for after it had made two rounds
the seal plunged into the waters, swam under the ice and around the
floe, and then raised its head far out to get another glimpse of the
meteorologist. Thinking that the creature contemplated another attack,
Arctowski made warlike gestures, and uttered a volley of sulphureous
Polish words, but the seal didn’t mind that. It raised its head higher
and higher out of the water, and displayed its teeth in the best
possible manner. Now and then its lips moved, and there was audible
a weird noise, with signs which we took to be the animal’s manner of
inviting its new acquaintance to a journey under the icy surface, where
they might talk over the matter out of the cold blast of the wind, in
the blue depths below.

March 15.--The weather is remarkably clear. There is no wind, no noise,
and no motion in the ice. During the night we saw the first aurora
australis. I saw it first at eight o’clock, but it was so faint then
that I could not be positively certain whether it was a cloud with an
unusual ice-blink upon it or an aurora; but at ten o’clock we all saw
it in a manner which was unmistakable. The first phenomenon was like
a series of wavy fragments of cirrus clouds, blown by strong, high
winds across the zenith. This entirely disappeared a few minutes after
eight o’clock. What we saw later was a trembling lacework, draped
like a curtain, on the southern sky. Various parts were now dark, and
now light, as if a stream of electric sparks illuminated the fabric.
The curtain seemed to move in response to these waves of light, as if
driven by the wind which shook out old folds and created new ones, all
of which made the scene one of new interest and rare glory.

That I might better see the new attraction and also experiment with my
sleeping-bag, I resolved to try a sleep outside upon one of the floes.
For several days I had promised myself the pleasure of this experience,
but for one reason or another I had deferred it. At midnight I took
my bag and, leaving the warmth and comfort of the cabin, I struggled
out over the icy walls of the bark’s embankment, and upon a floe three
hundred yards east I spread out the bag. The temperature of the cabin
was the ordinary temperature of a comfortable room; the temperature
of the outside air was -20° C. (-4° F.) After undressing quickly,
as one is apt to do in such temperatures, I slid into the fur bag
and rolled over the ice until I found a depression suitable to my
ideas of comfort. At first my teeth chattered and every muscle of my
body quivered, but in a few minutes this passed off and there came
a reaction similar to that after a cold bath. With this warm glow I
turned from side to side and peeped past the fringe of accumulating
frost, around my blow-hole through the bag, at the cold glitter of
the stars. As I lay there alone, away from the noise of the ship, the
silence and the solitude were curiously oppressive. There was not a
breath of air stirring the glassy atmosphere, and not a sound from the
ice-decked sea or its life to indicate movement or commotion. Only a
day ago this same ice was a mass of small detached floes, moving and
grinding off edges with a complaining squeak. How different it was now!
Every fragment was cemented together into one heterogeneous mass and
carpeted by a hard, ivory-like sheet of snow. Every move which I made
in my bag was followed by a crackling complaint from the snow crust.

At about three o’clock in the morning a little wind came from the east.
My blow-hole was turned in this direction, but the slow blast of air
which struck my face kept my moustache and my whiskers, and every bit
of fur near the opening, covered with ice. As I rolled over to face
the leeward there seemed to be a misfit somewhere. The hood portion
of the bag was as hard as if coated with sheet-iron, and my head was
firmly encased. My hair, my face, and the under garments about my neck
were frozen to the hood. With every turn I endured an agony of hair
pulling. If I remained still my head became more and more fixed by the
increasing condensation. In the morning my head was boxed like that of
a deep sea-diver. But aside from this little discomfort I was perfectly
at ease, and might have slept if the glory of the heavens and the charm
of the scene about had not been too fascinating to permit restful
repose.

The aurora, as the blue twilight announced the dawn, had settled into
an arc of steady brilliancy which hung low on the southern sky, while
directly under the zenith there quivered a few streamers; overhead was
the southern cross, and all around the blue dome there were sparkling
spots which stood out like huge gems. Along the horizon from south
to east there was the glow of the sun, probably reflected from the
unknown southern lands. This was a band of ochre tapering to gold and
ending in orange red. At four o’clock the aurora was still visible but
faint. The heavens were violet and the stars were now fading behind
the increasing twilight. A zone of yellow extended from west around
south to east, while the other half of the circle was a vivid purple.
The ice was a dark blue. An hour later the highest icebergs began to
glitter as if tipped with gold, and then the hummocks brightened.
Finally, as the sun rose from her snowy bed, the whole frigid sea was
coloured as if flooded with liquid gold. I turned over and had dropped
into another slumber when I felt a peculiar tapping on the encasement
of my face. I remained quiet, and presently I heard a loud chatter. It
was uttered by a group of penguins who had come to interview their new
companion. I hastened to respond to the call, and, after pounding my
head and pulling out some bunches of hair, I jumped into my furs, bid
the surprised penguins good morning, and went aboard. Here I learned
that Lecointe, not knowing of my presence on the ice, had taken me for
a seal, and was only waiting for better light to try his luck with the
rifle.

CHAPTER XVI

BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF THE PACK--AUTUMNAL TEMPESTS

On the morning of the 16th several of us went to the crow’s-nest to
get a bird’s-eye view of the pack. Only two could rest in the nest
at one time, and at best it is a shivery roost, but Arctowski and I
resolved to enter it this morning and there spend an hour in study and
philosophy. We climbed up over a series of rope ladders which were
coated with an inch of hoar-frost in large crystals. The metallic
jingle of these crystals made a music full of curious interest, and
the gem-like glitter of the masts fired by the silvery beams, as the
sun rose over the white splendour of the pack, was a sight which made
us hesitate to tread on the bejewelled ropes. Arctowski entered the
bottom of the barrel first and quickly kicked and pushed out the frost,
sending down a cloud of ice which covered my face and sent streams
of sharp crystals down my back. We had been in the crow’s-nest some
minutes surveying the splendour of the widened horizon before we began
to talk and discuss the situation. On deck there had been no wind, but
here there is a little air coming from all directions; now from the
south, now from the north, and again from the east or the west. This
we regard as a certain sign of an immediate change in the weather.
There is also a restlessness in the pack which is an equally certain
indication of a change. The water-sky, which we saw yesterday, has
extended considerably. The ice is spreading out in some directions,
leaving large open lanes of bright blue sea with a metallic lustre.
The width of these lanes is from ten to fifty feet, and they extend
northerly as far as the eye can reach. Many of these expanses of water
offer us a free highway out of our present dilemma. Over the beam,
within three hundred yards, there is a river-like stream, but we
cannot get to it. In a direction at right angles to these lanes there
is considerable pressure. This is shown by the many lines of hummocks
raised on the edges of the floes.

[Illustration: Eight Successive Phases of an Exhibit of Aurora
Australis, March 19, 1898.]

We have taken a few pictures of this bird’s-eye view of the site (which
later proved to be our winter home), but these in black and white are
poor illustrations of the pack which is always flooded with curious
colours, in unique blends, and soft shades. At this time the sun burst
through a torn space in a gathering blackness northward, and sent her
beams lightly to the ice, making each pan as luminous as if frosted
with a covering of diamonds. The edges of these pans are raised by
contact with neighbouring pans. Suspended from these elevations are
icicles, and over and under these the ice is charged with yellow sea
algæ, making a ring of gold around the gem-strewn floes. In a few
places the water is covered with a green lacework of new ice, and
everywhere there is a delicate suggestion of lilac, raising the high
lights, colouring the shadows, and saturating the air with a mysterious
luminosity.

Our position at the top of the mast is like that of a bird far up
under the heavens. The great ugly-looking, but vigorous, giant petrels
are dashing past our heads with an air of inquisitiveness. The little
dove-like white petrels come to us almost within reach of our arms,
and the graceful brown sea-gulls rush over us and around us with a
startling buzz. We are inclined to drift into poetry and philosophy
this morning, and everything about encourages this mood. The day, with
a temperature -9° C. (15.8° F.), is a delight, and as we look down upon
the endless expanse of restless frigid ocean, with its primitive life
and death-like silence, we dream of primeval nature. For here is the
world nearest to its youthful character. The moving crust of the earth
with which we drift, the hardy, simple life, and even the sky, all
suggest a period of the earth in its infancy, long before the advent of
man. It is this strange simplicity, this other-world air of terrestrial
youth, which makes the polar regions so fascinating to nature-loving
man. Everything about is new, yet old; every sight is simple, yet
clothed in mystery; every phenomenon, like a shy maiden, is attractive
but difficult of access. The haste and the bustle of the living world
are far from the mental horizon, and the mind is ready to examine the
new problems. It is fortunate that one can, after a little experience,
here open the book of Nature and record the causes and effects of
nearly all phenomena, for then the mysterious halo which surrounds
everything polar disappears. Each point of attraction which at first
bewilders us by its strangeness becomes a written page to be added to
the future annals of science. There are a hundred things which, in this
way, present new aspects daily and urge the mind out of its lethargy of
monotony into a state of fascination. Now we see some peculiar strip
on the sky, a striking series of clouds, a rare fog effect, an unusual
sunburst, or an aurora; then it is something connected with the sea or
its burden, the ice. Perhaps the surface will seem motionless, while
at a little distance a small blue-ridged berg will bound and dance as
if animated by some strange submarine spirit; or perhaps one of the
bergs, with whose face we are familiar, will suddenly turn, offering a
new face and a curious colour. Again a berg is seen with black spots
and discoloured stratifications. What is the origin of this? Is it
the output of a volcano, or is it natural glacial debris? We see the
effects, but what are the causes? And so the questions run. Hardly
have we learned one lesson when another is brought to our notice.
This time, perhaps, it is some speck of life, curiously embedded in a
wilderness of ice. What story has it to give? To what family does it
belong? We want to know its manner of life, its food, something of its
migration, and so on. There is always a stimulus for an endless series
of interesting observations. It is these tempting studies which lift
the spirits above the even plane of white monotony. It is this fresh
interest in the unknown which makes life tolerable. We all like to
ponder over the days of our youth; those of an inquiring turn of mind
love to reflect upon the youthful days of the earth; and looking at the
polar world, as a whole, it bears a close relation to what it must have
been when man first came to it.

Shortly after noon the thermometer rose, the barometer fell, and the
sky assumed a dirty gray. Out of the north came a brisk wind with
a steadily increasing force. We have now learned that this is the
condition for a storm. The wind increased to a half gale with snow,
and continued to blow fiercely all day. At four o’clock we noticed by
the squeaking of the ice that a swell was rolling under us. We did
not feel its effects about the ship until seven o’clock. Then the
ice cracked about us, and was forced together with a pressure which
aroused considerable fear regarding the safety of the _Belgica_.
Huge hummocks rose on every side, floes were forced over each other,
and against the sides of the vessel. The paint was scraped from her,
fragments of wood were gouged out of her, and she was thrown over on a
floe where she lay taking the thumps and steady pressure with cracks
and groans; but the good old ship fought her battle bravely. At about
eight o’clock the pressure ceased and the ice separated, leaving small
open leads. The _Belgica_ settled down again into the water and
sought her equilibrium, and, though there was considerable scraping and
grinding against our berths later, there was no more pressure. Early
in the evening there appeared a strip of blue sky in the north and in
it appeared the moon, now a small crescent, a mere shadow of the huge
ball of red seen a fortnight ago. The sky continued to clear during the
night, but the storm increased in force.

March 17.--The storm is still raging; the sky, and even the snow seems
black under the inky gloom. The temperature has risen nearly twenty
degrees in twenty-four hours, which is a very remarkable phenomenon for
the antarctic. The sky in the north-north-east is almost constantly
black, indicating what we believe to be open water in that direction.
From the ease with which the swell comes in under the pack, and the
frequent zones of water-sky, we estimate that we are within fifty miles
of the open ice-free ocean; but to reach it is at present impossible.
The Commandant and the captain still entertain hopes of getting out,
and if our engines were stronger and our efforts to gain freedom were
more prolonged we might. The majority, however, are now resigned to the
fate of a year on a field of drifting ice, though Gerlache still talks
of going to Buenos Aires, and Lecointe discusses a long list of needful
things which he wishes to purchase for the next campaign. The days are
growing rapidly shorter and the nights, only too noticeably longer. The
nights have not now that white glow which they had a few weeks ago.
It is this discouraging veil of blackness, falling over the sparkling
whiteness of earlier nights, which sends a vein of despair running
through our souls.

March 18.--The storm persists with its hellish howl, but the wind is
veering easterly. The temperature remains near zero and this, with
the saturation of the atmosphere and almost continuous fall of snow,
makes everything about wet and slushy. The decks are covered with a
mixture of wet snow and soot and heterogeneous masses of wood. The
surface of the pack is wet and the snow on it is soaked with water.
We cannot travel on it without snowshoes, and we cannot use snowshoes
because the snow adheres to the wood. We must in consequence remain on
board in our cabins and listen to the maddening howl of the tempest,
as it plays on the ropes and masts and deck over us. Nothing could be
more uncomfortable than this thaw coming, as it does, while the winter
is well advanced. We are now prepared for cold weather. Steady low
temperatures would be our delight, but these wet, warm days bring out
a grunt and a complaint from everybody, and when a wet snow-charged
tempest drives the slush into our faces and through every break in our
clothing, as we make the necessary observations, the situation becomes
befitting to the sulphureous epithets which one hears from stem to
stern.

About a week ago we killed a seal. The skin and blubber were removed,
but the balance of the carcass was left on the floe, about one hundred
yards westward. This carcass has attracted great numbers of giant
petrels. All the birds about except the penguins are scavengers,
but the giant petrel is the king of all. We have had an excellent
opportunity for the past few days to study these ugly creatures. In
size they are about as large as a goose, but the spread of wing is
greater and the body smaller. Their usual colour is sooty-brown with
a grayish head. There is, however, considerable difference in colour;
for they range from fawn to chocolate, and from black to a silvery
gray; occasionally one sees an albino, and also some white, spotted
with black feathers. In habits they are gluttons. Many of these about
us now have eaten so much that they are unable to rise into the air,
but sit on the ice with head and feet tucked into their rough, bushy
feathers. If we approach them they run along a few hundred feet and
then, if we persist in the chase, the birds vomit great quantities,
after which they rise into the air and hover above us in a threatening
manner. When we first entered the pack we thought, as did Captain Cook
and other early navigators, that these huge, coarse, and ugly petrels
were indicative of a nearness to land, but we have now abandoned this
idea. The giant petrel is a pack animal, and seemingly prefers the
pack-edge, where it can fish in the open leads and light upon the
carcass of an occasional seal or penguin. We learned to like this bird
for its noticeable, uncouth ugliness. It was, indeed, our most constant
companion during the twelve long months following, while we were frozen
to a piece of drifting ice.

March 19.--The tempest still continues, but it is coming from the north
in doleful wails, like the moans of a dying soul, which indicate that
its force is nearly spent. The low, gray sky, the dead white of the
ice, and the general monotone of neutral colours is still our cheerless
outlook. We are indescribably tired of these seemingly ceaseless
storms. It is not possible to work outside, and interior occupations
fatigue us so much that we soon weary of regular work.

5 P. M.--The storm has at last abated. It has left us so
suddenly that the calm is as unexpected as it is appreciated. The
barometer is steady and the temperature is falling fast. It is already
-9°C., and is still falling. The scene now before us is full of new
delights. The ice is spread out again, bright, soft and tinted with
delicate colours. Every time the thick air and the gloomy clouds of
storm are brushed away, the pack, white and sparkling, has a new story
to tell. It brings to us moods like a cheerful page in a sad story.
Under the influence of this spell everybody is singing, whistling,
and humming familiar tunes; all are planning new work and nursing big
ambitions. In the cabin the music-boxes are grinding out favourite
music, which rings over the pack with a new joy. In the forecastle the
men are dancing and playing the accordion with telling effect. From
some invisible point of the pack there comes a weird response to every
discord of the music. It is the _gha-a-ah_, _gha-a-ah_ of
the penguins. We have had a peep at the sun and this has brought about
an intoxication akin to alcoholic stimulation, and well it might, for
the brief period of its visibility has been a dream of charms. The
great twilight zone of purple fringed with violet and orange and rose
is rising over the east. The zenith is pale blue studded with a few
scarlet and lavender clouds, and the sun, a great ball of old gold, is
sinking under the pearly rose-tinged line of the endless expanse of
ice.

[Illustration: 1. The American Lumberman’s Boot.

2. The Norwegian Farmer’s Snow-shoe.

3. A Norwegian “Truge,” a Snow-shoe made of Reeds, and the
“Komager,” a Boot made of Soft Leather.

4. Boot and Sock made of Penguin Skins.

5. The “Lauparsko” with _Ski_ Attachment.

6. The “Finesco,” a Finnish Reindeer Skin Boot, and the Alpine
Disc Snow-shoes.

7. The Eskimo “Kamik.”

8. The Belgian Wooden Shoe.

A Page of _Belgica_ Boots.]

8 P. M.--The ice shows signs of strong pressure from the
north. Along the crevasses, running easterly and westerly there are
great lines of hummocks from four to eight feet in height. The colours
of the pack are now far from the despairing monotone of yesterday.
The yellow sea algæ have already fixed themselves in the new ice and
make it appear ocherous. The twilight on clear nights is extended by
the latent luminosity of the snow. The blueness of the pack in this
twilight, separated by the ebony lanes of open water and decorated by
the algæ-strewn yellow and green lines in the hummocks, make the scenes
curiously attractive. Added to this we have the bergs, tall, sharp, and
imposing, standing out against the soft blue of the sky and the hard
blue of the pack as if cut from huge masses of alabaster. The whole
scene is one of lively contrasts, pleasing to the eye and stimulating
to the mind, having quite the reverse of the effect of the days of
darkness and depressing storms which have preceded.

At about ten o’clock we saw a second aurora. It began as a ragged arc,
spread easterly and westerly across the southern sky with a straight
line running under it close to the horizon. The space under the arc
was noticeably darker than the surrounding sky, and in this space,
also in a straight line, were four luminous spots. The colour of the
aurora was a bright cream with an occasional suggestion of pink. There
was no noticeable reflection of light on the snow. There was a quick
and constant transformation in the form of the phenomenon. A wave of
light ran through the luminous bands and spots from east to west. Some
parts brightened and enlarged, others darkened and faded away. The arcs
were generally of a steady rayless brightness; the apparent movement
and wavy effect of light was in a series of sharp rays on a film-like
display before the arc. I found it difficult in the low temperature to
remain outside for periods sufficiently prolonged to catch the minute
changes in force and character, but I made a series of eight sketches
at intervals of about twenty minutes apart, which illustrate the most
striking changes. The second form was a homogeneous arc with a fragment
of a second arc under it. This hung for some time with a steady
nebulous glow between it and the one previous, as well as between the
intervening periods of all. The following typical forms then were
rapid and almost imperceptible gradations. The third sketch represents
the same primary arc always of the same size and in the same position
on the heavens: but under it are portions of two other arcs and a
suggestion of a luminous horizontal line. At times a wave of rays,
converging to the pole of the circle described, ran over the main arc.
In the fourth sketch there are two arcs and a portion of a third which
were seen persistently in all the exhibits to the present. In the fifth
there is a second arc crossing the first. This was suggested in the
third and it reappeared in the seventh. The sixth form was an arc with
three ribbons of luminous beams waving from side to side. The exhibit
ended with a plain arc aglow with a steady light.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FADING DAYS OF THE AUTUMN

March 20.--Although the wind which has swept the pack for the past
few days has entirely subsided, the temperature has not fallen as
low as we had expected. The thermometer has registered to -15° C.
(5° F.) during the night, and is about -9° C. (15.8° F.) to-day.
After these storms we usually have a few days of calm weather with
a low temperature, and after each successive blow we find that the
mercury settles closer and closer to the bulb. We are expecting every
morning to find the quicksilver frozen. This is a cloudless day with
a sharp sun and a blinding glitter. The topography about has changed
much under the influence of the drift-snow during the last storm.
About the ship there are huge drifts of snow which make it difficult
to disembark. The old hummocks are reduced to little rounded hills,
the small crevasses are filled with new ice and snow, and the entire
pack of restless floes near the bark seems more like one homogeneous
mass. Everything is restful and motionless, and covered with the white
silence of death. We, of the scientific staff, have taken advantage of
this promise of ice stability to make short excursions over the ice
to the neighbouring bergs, and to interesting spots in the surrounding
regions that we might better study the life and the upbuilding of the
sea of ice in which we are fated to be kicked about, until the thaw of
another year may set us free. The snow is sheeted with a hard crust,
as it usually is after a storm, but we find it unsafe to travel even
short distances without snowshoes. The depth of snow is such, and the
crevasses are so numerous, that the small bearing surface of the foot
is likely to permit us to sink down out of sight.

For these journeys, when a quick unencumbered march is intended, we all
prefer the Norwegian _ski_, but when it is necessary to ascend
slopes, to cross rough ice, or to pull sledges, the _ski_ is
decidedly inferior to Indian or to Alpine snowshoes. Our _skis_
are mostly nine feet long; with these on our feet we skate leisurely
over the rough uneven surface at the rate of about three miles per
hour. Over the snow-covered old ice the work is not difficult, but when
we come to new ice recently formed, we find the surface as difficult
for gliding purposes as rubber. To cross these it is generally
necessary to remove the _ski_ and walk. It was a matter of some
surprise to see the large number and the great width of these strips of
new ice which indicate the expansion of the pack. At a distance of five
miles we found ten leads with an average width of a thousand feet. This
gives an expansion of two miles as a result of the last storm. Ten days
ago we went over this same path to a favourite iceberg which has been
named “Sweetheart.” We then found the distance less than three miles;
to-day the journey was nearly twice as long. If the pack increases at
this rate what will be its limit at the end of the coming winter night?
We saw only one small and two royal penguins, one giant petrel, and a
few white petrels. There were no open spaces of water, hence seals and
whales and penguins have departed for more open regions in the pack
farther north. The penguins we saw were stragglers who failed to go
to more congenial regions before the new ice formed; they remain near
icebergs where they are sure to find new crevasses in the next few
days, and to be deprived of food and water for a few days does not seem
to seriously disturb a penguin. About the bergs we found some small
holes through the new ice, out of which there came a puff of vapour
with a hiss at regular intervals. These were the breathing holes of the
crab-eating seals who, like the stranded penguins, await a change in
the movement of the ice when new crevasses with open spaces of water
will again appear.

The icebergs seem to be the great disturbing element in the movement of
the sea-ice. We have several times thought that they were propelled by
some contrary under-current, but the extended observations we have made
to the present prove quite another fact. We know that the pack, as a
whole, is extremely sensitive to the force of the wind; it easily and
quickly takes the direction of winds of even mild force. When this wind
is long continued there is a line of pressure ridges at right angles
to the direction of the wind, and lanes of open water in line with the
wind, indicating a tendency of the ice to separate in the way of least
resistance, which is always north. The bergs always have an apparent
movement diametrically opposite to the movement of the pack. This is
indicated by a number of hummocks and pressure ridges to the windward,
and the usual open lakes to the leeward of each iceberg. While it is
thus proven that the berg passes through the sea-ice in a direction
opposite to the force of the wind, the nautical observations prove that
the entire mass, icebergs and sea-ice, move with the wind with a speed
depending upon the resistance, the force, and the direction of the
wind. Under ordinary conditions an iceberg sinks seven-eighths of its
mass under water. A berg two hundred feet above water therefore has a
base fourteen hundred feet under water. The force of the wind expended
upon the two hundred feet above is extremely small compared to the
enormous resistance offered by the fourteen hundred feet under water.
The conclusion must be that the berg seems to move against the wind
because of its greater resistance; but in reality it, like the sea-ice,
is also carried along by the wind and forced on by the greater speed
floe-ice.

March 21.--It is a dull, gray day. The sky is low, with a high fog,
but along the south and east there are breaks in the clouds permitting
a few rays to steal a passage to the cold, white world below. The
night was bright early in the evening with a few auroras, cloud-like
fissures, or luminous patches in the south-west, but they were of
short duration. After midnight the heavens assumed the dullness which
now makes the scene one of deep gloom. It is on such days that we
assume a disgusted and fault-finding mood. To-day we are dissatisfied
with the food. We have complained intermittently for a long time, but
now everybody seems bent on having his say as to the badness of our
provisions. We have tried penguins and cormorants, but the majority
have voted them unpalatable. The excitement, heretofore, of new
discoveries and new sights to infuse fresh life has been too frequent
and too long continued to permit us to think of dainty foods and
tempting relishes. Now it is different. We are held by the increasing
grip of the too affectionate pack. We are imprisoned in an endless sea
of ice, and find our horizon monotonous. We have told all the tales,
real and imaginative, to which we are equal. Time weighs heavily upon
us as the darkness slowly advances. The despairing storms and the
increasing cold call for some new fuel to keep the lowering fires of
our bodies ablaze.

I have taken the trouble to make a personal canvass of every man of
the _Belgica_ to-day to find out the greatest complaints and the
greatest longings of each. The result of this inquiry was certainly a
lesson in curious human fancies. In the cabin the foremost wants are
for home news and feminine society. We are hungry for letters from
mothers, sisters, and other men’s sisters, and what would we not give
for a peep at a pretty woman? Racovitza reminds us daily that he will
write a book describing life in the “Ladyless south,” and we have all
agreed to contribute articles to a forthcoming paper in which we shall
advertise our wants. This paper will take the generic name given us by
the naturalist, “The Pack Loafers’ World.” In the forecastle the men
are less sentimental and less inclined to poetry. They desire first
some substantiate for the stomach. Fresh food, such as beefsteaks,
vegetables, and fruits are their foremost wants. Two or three, in lone
dark corners and in tears, slyly admit that a few moments with the
girls of their hearts would be more to their liking. They would like
fresh foods, but they long for freedom from the lonely pack, and the
congeniality of a land of feminine charms. Our hatred is all heaped
upon one class of men. They are the inventors and manufacturers of
the various kinds of canned and preserved meats. Our general name for
“embalmed beef” is “Kydbolla.” If these meat-packers could be found
anywhere within reach they would become food for the giant petrels very
quickly. In this one sentiment we are all of one accord. Down with
“embalmed beef” and everybody associated with it!

[Illustration: _Belgica_ Mittens.]

[Illustration: Samples of Darnings.]

I must hasten to say that our food is not without variety, its quality
is good, and it is perhaps all that could be desired under the
circumstances; but men in the monotone of polar regions develop flighty
longings. We have for breakfast cereals, such as corn meal, crushed
oats, hominy, good, freshly-baked biscuits, oleomargarine, marmalade,
and coffee. Our supply of sugar is low and the provision of milk is
almost exhausted. It is the sugar and milk which are in greatest
demand. For dinner we have soups of various kinds, canned meats,
preserves, potatoes and macaroni, with a dessert of fruit pudding.
Our supper consists of fish, cheese, and an occasional conglomerate
mixture of macaroni, nulles, pemmican, and tinned meats. There is a
sufficient variety to prevent a dislike for any one article. There are,
however, a few things to which many have developed a sharp animosity.
These are usually the articles with a neutral flavour. The things
hated most violently are kydbolla and fiskabolla; both are Norwegian
concoctions of doubtful stuffs. The kydbolla is said to be a mixture of
ground beef and cream, and the fiskabolla is described as a compound of
fish and cream. We are, however, ungrateful enough to doubt the usual
truthfulness of our Norse friends. The colour and consistency of the
meats and fish balls are such that no suggestion as to the composition
is possible, and thus one idea after another is developed. Some prove
by a plausible argument that they are the refuse of the packing-house,
defibrinated, bleached, ground, and compressed. Others insist that
useless dogs, cats, and what not, have been utilised. All traces by
which one might discover the composition have been removed; even the
odour of the fish has been destroyed in the fish balls.

It is in this spirit that we have begun to eat penguin meat. The
doubtful recommendation which it has received from other explorers has
caused us to shun it; but now, for variety, we would gladly take to
anything; even horse meat would be a relish. For some time a few of us
have insisted upon collecting and saving all the penguins possible,
both for the skins and fresh meat. We have tried the meat several
times, and it seems to improve upon acquaintance. It was amusing to
watch the first trials: little pieces were taken and tasted, and
allowed to settle into the stomach slowly. With a few some time elapsed
before a second trial was attempted. Some never ventured farther, and
others passed their plates for a second and third helping. No one
seemed to eat the penguin steaks with any kind of relish, but somehow
we stored away quite a little stack of it. It is rather difficult to
describe its taste and appearance; we have absolutely no meat with
which to compare it. The penguin, as an animal, seems to be made up
of an equal proportion of mammal, fish, and fowl. If it is possible
to imagine a piece of beef, an odoriferous codfish, and a canvas-back
duck, roasted in a pot, with blood and cod-liver oil for sauce, the
illustration will be complete.

March 22.--The storm continued through the night and subsided this
morning at sunrise, but began again at 3 P.M., and now at 5
P.M. it is blowing a full gale with snow, and a temperature
-1.5° C. (29.3° F.). The effect of the wind and the drift has made
little change upon the pack in general, but the _Belgica_ is being
more and more buried in the accumulating banks. The last wind drove us
south nineteen miles, and west twenty-six miles, and this storm, being
from about the same direction, will undoubtedly drive us still farther
into the frigid unknown.

March 23.--The day dawned under a clear sky with a little wind coming
from the south-east. The temperature is -11.5° C. (11.3° F.). There
is no marked change in the ice except that the hard sharp edges and
projections have been reduced, and the entire pack has assumed a soft,
velvety-like mantle which is due to the enormous quantity of drift-snow
which comes with the strong easterly and north-easterly winds. At about
nine o’clock we saw a mirage, a cream-coloured ridge of ice apparently
raised thirty or forty feet above the general surface of the pack.
After dinner, accompanied by Lecointe, we took a journey on _ski_
for recreation. We chose a course due south and travelled about two
miles. The ice was rough, full of small hummocks and crevasses, and
altogether very difficult for travelling, but it gave us just the hard
physical task which we desired for exercise. At the end of our journey
we found a large lead partly covered with new ice. Its direction
was south-east and its width about fifty feet. It was a beautiful
river-like band of sparkling, blue water which would have afforded the
bark an easy passage homeward or poleward, but there were two miles
of hard unbroken ice between it and this promising highway. To each
side of the lead were a number of small penguins sunning themselves,
arranging and oiling their feathers for a plunge into the waters. In
the lead in several places we saw a few black spots which, upon closer
examination, proved to be groups of penguins coming up from the depths
of the ocean to breathe and to sport on the surface after having had
a full meal of shrimps. On the return some of these penguins followed
us to the ship and were captured by the hunters after considerable
difficulty.

March 24.--There were a few faint, luminous patches of aurora last
night, but the exhibit was so weak that, had it not been in the usual
position of auroras, it would have passed unrecognised. The day is
dull and gloomy. The morning was somewhat bright and cheerful, but the
wind has veered to the north-west, and at three o’clock it increased
to a howling gale with snow and a sky sheeted with lead. The barometer
is falling with a quiver which seems to indicate an increase and
prolongation of the storm. There is much movement in the ice; new
fractures are visible, and from the south to the east there is a
water-sky, probably indicating a large lake of open water. One giant
petrel was the only life seen to-day. A few minutes before six, while
the storm still raged, a strip of the sky in the west brightened, and
over it the sun, brushed by snow-charged winds, sank to her rest. It
is now so dark in the cabin at seven o’clock that we must use a light
during supper.

March 25.--The storm continued all night, but stopped suddenly soon
after sunrise. The morning gave no promise of better weather. The
sky remained low, the atmosphere wet and uncomfortable. After noon a
southerly wind cleared the sky and the air, and sent the thermometer
falling rapidly. The ice is separating, leaving large, open, endless
leads running north-west and south-east; any one of these leads offers
us an excellent passage out of this unearthly sea of ice. There is
one within two hundred yards of the bow, but this might as well be
ten miles off, for we cannot get the vessel to it. We have made some
journeys along these leads, but have seen only one giant and two
snow petrels. The captain’s observation at noon shows that we have
drifted eleven miles northward. We have made a sounding to-day, and are
beginning to prepare the _Belgica_ for her long sleep through the
coming winter darkness.

March 26.--A white day, with a blinding glitter from the ice. An
ice-edge southerly wind is keeping the temperature close to -20° C.
(-4° F.). In our excursions to-day, we found the leads of yesterday
converted into large lakes partly covered by quickly-forming new ice,
which was about an inch thick and covered by a decoration of hoar-frost
in large crystals. In the centre of these lakes there were small pools
of open water, and in these several families of small penguins were
darting like sunbeams through the water to keep from freezing to the
new ice. The shores of these lakes and the broad sheets of ice, which
spread out over the glassy blue water, were covered, decorated, and
bejewelled by a garden-like growth of ice-flowers. In the absence
of budding plants we take very kindly to these crystal shrubs. It
is remarkable how much real pleasure we find in our admiration for
apparently insignificant things. The forms of the hummocks, the figures
of the drift-snow, and the clusters of glittering ice crystals,
displayed everywhere, are a source of never-ceasing entertainment. The
most remarkable of these formations are what we have affectionately
styled ice-flowers. In reality, they are snow crystals, so assembled
as to form clusters, which are arranged in rows on the new ice. These
ice-flowers possess the charm of both jewels and blooming plants. In
form they are flowers, in texture they are gems. They bud, if I may
so express it, with the first sharp breath of winter, casting their
fragile tendrils into a hundred delicate forms wherever a suspicion of
humidity can be hardened with sufficient regularity and force. Upon
porous young ice, adjacent to open water, is the garden spot for these
curious growths. They give the finishing touch of harmony to the rough
outline of the frowning cliffs of ice. They gleam from the miniature
ice mountains. They appear as sparkling flowers upon the black sheets
of young ice, and convert the cold monotony of the pack into a
glistening field of beauty.

March 27.--During the night we had a striking auroral display. It
began shortly after eight as a luminous patch, seemingly a part of an
arc. This brightened and faded, and at nine it disappeared entirely.
A half-hour later a complete arc was visible with a ragged patch of
a second arc under it. At ten o’clock bunches of rays converging
towards a common centre alternately brightened and faded over the
steady luminosity of the arc. This gave the phenomenon an appearance
of movement. At eleven o’clock the aurora was very bright and the sky
under it seemed much darker. Later the fantastic displays settled into
a plain white arc, with a steadily fading glow.

The wind this morning is still light and southerly. The sky has a brisk
wintry look--a quivering high pale blue, lined by a few orange-tinged
and violet alto-stratus clouds near the horizon, which seem to be
placed there for the express purpose of striking a contrast and a
line of division between the azure of the heavens, and the blue of
the surface snows. The ice has separated much northward and westward.
The leads running south-west and north-east have a general breadth
of sixty feet and are mostly covered by a green sheet of new ice.
Nearly everybody is out on _ski_ for recreation to-day. Some are
on hunting excursions, others are visiting icebergs for toboggan and
_ski_ sports, but all are trying to have a royal good time, as
they generally do on Sundays when the weather will permit.

Gerlache, Danco, and I went on a long journey due north to examine the
ice and, if possible, visit a huge tabular iceberg which we estimated
was eight or nine miles away. We found the ice very much crevassed, but
there was everywhere a tendency for the floes to unite and assemble
into a larger conglomerate sheet, which we call a field because from
one edge we cannot see its termination. The snow was hard and fairly
even, making excellent _ski_ travelling except at the pressure
angles where the fields pommelled each other, raising rough uneven
ridges. Most of the leads were covered with new ice sufficiently strong
to bear our weights on _skis_. We saw little life. There were
many penguin tracks on the snow with a general northerly direction,
from which we concluded that the little creatures with good sense had
migrated northward. We saw also some blow-holes of seals, but no life
except a few snow petrels. The whole white world about us was deserted.
The berg was a much greater distance from the ship than we had
estimated, for after we had wandered over the ice six miles the great
wall seemed as far away as ever. We should have continued our journey,
but Danco found himself unable to follow because of “shortness of
breath.” At the limit of our journey, looking north-westerly, we saw a
series of low yellow clouds, and under these a vague, irregular outline
which had the appearance of land.

On our way back we were discussing the matter of raising flags
and the formality of taking possession of newly discovered lands.
The conclusion at which we arrived was, that the first chart of a
new country was quite as good a deed to the title of land, as the
empty formality of pinning a bit of bunting to a temporary post and
drinking to the health of the Royal Ruler, as is the custom of British
explorers. Thus far we have not unfurled a flag, nor have we made any
other effort to take formal possession of the many new lands which we
have discovered, except by our attempts at scientific exploration. This
is in sharp contrast to the British, German and Russian, and all the
ancient explorers whose first act always was to land and say, “This by
the help of God, the consent of the Pope, and the permission of the
King, belongs to us and to our countrymen.” The modesty of the Belgians
is shown by the fact that the staff of the _Belgica_ went ashore
to gather, not financial returns, or titles to unclaimed lands, but
links of truth to add to the disconnected chain which is to bind the
growing annals of terrestrial knowledge.

[Illustration: Whale Blow-hole.]

[Illustration: Seal Blow-hole.]

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AUTUMN (CONTINUED). WORK AND PASTIME

March 28.--It is another day of clear, white silence. At sunrise and
at sunset the twilight zone is becoming more and more marked. It
is, to-night, an intense purple blue, and through it we see a star.
Arctowski puts down the mysterious purple as a reflection from the
shadows of the pack-ice, which at this time is a deep ultramarine
blue, but to most of us it is still a puzzle. We are all occupied
to-day preparing for a winter campaign of work. Danco is building a
triangular hut in which he expects to make his magnetic observations.
Arctowski is arranging a new system for meteorological observations and
is scattering his instruments over the ice, about the ship, and in the
masts. Racovitza is studying bird and seal parasites, and everybody
else is preparing for his own special line of work. We all have big
ambitions, but I fear our efforts will be dwarfed when the gloomy,
dayless night settles down over us.

March 29.--A light northerly wind has lowered, and darkened the
heavens, and brought over us a wet, warm, uncomfortable atmosphere,
with an occasional fall of snow. The snow on the pack is made adhesive
by the water-charged air which is being blown over the ice from the
open sea now, perhaps, one hundred miles northward. The _ski_ will
not slide and sledges can be drawn only with great difficulty. The ice
is still spreading out, increasing the width of the leads, while the
temperature, which is close to zero, is not low enough to make new
ice. Life has again returned in abundance. We saw four finback whales
spouting, blowing, and sporting, and moving leisurely southward in the
leads. We saw also many white and giant petrels, and great numbers of
royal and small pack penguins. On a floe about three miles from the
ship we encountered six crab-eating seals. We killed all of these and
found their stomachs distended by a fresh meal of shrimp. Two were
pregnant, and from these the naturalist secured embryos which were,
indeed, rare and beautiful. These were placed in a jar and marked for
future study. As the sun settled under the horizon westward, a lemon
colour spread along the sky in that direction and early in the night
the sky cleared somewhat. There was a small feeble fragment of an arc
aurora hanging in the south-west with a steady glow during most of the
night.

March 30.--The morning opened bright and cloudless with a temperature
-20° C., and a gentle southerly air which has brushed away the heavy
humid air of yesterday. Racovitza and I went to a lead which Koren, the
cabin-boy, visited yesterday, and who reported thousands of penguins
and hundreds of seals. The distance was about two miles and the
travelling on the floes was good, but when it was necessary to cross
old breaks over the hummocks, and crushed ice, it became a task of
considerable difficulty. When we reached the lead we found that what
Koren had said was to some extent true. Upon a large hummocky floe in
the lead there was much life. We counted twenty crab-eating seals and
seventeen king penguins. This was certainly the largest assemblage of
the great penguins and seals which we had seen on the pack. With a
rifle Racovitza shot six seals and with my _ski_ stick I killed
all the penguins. We realised the fact that it was cruel to do this,
but the calls of science and the dire needs of our stomachs made the
deed absolutely necessary. The seals were all females and from them we
obtained four embryos. The penguins were bagged for food. Later in the
day a westerly wind raised the temperature and brought great quantities
of drift-snow. During the night the wind increased to a half-gale.

March 31.--The wind has veered to the north and is still coming with
the force of a half-gale. There are great drifts of snow lined about
the bark and over the pack. The temperature is -2° C. Everything is wet
and far more uncomfortable than it is when the thermometer is at -20°.
The captain and Amundsen have brought aboard two small live penguins
and turned them over to Racovitza for physiological experiments. We
find it very difficult to bring in our game. It takes the full force of
three men to drag the skin and blubber of one seal, weighing perhaps
two hundred and fifty pounds. One man cannot drag more than two royal
penguins on a sledge when the snow is either extremely dry or slightly
humid, as it has been for the past few weeks, but if the penguins are
bunched and dragged on their own feathers without a sledge, a man is
able to draw six with ease. The lesson which we have learned from this
experience is that sledges, if possible, should be shod with a strip
of penguin skin with feathers attached. We are designing such a sledge
to-day. It is certainly the first effort of the kind on record and we
hope it will prove useful.

April 1.--The storm still continues and the barometer is steadily
falling, but the wind is coming in gusts, which is a cheerful
indication that its force is nearly spent. The one food upon which
the most unlimited hatred has been heaped is the fiskabolla. The cook
serves these on Fridays, and the coarse sarcasm brought out before
and after dinner is certainly remarkable. In the cabin only two men,
Gerlache and Amundsen, eat the soft, tasteless, fiberless, and useless
things, and they seem to put them away with a grim relish. Lecointe
has touched them but once since crossing the Atlantic from Madeira to
Rio. Two weeks ago he made a bet with Racovitza, which was supported by
a resolution to eat four fiskabolla. Lecointe lost and selected April
first on which to pay his forfeit. Poor fellow! I believe he would
rather have paid a hundred dollars. He ate the things, but he suffered
with gastric discomfort for a week, and resolved forever afterwards
never to touch, taste, or smell “embalmed fishballs.”

April 2.--The storm has ceased, and a lighter wind is coming from
the south-west. The sky is fairly clear at the zenith, but a bank of
atmosphere, charged with fine ice crystals, hangs over the pack and
makes the horizon obscure. The sun and the moon, rising and descending
through this haze of ice, are distorted, refracted, and deflected, into
all sorts of curious fantastic shapes. To-night there was a parhelion
in prismatic colours. There was a simple reproduction of the image
of the sun, one to each side, and the three suns sank slowly under
the hazy violet of the horizon. Soon after, the moon rose through the
same haze of floating ice crystals, with luminous spots indicating
crescentic rings and four distant moon dogs.

April 3.--The same haze of suspended ice crystals is being driven over
the pack, filling up the chasms and rounding all the sharp edges of the
hummocks. The temperature is -22° C. and the wind is due south, sending
the ice-laden clouds over the crusted snow with a metallic ring. As the
sun rose through this mist this morning we saw a variety of parhelia,
with bright crescentic patches, changing rapidly in brilliancy and
form as the sun ascended. At four in the afternoon the moon rose again
through this icy mist. In colour and form it was the most remarkable
lunar aspect I ever saw. First, as it came over the horizon, its size
seemed so much above what we were accustomed to that we did not easily
guess it was the moon. After it rose clear of the ice-line it took a
wrinkled, distorted form, which in shape and colour resembled an old
withered orange.

April 4.--There has been a great excitement to-day--one which has
forced a new interest into the usual sameness of the daily dry routine.
The woodwork about the pipe of the cabin stove became ignited, and for
a few seconds there was a cry of “fire” and a great scramble for water.
Amundsen, with admirable presence of mind, drew out the pipe from the
deck and then smothered the flames with snow, while the rest of us
hustled about for water, which is always scarce on the _Belgica_.
The captain was able to get an observation of the sun to-day at noon,
from which he fixes our position at latitude 71° 22′ 15″, longitude
84° 54′ 45″. A sounding was made which proved the depth of the sea
530 metres. Although the sky has been fairly clear, at noon a steady
easterly wind was driving over the pack, sending sharp-edged crystals
across the ship with a cutting force. The temperature ranges from -17°
to -20° C. In the past forty-eight hours we have drifted northward nine
miles, and eastward about eight miles. The wind, coming as it does now
with a steady blow, will probably send us drifting westward with a
rapid pace.

April 5.--The day opened doubtfully, the sky presenting neither
a stormy nor a fair aspect. There is no wind, which is a curious
condition of things for this region of eternal blasts. The wind of the
past few days has rolled up great drifts, which give a charm of form in
rounded irregularities to the surface of the icy sea. With the sudden
cessation of the wind, there has been considerable pressure which
has fractured some floes and raised great lines of hummocks along the
fissures and old leads. The temperature is steadily falling; to-day it
ranges from -18° to -27° C. We saw little of the sun except a crimson
burst at its setting, but the moon has had for us a curious attraction.
It is full, and rose over the north at half-past three this afternoon.
The purple twilight curve at this time was feeble but distinctly
visible. The moon rose slowly behind this, and had the appearance of a
great, irregular ball of crude gold, but as it rose above the purple
and over the usual line of orange-red, which limits the curve, it was a
full sharply-cut globe, pale yellow and fresh, as though washed in the
polar whiteness. This was at five o’clock. The sun had just sunk under
a line of snow flushed by a rich rose colour, and the sky above it, in
the west, was fired by a mass of feathery clouds. As the moon ascended,
all of this display of vivid colours faded into the blue electric glow,
which is seen only over the polar pack. By this light we were able to
read ordinary print at eleven o’clock at night. The heavens at this
time were so bright that only the stars to the fourth magnitude were
visible.

April 6.--Still it blows from the east. There is now and then an
intermission for a day, or a part of a day, when the wind turns to the
north or the south, but strong easterly winds prevail. The other winds
are hardly of sufficient force or duration to set the pack into motion.
Parhelias and paraselenas are now of daily occurrence. This morning
at nine o’clock, when the sun was over a bank of drift-snow on the
horizon, there was first, a halo, then a rapidly-changing series of
sun dogs; generally two extra suns, one to each side, and all having
perpendicular lines drawn through the centres. The days are fading
rapidly, and the nights are lengthening with an alarming quickness.
The life, too, is less and less in evidence. We now walk miles over
the desolate waste of white expanse without seeing penguins or seals,
where only a few days ago we saw great numbers. There are some tracks
of animals which have been stranded by the closing of fissures and
open spaces of water. The direction of these is generally northward,
or towards some large iceberg, where there is usually open water into
which the creatures dive to seek a more congenial region northward,
where the fissures are sure to be open. We took a _ski_ excursion
at noon to-day, and travelled over twelve miles without seeing a speck
of life.

April 8.--All the leads and open spaces of water seem to have closed,
and all the snowy world about us is saddened under the increasing gray
of the coming night. Lecointe has put up a box-shaped house in which
he intends to make the nautical observations for the year. We of the
cabin have all given him a lift at his house-building. The commandant
had a hammer and nails; Racovitza had a saw; Arctowski made the plans;
Danco acted as general director; Lecointe and I did the horse work of
transporting the planks and other material from the ship to the site of
the new observatory. We enjoy such little tasks as pastime before and
after our regular scientific observations and official duties. It took
us one day to build the captain’s house, but it was inartistic in
shape, unstable in its setting, and the wind blew through it, making
drafts and an interior atmosphere colder than that of the open expanse
outside. We next covered it with tar paper and anchored it by banking
and burying the structure under snow. The captain made his first
observation in the new house to-night. He sighted two stars, came in,
and rather hastily said, “It is splendid,” but shortly after I was
called upon to attend to two frozen fingers. This is the first result
of our newly constructed shelter.

[Illustration: Iceberg in the Edge of the Pack-ice, About 120
Feet High.]

[Illustration: Penguin Tracks.]

April 9.--It is the birthday of King Leopold, of the Belgians, to-day.
The commandant has made it a holiday and ordered a special menu with
a liberal supply of wine to the officers and crew. All are expected
to celebrate the day in good form. We enjoy these days of rest,
recreation, and change from the usual formula of regular work, and we
conscientiously point out, far in advance, the legal holidays of all
lands and the birthdays of each of the men of the _Belgica_. It is
a slow week when we have not succeeded in having at least one day set
aside as a period of special feeding, followed by a flow of champagne.
“All honor to the King” is the voice of the _Belgica_ to-day. His
picture is in a prominent place in the dining-room, and his name is
on every tongue. If His Majesty could hear the flattering toasts, the
words of loyalty and praise, the genuine feeling of good fellowship
which now rings over the new world about us, he would feel that we
were, one and all, glad citizens of that little land which deserves
the credit of opening the gates of antarctic darkness and mystery. He
would and should know that, though we are from many lands, we are now
proud subjects of King Leopold.

That we might better mark the king’s birthday and remember it as a
period of great rejoicing, and to arouse our sleeping regard for
women we have instituted a “beauty contest.” Lecointe, Racovitza, and
Amundsen, I think, were responsible for the invention. At any rate,
anything suggestive of kind, tender, feminine recollections, or of love
and poetry, is first championed by one of these gentlemen. It was so in
the “beauty contest.” For several days they had been electioneering and
pointing out the special merits of the women of their choice. The pick
has been made from the illustrations of a Paris journal, illustrating
women famous for graces of form and manner, and public notoriety.
Nearly five hundred pictures were selected, representing all kinds of
poses and dress and undress, and anatomical parts of women noted as
types of beauty. The result of this concourse is shown in the following
official record of the great event:--

ANTARCTIC NIGHT

ANNOUNCEMENT BY

THE MINISTER OF ARTS, FEMININE BEAUTY, AND
PUBLIC WORKS

GRAND CONCOURSE OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

ORGANISED IN THE COLD ANTARCTIC, HELD
UNDER THE AUSPICES OF

S. M. ARTOCHO I.--KING OF THE POLAR ZONE

AND

S. A. ROALD, PRINCE OF THE KYODBOLLA

===================================================================

FIRST PART.--TOTAL OF VOTES FOR THE MOST BEAUTIFUL
WOMEN.

--------------------------------------------+-------+--------+-------
DESCRIPTION FOR BALLOTING. | FIRST | SECOND | THIRD
| PRIZE.| PRIZE. | PRIZE.
--------------------------------------------+-------+--------+-------
I. Poses plastiques | 252 | 217 | 218
II. Disposition (dreamy, fond of flattery)| 183 | 326 | 339
III. Appearance, common | 391 | 323 | 260
IV. Rosy complexion | 306 | 245 | 264
V. Irreproachable character | 94 | 88 | 210
VI. Grace, personified | 209 | 230 | 319
VII. Elegant appearance (sweet disposition)| 47 | 463 | 101
VIII. Underclothing | 134 | 180 | --
IX. Most artistic poses | 274 | 404 | 391
X. Sporty girls | 208 | 397 | 405
XI. Most graceful dancers | 288 | 291 | 290
===================================================================

PART SECOND.--TOTAL OF VOTES ON THE EXCELLENCE OF
SPECIAL PARTS.

---------------------------------------+-------+--------+-------
DESCRIPTION FOR BALLOTING. | FIRST | SECOND | THIRD
| PRIZE.| PRIZE. | PRIZE.
---------------------------------------+-------+--------+-------
I. The most beautiful face | 94 | 479 | 480
II. Luxuriant hair | 308 | 320 | 282
III. Flashing eyes | 312 | 88 | --
IV. Mouth (Cupid’s bow) | 309 | 88 | --
V. Shapely hands (tapering fingers) | 311 | 217 | 191
VI. Arms | 212 | -- | --
VII. Sloping, alabaster shoulders | 212 | -- | --
VIII. Supple waist | 218 | -- | --
IX. Les jambes | 209 | 217 | --
X. Feet | 211 | -- | --
==============================================================

PART THREE.--Each voter must accept the woman who is
selected by his companions as most suitable for
his welfare, happiness, etc.

Gerlache 94
Melaerts 191
Lecointe 209
Cook 88
Danco 282
Amundsen 256
Racovitza 64
Arctowski 324, 326, 392
(One not sufficient.)
===========================

PART FOUR.--The umpires will decide which girl will be
likely to be preferred by the various “Wandering
Willies” of the expedition.

PRIZE OF HONOUR

The prize of honour will be given to the most beautiful woman--the one
having obtained the largest number of votes.

* * * * *

GENERAL CONDITIONS

The photographs of the “Beauties” to enter into the contest
are filed in the “Minister’s” book. There are four hundred and
sixty-four (464) pictures, charms, delights and fascinations,
but voters are cautioned not to become too enthusiastic or
overheated. Those carrying photographs (of favoured ones) in
their pockets and pinned to their vests, as nearly as possible to
their hearts, may submit them for inspection to the “Minister.”

It is hoped that the elections will be honourable, but “all is
fair in love and war,” and in the “Ladyless South,” swindling of
all kinds is allowable providing it is in an honourable cause.

DISTRIBUTION OF THE PRIZES

On the arrival of the _Belgica_ in port the Minister
will send the diploma, drawn by the “King’s” own hand, to the
fortunate winners of the prizes. The presentation of the prizes
is conditional upon the later appearance of the woman before the
committee to exhibit the parts for which ballot has been cast,
not for re-examination, but to obtain an official photograph.

(Signed)

RACONEVIPADECA, President of the “Pack Loafers.”

LECOINTWHISKY, Minister of the Land of Beautiful
Women, and “Lady Specialist.”

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]

CHAPTER XX

THE DAYS OF TWILIGHT PRECEDING THE LONG NIGHT

April 26.--The sky is again hazed, the barometer is falling, and the
temperature has risen from -21° at 8 A.M. to -2° at 3 P.M. We made
a sounding and found the depth 410 metres. During the day Racovitza
lowered his paraphernalia to fish submarine life for the laboratory.
We had hardly lost the effects of the last storm and were beginning
to enjoy the clear steady weather, with the light southerly winds,
but to-day there is another storm. The sun burst through the high fog
at ten o’clock this morning, but her rays were too feeble to dissolve
the cold vapours. Quickly the only bright spot of heavenly glory
was smothered by cold leaden clouds coming from the darkness of the
north-west. This we knew to be an announcement of the coming of dirty
weather from that direction. For five days the barometer has steadily
risen, but this morning it began to fall and in this descent we read
the story of another week of trouble. Violent winds, in conjunction
with the noise, the gloomy darkness, and forbidding exterior
conditions, will set up a spirit of discontent and melancholy,
followed by insomnia and disturbances of digestion. I suppose, however,
we should not complain, for these gales carry us along on interesting
journeys where no other human eyes have before scanned the horizon.

April 28.--It is a neutral gray day. There is no sun and nothing to
arouse an interest in life. The atmosphere is dark, warm, wet, and, in
general, most disgusting. The temperature is -1°, but about the ship
the snow has melted much, allowing the _Belgica_ to settle now
and then with a crack and a sudden jar. The wind is westerly and comes
with a steady rush. The ice is separating, leaving open leads running
north-westerly. We saw several white and two-spotted brown petrels. The
trawl, yesterday, brought up a mass of weird-looking deep-sea creatures
which Racovitza is to-day stowing away in alcohol. In these storms it
is not prudent to venture outside over the pack. There are just now too
many large fissures covered by soft snow-bridges which are dangerous.
We have already had several cold baths by sliding through these soft
drifts, and a fatal accident might easily occur. With these perils in
view we do not risk going out on the pack for the usual recreation and
exploring excursions. The men, too, find it extremely difficult to
keep open a passage to embark. The drift is such that it requires the
constant efforts of one and sometimes of two men to dig a path. It is
irritating that the drifts are usually a few feet from the side of the
bark where they do not give the needed shelter, while the excellent
wall of snow which the men have placed around is again mostly melted
or settled to such an extent that it must all be done again. On board,
the naturalist has several mysterious creatures from the bottom of
the sea, under the microscope. The geologist is packing away the
stones picked from the new land a few months ago. The captain and the
commandant are laying out the chart of the discoveries and we are all
looking up the bibliography of everything antarctic.

April 30.--It is snowing and blowing still, but the temperature is
again falling. It is dark and gloomy and humid outside. We begin to
think that the sun, and the moon, and the stars have deserted us,
leaving us alone in a cold, howling wilderness. We saw a few white
petrels hovering over large lakes of inky waters, which the change in
our drift has made from the wide leads of a few days ago, but there is
no other life. It is now necessary to light our lamps at three o’clock
in the afternoon to do ordinary work about the vessel. I expect it
will not be long before it will be necessary to use candles during
our midday meal. To-night there is a sign of clearing in the whirling
cloud of snow which has driven about us so long. The moon is glowing
brightly in an inky sky. It is the first glimpse of a heavenly body in
nearly a week. The new moon has partly spent itself above the banks of
frosty clouds which, for weeks, have veiled the heavens. To-night it
comes to us with a ragged fringe on its upper surface, but we are glad
enough to get even that. The moon, like the sun, is sailing along the
northern sky from north-east to north-west about 30° above the horizon.
There is a bright band of green rays running through the moon to
the surface snows where the light expands and becomes diffused. Late
last night we observed a series of luminous clouds which, from their
quick movement, we took to be an aurora. But the position of the moon
to-night, together with a similar exhibition of luminous clouds in the
same position which we know to be brightened by lunar light, convinces
us that we have been mistaken.

By an observation at ten o’clock to-night our position is deduced to
be latitude 70° 43′ 30″, longitude 90° 30′ 45″. It is evident that we
have begun to drift rapidly on an easterly course. In five days we have
drifted northward seven miles and eastward nearly two degrees. (From
this time on, through the long night and far into the advancing day,
the trend of our drift was easterly, in response to prevailing westerly
winds.)

The months of March and April were, in many respects, the happiest
months of the year. Everything at this time was new to us. We found
interest in the weird cries of the penguins; we found pleasure and
recreation in hunting seals, and we prided ourselves on our ability
to wing petrels for specimens. Everything about the new life and the
strange, white world around us was fascinating. The weather at this
time was occasionally clear and cold, though generally stormy, which
was not the case during the greater part of the year. The pieces
of ice gathered into groups, and united to form larger fields. The
entire pack, one endless expanse of apparently motionless, but still
constantly moving, ice, was full of interest to us. The sun presented
a curious face in its rise and descent; and the colour effects, though
not gorgeous, were attractive for their simplicity of shades. The moon,
too, had a distorted face as it came out of the frosty mist resting
over the pack. The stars shone occasionally through their setting of
heavy blue with a sparkle like huge gems. At this season the aurora
australis displayed most of its rare glory on the southern skies.
We were drifting rapidly from one unknown sea to another still more
unknown. “Perhaps we are on the way to the south pole,” was an everyday
suggestion.

Our first and most important work in the pack was to study the strange
sea over which we drifted. This necessitated observations, not only of
the sea-ice and icebergs and the scant life about us on the ice and in
the water, but also of the composition of the water, its depth, the
temperatures at various depths, and the material of the sea-bottom.
It required also a careful study of the atmosphere. The heads of the
various scientific departments and their assistants were kept busy
for a part of the time making these studies. The sailors, in addition
to assisting with the scientific labour, were kept well engaged by
the ordinary routine work of the ship and the task of embanking the
vessel with snow to protect her from the expected cold of the coming
winter-long night.

By the end of April our ship was snugly arranged for her winter
imprisonment. A roof had been erected over the deck amidships, and
under it were an anvil and a fire for the use of the engineer while
making the necessary iron-work. The cabins were rearranged to offer the
greatest possible amount of heat, light, and freedom from humidity. A
floor was placed over the engine-room, and on it a small stove to heat
the officers’ quarters. The galley was put between decks next to the
forecastle, into which should go the superfluous heat. Double doors
and double windows were made everywhere, and all possible openings
where heat might escape were closed. Exteriorly, the sides of the ship
were banked by snow blocks, the decks were blanketed by the constantly
falling snow, and over it all the snow-charged winds drifted, making
a neat and perfect embankment. Our antarctic home, then, was imbedded
under a huge snowbank, on a field of ice which drifted with the winds
over the unknown antarctic seas.

[Illustration: The Ross Seal with Trachea Inflated.

(_Ommatophoca Rossi._)]

It was my delight to ascend to the masthead and from the crow’s nest
view our horizon day by day. The general aspect of our view changed
very little. Some new cracks formed in the ice, and old ones closed.
Some of the icebergs occasionally turned a little, showing a different
face, but no marked alteration was ever visible in the general
topography of the pack. Moving about as we were, there always seemed
to be a possibility of finding a speck of land, a rock, or something
new in our path; but this never happened. We saw no land during the
entire drift. Appearances of land were reported every few days, but
always proved deceptions. They were only illuminated clouds. Along the
edge of the field in which we were frozen were large ridges or pressure
lines, where the contact and pressure against neighbouring fields
raised fragments of ice above the surface. These ridges were from
three to fifteen feet in height. The field, usually about two miles in
diameter, was everywhere dotted by pyramidal and dome-shaped miniature
mountains, which arose above the surface from two to twenty feet. These
are technically called “hummocks.” Around the hummocks and along the
edge of the floe penguins and seals rested, sheltered from the wind.
Near the ship and about the outhouses the snow was thrown up in great
banks, dotted by black spots representing sledges, snowshoes, sleighs,
and general implements. As we emerged from the little hold on the port
side which was our only exit, a narrow path led out about one hundred
yards to a circular hole through the ice. Over this we had erected a
large tripod, from which we suspended the instruments for sounding and
fishing and recording deep-sea temperatures. About midway between this
and the ship, we built a box-shaped hut for nautical observations.
About one hundred yards from the stern of the ship, Mr. Danco contrived
a curiously shaped box for magnetic observations, and a little distance
beyond, upon a convenient hummock, were placed the meteorological
instruments. About two hundred yards off the port bow, a small house
had been put up to capture the electricity from the aurora australis.
Efforts were made to keep a path open to each of these houses, but the
work generally proved futile. The quantity of drift-snow was always so
great that it buried every path and every irregularity in the vessel’s
vicinity.

It was at no time possible to leave the ship without snowshoes of
some sort. The little exercise on the ice, which freedom from duties
permitted, was taken on the Norwegian snowshoe, the _ski_. For
mere pleasure-journeys these proved in every way superior to the
Canadian rackets and other patterns; but where it became necessary to
pull sledges or travel over rough paths, the other kinds were better.
We made several long journeys to neighbouring icebergs. Sometimes on
these journeys we met with serious obstructions and detentions. It
was not found practicable to carry food, extra clothing, or camping
equipments, and yet often the need of these became very great. The ice,
in separating, would leave large zones of water between us and the next
field, thus cutting off our retreat, and leaving us to spend hours of
meditation upon the prospect of starvation and of death by freezing.

May 1.--The day is fair with a light south-westerly wind at noon.
Low down on the northern sky the sun has been edging along the
pack, screened by flying banks of ice crystals, but it has given no
perceptible heat and only a feeble light. Hardly had the sun sunk under
the sea when a furious westerly gale swept over us, and drove snow into
every crack and opening of the _Belgica_. Leads have spread again,
and great lakes are pictured on the sky by smoky patches. We secured
five small and two king penguins and saw some seals and whales. Life
is always abundant when large continuous leads are open. There is so
much movement now among the individual floes, and so much pressure and
crushing about the ship that we believe it unsafe to venture out in
the dark for fear of stepping into one of the many new crevasses. For
the same reason we entertain some anxiety regarding the safety of our
outhouses and the implements scattered about on the ice. It is curious
that we should have such continued warm weather, and equally curious to
find the pack breaking up when the days are already far advanced in the
antarctic winter. The only explanation for this unexpected condition
of things is that we have drifted to a region close to the edge of the
pack.

There are many changes in our surroundings which seem to indicate our
nearness to open water. There is a noticeable swell which is shown by
the alternate advance and retreat of floes about the icebergs, and by
a total rise and fall of six inches of the sea-ice on the walls of the
icebergs. The time between each rise is from 24 to 32 seconds. The
evidence, then, of a wave under the ice is quite conclusive. Just how
far beyond the pack edge the swell can be made to penetrate will depend
very much upon the size of the floes and the amount of space between
them. From our present experience it seems likely that a northerly
storm is able to send an undulation at least fifty miles under a
loose pack and, perhaps, much farther. But there are other signs of
a nearness to an open sea. The floe into which the _Belgica_ is
frozen is getting noticeably smaller, and all of the other floes are
diminishing likewise. There is a great deal of brash, broken blocks,
and pulverised ice and snow, in the water. The icebergs turn and move
about, changing their relations to each other. New cracks and new
leads are daily appearing. The temperature is rising steadily instead
of falling, as it should with the retreat of the sun. The weather is
unsteady, and constantly changing, but always in such a way as to
indicate a nearness to an open sea. A month ago a storm had little
effect upon the ice, but now even light winds bring about a noticeable
commotion.

May 4.--At seven o’clock this morning Lecointe rushed out of his bunk
to get a glimpse of the stars, which broke through the high mist for
a short period. From this observation he calculates our position at
latitude 70° 33′ 30″, longitude 89° 22′. A sounding made at about the
same time gave a depth to the sea of 1150 metres. From this great
increase in depth we are still more convinced that we are going to the
edge of the pack, and off of the submarine bank over which we have
drifted since entering the main body of the ice. In nine days we have
drifted about seventeen miles northward, and eastward nearly three
degrees. We are going back to the east, and when the veil of darkness
rises, we shall perhaps find ourselves near the position where we
entered if, in the meantime, we are not forced out of the ice into
the open sea. To be compelled to leave the ice at present, much as we
should like it, would be quite dangerous. We have almost no daylight;
the weather outside of the ice would certainly be stormy and foggy.
How could we find our way in the darkness, among the certain dangers
of icebergs and unknown rocks, over the storm-swept seas to South
America at this time? Since the first the weather has grown colder; the
temperature has ranged from -5° to -18° C. We have occasional strips
of blue sky, with a cold sunburst, but in general the heavens have been
cheerless--still it is an agreeable change from the wet, dirty weather
which we had before.

May 10.--There are now constant complaints of the warm weather. A few
days ago the temperature rose a half of a degree above zero, and it has
remained about one degree under zero for several days. Such weather, in
the commencement of winter, when steady cold weather is expected, is
positively oppressive. Everybody is in a disgruntled spirit, because
everything is wet, and there is a never-ceasing howl of the storm. It
may seem unnatural that we should hate warm weather in this wilderness
of south polar ice, but it is followed by so much discomfort that we
are ever praying for steady frigid temperatures. In this warm weather
the ice is becoming more and more broken. Seals and whales are sporting
in the open channels, but penguins are rarely seen. There are a few
giant and brown petrels about, and great numbers of white petrels. We
have killed a few seals, and have removed from them their skins and
blubber for future use, but we have left the remainder of the carcasses
out on the floes. These have been claimed as prizes by the petrels. For
about ten days hundreds of birds have remained near us. They are mostly
white petrels, but there are also giant and brown petrels and a few
brown sea-gulls.

At noon there was just a slight suggestion of a sunburst, but it is
growing feebler and feebler. The beams of light come to us at such
an ineffective angle that our noonday is not now brighter than our
twilight of a month ago. The sun is constantly veiled by a bank of
frozen mist which prevents our seeing its departing splendour, but
there is an occasional break which offers us for a few seconds a view
of his fading face. It is sad, cold, and expressionless. The accustomed
heat is absent, and the light is a despairing gray glow which, on the
surface ice, makes long blue shadows. Still, despondent as this seems
in comparison to brighter days, it is the only source of direct light
and heat which we now have. It is the only show of seeming cheerfulness
in this gloomy world of blackness into which we are fast drifting.
This feeble burst of lost noonday splendour is the last draft of life
which now fans the fading cinders of the soul, while the death-dealing
darkness is doing its devilish work of extinguishment.

May 15.--Unless we get a clear sky sometime during the night, we shall
not be able to determine the exact commencement of the long night.
If our position is approximately where our dead reckoning places us,
we should have seen the sun for a few minutes at noon to-day for the
last time; but the sky was too hazy to give us this last peep. In the
south-east there is a dull, creamy light on the clouds, which suggests
the presence of a high country, reflecting an ice-blink. The west and
north, in the morning and afternoon, were marked by a dark, purple-blue
zone. At noon the light was so feeble that we could not see the outline
of the hummock on the pack.

Our floe, the sheet of ice into which the _Belgica_ is frozen,
now offers a sad appearance. It is cracked, torn, rasped, ground, and
so swept by thawing storms that the picturesque glory of its glowing
days has gone. And what is still more disheartening is that, torn and
fractured as the field is now, it no longer affords us a safe harbour,
free of crushing influences, as it did when all about was one solid
mass. The thick bed of soft spotless snow, which softened the sharp
edges and cushioned the rough irregularities, has been reduced to a
mere film through which the hard blue ice, with its savage roughness
and its gloomy skeleton-like projections, is clearly seen. The unique
velvety and wavy surface has given way to an ugly water-soaked plane
of hard ice. We have watched the field grow by the addition of one
floe after another, and we have steadily increased our comfort
upon its bosom. Our sense of safety has grown with the augumented
breadth and thickness. We have, to some extent, helped to harbour the
_Belgica_ by walls of snow; but Nature here has curious moods.
With one hand she protects, with the other she destroys,--she aided us
by drifting around the ship an enormous amount of snow, but she has
injured us by breaking that which sheltered us.

We have learned to regard this _Belgica_ field as a little polar
farm preserved for our special benefit, to harbour us safely through
the long night which is before us. It is a substitute for land, though
it drifts about with the wind, and on its edges we find products
in the form of seals and penguins. But this faith in security and
prospective rest in a solid unbroken crust has now vanished and at a
time when we most need it. Only a month ago the broadest diameter of
the field was four miles. About two weeks ago an assault began along
the outer edge of the north and south. Huge fragments were torn off,
bits of other fields were pushed on by neighbouring sheets. Little by
little our field has been reduced to less than half its former size;
but the _Belgica_ always escaped this battle of Nature until this
morning. Now the field is completely destroyed and the bark is again
among the pieces in the sea, taking hard thumps from the restless ice.
We are somewhat anxious about the safety of our outhouses. There are
several crevasses near Danco’s observatory. The captain’s “hotel,” from
which he sights the stars, is threatened by a crevasse under it, and
Arctowski has gathered up all his instruments and placed them aboard
for safe keeping. It is just these little black spots about the vessel
which add the suggestion of a village and a home to our otherwise dull
surroundings. (However, the threatened destruction did not proceed
beyond a lively scare. On the day following the ice came together,
the temperature fell, the fissures closed, and a heavy fall of snow
gave the _Belgica_ a soft feathery bed in which she rested until
relieved by our own hands.)

[Illustration: True Sea-Leopard.

(_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx._)]

[Illustration: True Sea-Leopard.

(_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx._)]

[Illustration: Crab-eater.

(_Lobodon Carcinophaga._)]

[Illustration: True Sea-Leopard.

(_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx._)]

[Illustration: Crab-eater.

(_Lobodon Carcinophaga._)]

[Illustration: False, or Weddell Sea-Leopard.

(_Leptonychotes Weddelli._)]

CHAPTER XXI

THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT--DEPARTURE OF THE SUN.

May 16.--The long night began at 12 o’clock last night. We did not know
this until this afternoon. At 4 o’clock Lecointe got an observation
by two stars which placed us in latitude 71° 34′ 30″, longitude 89°
10′. According to a careful calculation from these figures the captain
announces the melancholy news that there will be no more day--no more
sun for seventy days, if our position remains about the same. If we
drift north the night will be shorter, if south it will be longer.
Shortly before noon the long prayed-for southerly wind came, sweeping
from the pack the warm, black atmosphere, and replacing it with a
sharp air and a clearing sky. Exactly at noon we saw a brightening in
the north. We expected to see the sun by refraction, though we knew
it was actually below the horizon, but we were disappointed. The cold
whiteness of our earlier surroundings has now been succeeded by a
colder blackness. Even the long, bright twilight, which gladdened our
hearts on first entering the pack, has been reduced to but a fraction
of its earlier glory; this now takes the place of our departed day.

The winter and the darkness have slowly but steadily settled over us.
By such easy stages has the light departed that we have not, until
now, appreciated the awful effect. The circumstance has furnished a
subject for our conversation for most of the time which we now mis-name
day, and a large part of the sleeping hours of the night. It is not
difficult to read on the faces of my companions their thoughts and
their moody dispositions. We are all wandering northward--homeward,
with the fugitive sun. The curtain of blackness which has fallen over
the outer world of icy desolation has also descended upon the inner
world of our souls. Around the tables, in the laboratory, and in the
forecastle, men are sitting about sad and dejected, lost in dreams
of melancholy from which, now and then, one arouses with an empty
attempt at enthusiasm. For brief moments some try to break the spell by
jokes, told perhaps for the fiftieth time. Others grind out a cheerful
philosophy; but all efforts to infuse bright hopes fail.

Each man is intent on being left alone to take what comfort he can from
memories of happier days, though such effort usually leaves him more
hopelessly oppressed by the sense of utter desertion and loneliness.
For six weeks we have been so intent in prosecuting the various lines
of research and in preparing the bark, as well as our clothing and
equipment for the winter, that we have not with sufficient interest,
noticed the melancholy decline of the day. It has gone slowly, and the
persistent storms have so screened the heavens that it has vanished as
if by stealth. Now, however, the gloom of night which has so rapidly
followed its lengthening shadow, has suddenly impressed upon our
passive minds the awful individual loneliness, and the unfathomable
solitude of this impenetrable antarctic wilderness.

Henceforth, for a period which is a blank in human history, the
fair-haired goddess of light will repose beneath the polar star over
the more hopeful arctic lands. Her pathway is no longer over the
familiar hummocks and icebergs and the even spreads of this icy desert
under the Southern Cross. Her silvery tresses have swept for the last
time this sea of frozen wave; her departing breath has stilled, as by
the hand of death, the bosom of this great body of water upon which we
have cast our fortunes.

May 17.--At ten o’clock this morning the purple twilight curve
settled over the south-west, edged with an indescribable blending of
orange, red, and gold, and at eleven o’clock this curve was met by a
zone of rose which gradually ascended over the north-east, above the
sun. The ice, which had been gray, was lighted up by a lively flash
of pink, which was relieved by long river-like leads of open water
having a glowing surface of dark violet. These, however, were the
surface colours towards the sun. In the opposite direction there was
an entirely different effect. The snow had spread evenly over it a
delicate shade of green, while the waters were a very dark purple-blue.
A few minutes before twelve a great, distorted, ill-defined
semi-globular mass of fire rose over the north, edged along the line of
sharp hummocks, and then sank beneath the ice. It was an image of the
sun, lifted above its actual position by the refractive character of
the air, through which its light passed to our eyes. It was in reality
an optical illusion, based upon the principle that if a beam of light
is compelled to pass through a medium of various densities, as the air
here is sure to be, its course is deflected. The sun, then, though
actually below the horizon to-day, was raised by this apparent uplift
and we were able to see one-half of his face.

We have been fishing through the sounding hole to-day with hooks,
but our efforts proved disappointing. The hooks, when we raised the
complicated deep-sea apparatus, were missing. Either some submarine
monsters have taken the hooks or they have dragged on a rocky bottom.
The temperature at 9 A. M. was -12° C., and the weather shows
signs of clearing, though the wind is veering northerly.

It is remarkable how a little incident, especially one surrounded
by some mystery when brought suddenly into our horizon, will arouse
great excitement. This does not often happen, which accounts for the
air of lethargy and disinterestedness which is coming over us with
the increase of darkness. The weird outline of the dying face of the
setting sun a few days ago, and the premonitions of the seventy sunless
days through which we are now to pass, aroused a new sensation. The
extraordinary effects of the moon, vague lights and shadows on the
horizon, indicating the possible outline of a new land; an occasional
peak of a new iceberg coming into our plane of vision; the uncommon
changes of the auroras, of the weather, and the visit of a penguin or
a seal, all incite new life, but the inspiration is of short duration.
In a few hours the soul sinks again into its sleep which is induced by
the long night of months. This morning, however, there was an incident
which startled everybody in a manner quite unusual.

At about seven o’clock the captain went out to find two stars from
which to obtain an observation for position. The sky was too hazy to
give him an observation, but his eye rested upon an inexplicable speck
of light in the west. He stood and looked at it for some moments. It
did not change in position, but sparkled now and then like a star.
The thing came suddenly, disappeared and again reappeared in exactly
the same spot. It was so curious and assumed so much the nature of a
surprise, that Lecointe came into the cabin and announced the news.
We accused him of having had too early an eye-opener, but we went out
quickly to see the mystery. It was about eight o’clock; the sky was a
streaky mouse colour. The ice was gray, with a slight suggestion of
lilac in the high lights, but the entire outline of the pack was vague
under a very dark twilight. We looked for some time in the direction in
which Lecointe pointed, but we saw only a gloomy waste of ice, lined in
places by breaks in the pack from which oozed a black cloud of vapour.
We were not sure that the captain’s eyesight was not defective, and
began to blackguard him afresh.

After we had stood on the snow-decked bridge for ten minutes, shivering
and kicking about to keep our blood from freezing, we saw on a floe
some distance westward a light like that of a torch. It flickered,
rose and fell, as if carried by some moving object. We went forward to
find if anybody was missing--for we could only explain the thing by
imagining a man carrying a lantern. Everybody was found to be on board,
and then the excitement ran high. Soon all hands were on deck and all
seemed to think that the light was being moved towards us. Is it a
human being? Is it perhaps some one from an unknown south polar race of
people? For some minutes no one ventured out on the pack to meet the
strange messenger. We were, indeed, not sufficiently dressed for this
mission. Few had had breakfast; all were without mittens and hats, some
without coats, and others without trousers. If it were a diplomatic
visitor we were certainly in an uncomfortable and undignified uniform
with which to receive him. Amundsen, who was the biggest, the
strongest, the bravest, and generally the best dressed man for sudden
emergencies, slipped into his _annorak_, jumped on his _ski_
and skated rapidly over the gloomy blackness of the pack to the light.
He lingered about the spot a bit, and then returned without company and
without the light, looking somewhat sheepish. It proved to be a mass of
phosphorescent snow which had been newly charged by sea algæ, and was
occasionally raised and brushed by the pressure of the ice.

May 18.--During the few hours of midday dawn we made an excursion to
a favourite iceberg to view the last signs of the departing day. It
was a weird jaunt. I shall always remember the peculiar impression it
produced upon me. When we started almost all the party were outside,
standing about in groups of three or four, discussing the prospects of
the long winter night and the short glory of the scene about. A thing
sadder by far than the fleeing sun was the illness of our companion,
Lieutenant Danco, which was emphasised to us now by his absence from
all the groups, his malady confining him to the ship. We knew at this
time that he would never again see a sunrise, and we felt that perhaps
others might follow him. “Who will be here to greet the returning sun?”
was often asked.

My companions on the excursion were Gerlache and Amundsen. Slowly and
lazily we skated over the rough surface of the snow to the northward.
We had not gone far before we discovered that the ice was cracking
and large leads were cutting off our retreat. We mounted hummocks of
unusual height, and there awaited the imitation of the rising of the
sun. Where the ice broke it separated, leaving a lane of black sea,
from which oozed a peculiar vapour--in reality a cloud of small icy
crystals which fell on the neighbouring ice-fields. The countless
miniature mountains, or hummocks, which covered the white fields,
had their northern faces brightened by a pale yellow light and their
southern shadowed by a dull blue. This gave a little light to the usual
lifeless gray of the ice-fields. Along the fresh leads there were a few
penguins and an occasional seal, and in the water, whales were spouting
jets of breath.

The pack, with the strange play of deflected light upon it, the
subdued high lights, the softened shadows, the little speck of human
and wild life, and our good ship buried under its snows, should
have been interesting to us; but we were interested only in the sky
and in the northern portion of it. A few moments before twelve the
cream-coloured zone in the north brightened to an orange hue, and
precisely at noon half of the form of the sun ascended above the ice.
It was a misshapen, dull semicircle of gold, heatless, rayless, and
sad. It sank again in a few moments, leaving almost no colour and
nothing cheerful to remember through the seventy long days of darkness
which followed. We returned to the ship, and during the afternoon laid
out the plans for our midwinter occupation.

May 20.--It is the fifth day of the long night and it certainly seems
long, very long, since we have felt the heat of the sun. During the
parting days of light the weather was exceedingly unsteady, and the
sky was then constantly veiled by a frozen smoky vapour, but now a
disturbing element seems to have been withdrawn. The horizon is not
yet clear, but the zenith is almost always high and blue, with the
Southern Cross generally visible until nine o’clock in the morning
and after three o’clock in the afternoon. From eleven to one o’clock
at noon to-day there was light enough thrown over the northern ice
to read ordinary print outside, but in our rooms it is necessary to
burn lights continually. The little midday twilight is used to make
soundings and to secure the fauna and flora of the shallow sea under
us. Those not engaged in this work are busied in still more snugly
housing the _Belgica_ and in shoveling pathways around the ship. I
have selected this part of the day to take a daily walk over the pack
to neighbouring floes, and to distant icebergs, to study the ice and
the life, and to obtain sufficient physical exercise, as well as mental
recreation, to retard the spell of indifference which is falling over
me.

[Illustration: An Old Lead.]

[Illustration: A New Crevasse.]

For fifteen minutes before and after twelve o’clock the sky and the ice
are flooded by a wealth of fascinating colours. The northern sky is
such that one momentarily expects the sun to rise. Here are the warm
shades of red and yellow and on the snow, looking in this direction,
there is a noticeable flesh colour in which one sees fetching lines
of lilac. In the opposite direction there are some weird shades of
blue-black and a few dead sheets of gray-blue in shadowed surfaces,
in the caverns of bergs, and in the fissures, but the mixed shades of
green and purple and violet are also displayed with crystal purity. I
cannot describe this short spell of midday glory as it impresses me. If
I could wield a brush, and lay these colours on canvas I feel that one
of the ambitions of my life would be accomplished. But I cannot--and
what am I to do in black, with an overworked pen, frosty ink, and a
mind which is wearied as soon as the cheer of noonday passes?

To the first of May our health had been fairly good. We have had little
complaints and some insignificant injuries, bruises, cuts, strains, and
frost bites, but there has been little of which to make a medical note.
Since entering the pack our spirits have not improved. The quantity
of food which we have consumed, individually and collectively, has
steadily decreased and our relish for food has also slowly but steadily
failed. There was a time when each man enjoyed some special dish and by
distributing these favoured dishes at different times it was possible
to have some one gastronomically happy every day. But now we are tired
of everything. We despise all articles which come out of tin, and a
general dislike is the normal air of the _Belgica_. The cook is
entitled, through his efforts to please us, to kind consideration, but
the arrangement of the menu is condemned, and the entire food store is
used as a subject for bitter sarcasm. Everybody having any connection
with the selection or preparation of the food, past or present, is
heaped with some criticism. Some of this is merited, but most of it
is the natural outcome of our despairing isolation from accustomed
comforts.

I do not mean to say that we are more discontented than other men in
similar conditions. This part of the life of polar explorers is usually
suppressed in the narratives. An almost monotonous discontent occurs
in every expedition through the polar night. It is natural that this
should be so, for when men are compelled to see one another’s faces,
encounter the few good and the many bad traits of character for weeks,
months, and years, without any outer influence to direct the mind, they
are apt to remember only the rough edges which rub up against their own
bumps of misconduct. If we could only get away from each other for a
few hours at a time, we might learn to see a new side and take a fresh
interest in our comrades; but this is not possible. The truth is, that
we are at this moment as tired of each other’s company as we are of the
cold monotony of the black night and of the unpalatable sameness of our
food. Now and then we experience affectionate moody spells and then we
try to inspire each other with a sort of superficial effervescence of
good cheer, but such moods are short-lived. Physically, mentally, and
perhaps morally, then, we are depressed, and from my past experience in
the arctic I know that this depression will increase with the advance
of the night, and far into the increasing dawn of next summer.

The mental conditions have been indicated above. Physically we are
steadily losing strength, though our weight remains nearly the same,
with a slight increase in some. All seem puffy about the eyes and
ankles, and the muscles, which were hard earlier, are now soft, though
not reduced in size. We are pale, and the skin is unusually oily. The
hair grows rapidly, and the skin about the nails has a tendency to
creep over them, seemingly to protect them from the cold. The heart
action is failing in force and is decidedly irregular. Indeed, this
organ responds to the slightest stimulation in an alarming manner. If
we walk hurriedly around the ship the pulse rises to 110 beats, and if
we continue for fifteen minutes it intermits, and there is also some
difficulty of respiration. The observers, going only one hundred yards
to the observatories, come in almost breathless after their short run.
The usual pulse, too, is extremely changeable from day to day. Now
it is full, regular, and vigorous; again it is soft, intermittent and
feeble. In one case it was, yesterday, 43, to-day it is 98, but the man
complains of nothing and does his regular work. The sun seems to supply
an indescribable something which controls and steadies the heart. In
its absence it goes like an engine without a governor.

There is at present no one disabled, but there are many little
complaints. About half of the men complain of headaches and insomnia;
many are dizzy and uncomfortable about the head, and others are sleepy
at all times, though they sleep nine hours. All of the secretions
are reduced, from which it follows that digestion is difficult. Acid
dyspepsia and frequent gastric discomforts are often mentioned. There
are also rheumatic and neuralgic pains, muscular twitchings, and an
indefinite number of small complaints, but there is but one serious
case on hand. This is Danco. He has an old heart lesion, a leak of one
of the valves, which has been followed by an enlargement of the heart
and a thickening of its walls. In ordinary conditions, when there was
no need for an unusual physical or mental strain, and when liberal
fresh food and bright sunshine were at hand, he felt no defect. But
these conditions are now changed. The hypertrophied muscular tissue is
beginning to weaken, and atrophy of the heart is the result, dilating
and weakening with a sort of measured step, which, if it continues at
the present rate, will prove fatal within a month.

May 22.--It is clear and still. The temperature has fallen to -19° C.,
and altogether, though sunless, this sharp, cold weather at present is
more agreeable to us than the dull, stormy days with warmth and light a
month ago. It is Sunday, and we have nearly all been out for a jaunt on
_skis_. We took some photographs, but they are ugly, because there
is nothing distinct in the pictures. It is not possible to make good,
clear pictures except on bright moonlight nights or on sharp, sunny
days. It is the custom aft to go into the masthead and scan the horizon
for signs of life, before starting on our tours of recreation. In this
way we are reasonably sure to return with a penguin, a seal, or the
story of an adventure. To-day we saw a seal about a mile from the ship,
but when we got to it the animal started towards the _Belgica_.
We urged it on and drove it easily to our home. The creature looked
about with much curiosity when it came to the rough, dirty snow about
the bark, and searched diligently for a hole through which it might
plunge to the sea below. But no such hole or crevasse was within a
mile of us, for the calm cold of the past week has reunited all the
broken fragments into large fields. We threw a rope around the seal,
which was a crab-eater, intending to take its temperature and make
other physiological experiments, but the thing was too slippery and too
lively for us. Several instruments were broken, and some very strong
ropes were snapped like ordinary twine. Finally the seal was shot,
and its skeleton was prepared to enrich a Belgian museum of natural
history. There was to-night a bright aurora. It began as a straight
horizontal zone low on the southern sky. Later it changed to an
arc with the parts of two other arcs below it. A similar phenomenon
appeared last night.

May 27.--The little dusk at midday is fading more and more. A feeble
deflected light falls upon the elevations, the icebergs, and the
hummocks, offering a faint cheerfulness, but this soon withdraws and
leaves a film of blackness. The pack presents daily the same despondent
surface of gray which, by contrast to the white sparkle of some time
ago, makes our outlook even more melancholy. The weather is now quite
clear and in general more settled. The temperature ranges from 5° to
10° C. below zero. We have frequent falls of snow, but the quantity is
small and the period is short. Generally we are able to see the stars
from two in the afternoon until ten in the morning. During the four
hours of midday the sky is generally screened by a thick icy vapour.
There are a few white petrels about daily, and in the sounding hole we
have noticed a seal occasionally, but there is now no other life. All
have an abundance of work, but our ambition for regular occupation,
particularly anything which requires prolonged mental concentration,
is wanting; even the task of keeping up the log is too much. There is
nothing new to write about, nothing to excite fresh interest. There are
now no auroras, and no halos; everything on the frozen sea and over it
is sleeping the long sleep of the frigid night.

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.]

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED)--THE DEATH OF DANCO

The weather is unendurable, the temperature is -30° C. and an easterly
gale is burying us in a huge drift of snow. With a high wind, an air
thick with flying snow, and a temperature such as we have had for the
past three days, ranging from -28° to -30°, it is utterly impossible
to exist outside in the open blast. In calm weather such a temperature
causes delight, but in a storm it gives rise to despair. I think it is
Conan Doyle who says, “What companion is there like the great restless,
throbbing polar sea? What human mood is there which it does not match
and sympathise with?” I should like Mr. Doyle to spend one month with
us on this great, restless, throbbing sea, under this dense, restless,
throbbing blackness of the antarctic night. I am sure he would find
conditions to drive his pen, but where is the companionship of a sea
which with every heave brings a block of ice against your berth making
your only hope of life, the bark, tremble from end to end. Where is
the human being who will find sympathy in the howling winds under the
polar night?

For several days our beloved companion Danco has been failing. From
nearly the very first day of his sickness I saw that, coming upon
him as it had done in the dusk, it must prove fatal during the long
antarctic night. To pass through a polar night, with its prolonged
and awful cold, and remain well is a very difficult matter even for
a man with sound organs. One who has not these, and perfect health,
always fares badly in these sunless and lifeless polar days. Danco
has had, unconsciously, for years a serious heart defect. For a time
the heart walls increased in strength and thus a safe equilibrium was
established; but to keep an even or compensatory balance, mild exercise
was necessary in the open air with an abundance of sunlight. The sun
has now been entirely absent for more than a fortnight, and for forty
days its light has been of no physiological service. The atmosphere has
been so constantly filled with snow and ice-crystals that, at best, the
sun shone with less brilliancy than the moon, and that only for a few
moments at midday. During all of this time Danco has not felt well; his
manly courage, however, is such that he will not complain. But as the
darkness becomes blacker, and the frigid night advances he has been
compelled to surrender himself a candidate to the sick list.

June 4.--The ice is again breaking and the pressure of the floes, as
they ride over each other, makes a noise converting the otherwise dark
quietude into a howling scene of groans. It is again snowing and the
wind keeps veering from the north-west to north-east.

Whenever we have advanced on our mysterious drift with the restless
pack, either far east or far south, or both, we are arrested in
our progress and the temperature falls. In the east there is also
great pressure, and it is only in the far east or south that we get
easterly or southerly winds. These winds have the character of land
breezes--extremely dry, with a low temperature--followed by delightful,
clear weather. From these facts we must conclude that the east and
south are lined with land of large proportions or islands united by
ice. An easy wind south or west drives us quickly; indeed, at times we
drift northward without wind. The bergs now seem to press north and
east.

June 5.--To-day we have to record the darkest page in our log--the
death of our beloved comrade, Danco. It has not been unexpected, for
we have known that he could not recover, but the awful blank left by
his demise is keenly felt, and the sudden gloom of despair, thus thrown
over the entire party, is impossible of description. Poor fellow!
in the past forty-eight hours he had been steadily improving, and,
although we were not encouraged by this, he felt so much better that
he was cheerful and altogether more like his former self, but it was
the calm before the storm. Without any premonition of his coming death
Danco passed away easily to-night; his last words to me were, “I can
breathe lighter and will soon get strength.” A companion with noble
traits has left us. The event is too sad to note in detail. His life
has steadily and persistently sunk with the northerly setting of the
sun. In ordinary health, his circulation was so nicely balanced that it
needed but the unbalancing element of the prolonged darkness to disturb
the equilibrium, and send him to a premature grave.

June 7.--We have made a bag of sail-cloth, and into it the remains of
Danco have been sewn. This morning we searched the crevasses for an
opening which might serve as a grave. We found no place sufficiently
open, but with axes and chisels we cut an aperture through the young
ice in a recent lead, about one hundred yards from the bark. Owing to
the depressing effect upon the party, we found it necessary to place
the body outside on the ice upon a sledge the day after the death.
At a few minutes before noon to-day the commandant, followed by the
officers and scientific staff, came to this sledge. The crew, dressed
in an outer suit of duck, then marched out and, taking the drag rope,
they proceeded over the rough drifts southerly to the lead. The day
was bitterly cold, with a wind coming out of the south-west. Much snow
in fine crystals was driven through the air, and it pierced the skin
like needles. The surface of the ice was gray, but the sky had here and
there a touch of brightness. In the north there was a feeble metallic
glow, and directly overhead there were a few stratus of rose-coloured
clouds. The moon, fiery, with a ragged edge, hung low on the southern
sky. There was light enough to read ordinary print, but it was a weird
light. Danco was a favourite among the sailors, and his departure was
as keenly felt in the forecastle as among us. The men expressed this in
the funeral procession. Slowly but steadily they marched over the rough
surface of the ice with an air of inexpressible sadness. The sledge was
brought to the freezing water. Here the commandant made a few fitting
remarks, and then two heavy weights were attached to the feet, and the
body was entrusted to the frosted bosom of the antarctic ocean.

June 8.--The melancholy death, and the incidents of the melancholy
burial of Danco, have brought over us a spell of despondency which we
seem unable to conquer. I fear that this feeling will remain with us
for some time, and we can ill afford it. Though there are none among
us sick at this time, we may at any moment have small complaints which
will become serious under this death-dealing spell of despair. We
are constantly picturing to ourselves the form of our late companion
floating about in a standing position, with the weights to his feet,
under the frozen surface and perhaps under the _Belgica_.

June 10.--The temperature remains low. Yesterday it fell to -32° C.
(-25.6° F.), and it seems to linger about the twenties. The weather
is more and more settled and steady, as the night advances and the
cold increases. The wind is moderate, and it intermits with calm
periods, but the barometer is very high. There is little movement in
the ice; all the crevasses and leads are closed by new ice, and the
_Belgica’s_ berth is now positively secure for a long time to
come. The small floes, into which the ice was broken ten days ago,
have been pushed over and under each other in such a manner, that the
bark has been raised out of the water with an uncomfortable list. We
have seen no life for a long time, but there is no open water near. We
are inclined to believe that when there is a space of open sea there
will be found some life, even at this time.

[Illustration: Head and Foot of the Royal Penguin.

(_Aptenodytes Forsteri._)]

[Illustration: Head and Foot of the Small Pack Penguin. Showing
the Changed Summer Plumage under the Bill.

(_Pygosulis Adeliae._)]

It is the doctor’s birthday. We have had a special feast with
champagne. Many efforts were made to lighten the spirits of the men,
but our efforts were only of temporary duration. The captain has made
the greatest endeavour to break the spell of “shivers” which hung over
us. He fixed up in his full-dress suit, and induced the doctor to do
the same. In this costume we came to the dining table, and took the
cabin by surprise. After a half-hearted meal, a full-hearted exchange
of greetings followed a certificate of honour, presented by Captain
Lecointe.

DOCTOR COOK:

I make fast the occasion of your anniversary in order to exprime
all the sympathy you suggest to me.

In proof of that friendship, and because of that great day, I
take the engagement to repair one pair of your knit stockings.

Dixi,
G. LECOINTE.

Antarctic Ocean, S. Y. _Belgica_, June 10, 1898.

The amusement, however, was expensive to us, for we shivered and felt
most uncomfortable. We had not worn stiff collars nor boiled shirts in
seven months; nor had we the custom of arranging neckties and holding
our heads and bodies steady enough for the tight fit of our suits.
Lecointe made a nautical observation in the suit with an ordinary
winter overcoat. The temperature was about -20° C. The stars used
for the observation were Jupiter and Canis Majoris, and the position
as fixed was latitude 71° 20′ 7″, longitude 87° 17′ 50″. Lecointe
declared that he would never try the experiment again. He came to the
cabin shivering with a chill, which did not entirely pass off for some
minutes.

June 12.--The barometer still continues very high, but we are
momentarily expecting a reaction. Already the temperature has fallen
from -2° to -25° C., and it promises to fall still more. The west
is black, and out of its gloom comes a half-gale with wet snow.
The _Belgica_, feeling the effect of the sudden change in the
temperature, is alive with weird noises. The masts, the spars, the
ropes, and every projecting object have long been covered by a thick
encasement of accumulating hoar-frost. Heavy pieces of this ice-plating
are loosened by the warm draught of the winds and they fall to the
decks below with thunderous bolts. The bark changes its position in
its bed of ice somewhat like its occupants in their bunks, and this is
followed by a long series of jars and groans. Altogether, the noise
outside and in is maddening. We hope for a speedy return of cold
weather to our favourite temperature somewhat below -20° C.

June 16.--No wind; a few cirrus and stratus clouds; the stars at
zenith are visible at noon. The Southern Cross over the mizzenmast is
arrayed in all its glory. The sun has only five minutes more to recede
before it reaches the equinox, and then it will come back slowly and
perceptibly, with its life-giving rays. We are drifting eastward, but
there is no sign of movement in the ice,--no cracks, no leads, no lakes.

June 17.--We are still drifting eastward, slowly but steadily, which
fact suggests several questions: Is there land to the eastward or
southward? If so, what is its character? If not, why are the easterly
and southerly winds cold and dry, and why are we checked in our
drift, after passing far eastward or southward? There are but two
explanations. First: It is possible that we are far off a continuous
coast line, or nearly so, in which case the ice near the land, with a
westerly wind, would be forced toward the point of least resistance,
which would generally be north. This would explain what we have often
noticed, a northerly drift with a westerly wind. But even with our
checked progress we seem to move eastward too quickly for such a
condition of things. The next probability seems to explain better our
actual experience. The second explanation is, that the easterly drift
of the ice is only checked by a few widely separated islands through
which the pack is forced into the Weddell sea by the prevailing wind.
When the sun returns, and the ice loosens its grasp on our bark, we
hope to clear up this mystery.

We are having considerable trouble in keeping our stoves burning.
With the use of soft coal it is necessary to disturb the fire often,
which makes the air unendurable because of the escape of poisonous
gases, while it also fills the room with smoke and soot and ashes.
The moisture which leaves the room through the stove draughts is
condensed in the pipes and mixed with soot; the whole mass freezes,
which occludes the opening of the pipe. To remove this obstruction
it is necessary to take out the pipes once weekly and clean them, an
operation of no little consequence in polar regions. This is the second
expedition with which I have been connected where we have had the same
trouble. It would be entirely overcome by the use of anthracite coal
for the winter fires, instead of the bituminous, with its unnecessary
filth.

Mr. Peary has tried to overcome this by a substitution of oil stoves,
but such a procedure, in my judgment, is not only accompanied by a
polluted atmosphere causing headaches, insomnia, and difficulty of
respiration, but it is quite dangerous to life. A coal fire removes
from a room most of its poisonous gases and keeps up a free circulation
of air, but an oil stove does just the reverse. An oil or a gas stove
consumes air in a somewhat similar manner to man. It burns oxygen and
gives off carbon dioxide and other gases. An ordinary oil stove will
consume as much oxygen as fifteen men, and it does not replace the
polluted air, as does a coal or wood fire. There is another point,
which has been too little regarded in polar ventures. During the
long months of winter darkness the life-giving rays of the sun are
withdrawn, leaving the summer whiteness of the earth in cold and
despondent blackness. Bright artificial lights relieve this to some
extent, but all the animal organism is in a condition similar to that
of a planet deprived of the direct sunlight. The skin is pale, the
muscles are weak, and the organs refuse to perform their functions with
usual vigour. This effect is most noticeable in the action of the heart
which, during the long night, is deprived of its regulating force;
now quick, now slow; then strong, again feeble, but never normal. The
best substitute for this absence of the sun is the direct rays of heat
from an open fire. From an ordinary coal or wood fire the effect is
wonderful. I have stripped and placed men, before the direct rays of
heat, whose pulse was almost imperceptible, and in the course of less
than an hour had a heart action nearly normal. From an oil stove it is
quite impossible to get this effect, hence its use in polar regions
should be confined to camp life.

The selection of proper means for obtaining artificial light is quite
as important as that of heat. Electric light is ideal, but the means
for obtaining electricity are not easily transported. Candles are
said to be the safest and best for general use; but the illumination
of a single candle is so feeble that each man must have one or more
in general use. From this it results that candles are posted in all
parts of the rooms,--in the bunks and other nooks where a conflagration
might easily originate. Hence the danger of a fire by candles is quite
as great as that of petroleum lamps, while the light is far inferior
to it. A good petroleum lamp is undoubtedly the most practical. But
even a petroleum lamp has its drawbacks in polar regions. On the
_Belgica_ we had several, and about fifty glass chimneys, all of
which were broken during the past few weeks of the antarctic night. We
were then bound to utilise the ingenuity of the mechanics on board to
make substitutes. The geologist, who is a chemist by profession, made
the first trial with glass tubes; this was better than nothing, but
the assistant engineer next took the matter in hand, and after a time
became quite a lamp specialist. He altered the construction of the
lamp and of the burner; made chimneys of glass jelly jars, removing
the bottom and placing over all a zinc funnel. On the whole it was a
very happy contrivance, and while it was not quite perfect it served
the purpose for which it was intended, during the balance of the black
night.

June 19.--A midwinter and a midnight thaw, with the ice breaking and
pressing upon the vessel, is the most dreadful thing which could happen
to us now. But it is just this most despairing condition of ice and
weather which is threatening us in these darkest days of the midnight.
The temperature and the wind for three days have suddenly risen. It is
now blowing a gale from the west. The temperature is -2°; the ice is
breaking and separating, leaving wide endless leads running northward
and southward. Between the gloomy clouds northward there is a faint
suggestion of brightness, but this only seems to increase our longing
for light. It is dark! dark! Dark at noon, dark at midnight, dark
every hour of the day. And thus we jog along day after day, through
the unbroken sameness. There is plenty of work close at hand. The
weather should be carefully studied; the sky and the frozen sea contain
problems for solution. We are in a world unknown, but just at present
we care little about our novel position or our future rewards.

The darkness grows daily a little deeper, and the night soaks hourly
a little more colour from our blood. Our gait is now careless, the
step non-elastic, the foothold uncertain. The hair grows quickly, like
plants in a hot-house, but there is a great change in the colour. Most
of us in the cabin have grown decidedly gray within two months, though
few are over thirty. Our faces are drawn, and there is an absence of
jest and cheer and hope in our make-up which, in itself, is one of the
saddest incidents in our existence. There is no one willing to openly
confess the force of the night upon himself, but the novelty of life
has been worn out and the cold, dark outside world is incapable of
introducing anything new. The moonlight comes and goes alike, during
the hours of midday as at midnight. The stars glisten over the gloomy
snows. We miss the usual poetry and adventure of home winter nights.
We miss the flushed maidens, the jingling bells, the spirited horses,
the inns, the crackling blaze of the country fire. We miss much of life
which makes it worth the trouble of existence.

At noon some of us went on a _ski_ journey, and about a mile
south-east of the ship we were stopped by a wide lead of inky water,
extending north and south as far as the sight could reach. The
darkness was such that we dared not approach closely to the open sea.
We were anxious to search the fringe of ice bordering on the gloomy
water for animal life, and discussed the possibilities for some time,
but the thickening veil of darkness drew over us tighter and tighter
as we waited. Looking toward the _Belgica_ we saw that she was
already nearly obscured by the sooty blackness, which was falling
from the noonday heavens. Looking over the silent and endless sea of
ice, however, the aspect was not one of night. A subdued glow seemed
to rise from the white snows and illuminate the lower stratas of air;
but this was only apparent. Nearly all irregularities were obscured or
distorted. Huge hummocks, ten to twenty feet high, were not observed
until we stumbled against them. Small elevations, with sharp angles,
sometimes produced a mirage like that of an iceberg at a great
distance. We would glide along leisurely on _ski_ and suddenly
find that we had crossed this huge obstacle,--in reality only a few
inches in height.

For the past month we have not felt like writing. Our humour and our
ambition are not such as to make us transfer ideas to paper easily. If
I could write poetry I should like to select the topics of conversation
as subjects for gloomy moods,--for we certainly painted the skies
darker, and made the snow blacker, than they ever appeared in reality.
We made a feeble attempt to lift the gloomy seal, now and then, by a
superficial humour,--a sort of frothy effervescence of the soul, but
the efforts were as feeble as our anaemic muscular fibres. The long
polar night lies heavily upon us. Our health has suffered considerably.
We have not been so fortunate as Nansen’s party, if we may accept
Nansen’s account of the health of his crew at the dawn of the arctic
day. With a few boastful remarks he passes over the physical effects
of the arctic night, and concludes to his own elation that they felt
none of the usual complaints; but since it is reported that one of
the best men has returned mentally deranged, of which Nansen leaves
us in ignorance, we may infer that other matters have also slipped
his memory. It is not possible for an expedition, with twelve men, to
live three years in the arctic or any other region without some bodily
ailments. These are as certain as human sins, and quite as interesting,
but we look for them in vain in Nansen’s narrative. Perhaps Dr.
Blessing or some other member of the expedition will give us a more
serious account.

In my experience with polar expeditions, and from every reliable record
which I have been able to find where the observations have been given
by honest and competent observers, there is a general agreement in
the description of the physical effects of the polar night. Anaemia,
or a condition allied to it, in one form or another and under various
descriptions is always found if sought by an experienced eye. This
malady we have had in by far the severest form which I have noticed
in any arctic experiences, and more severe than is recorded in the
literature of polar exploration. We have lost one officer, and a
second barely escaped death. The marines are all afflicted; the
condition is truly alarming. At present I have the captain in the
“baking treatment.” He is pale and yellowish, with a feeble, almost
imperceptible, pulse of from 100 to 140,--his recovery, while hopeful,
is uncertain.

[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]

[Illustration: Megalestris. (_Megalestris antarctica._)]

[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]

[Illustration: Megalestris. (_Megalestris antarctica._)]

[Illustration: Antarctic Petrel. (_Thalassoica antarctica._)]

[Illustration: Giant Petrel. (_Ossifraga gigantea._)]

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT (CONTINUED). MIDNIGHT TO DAWN

June 22.--It is midnight and midwinter. Thirty-five long, dayless
nights have passed. An equal number of dreary, cheerless days must
elapse before we again see the glowing orb, the star of day. The sun
has reached its greatest northern declination. We have thus passed the
antarctic midnight. The winter solstice is to us the meridian day, the
zenith of the night as much so as twelve o’clock is the meridian hour
to those who dwell in the more favoured lands, in the temperate and
tropical zones, where there is a regular day and night three hundred
and sixty-five times in the yearly cycle. Yesterday was the darkest
day of the night; a more dismal sky and a more depressing scene could
not be imagined, but to-day the outlook is a little brighter. The
sky is lined with a few touches of orange, the frozen sea of black
snow is made more cheerful by the high lights, with a sort of dull
phosphorescent glimmer of the projecting peaks of ice. The temperature
has suddenly fallen to -27.5° C. at noon, and the wind is coming out of
the south with an easy force which has sent all the floating humidity
of the past few days down, leaving an air clear and sharp. There will
be an eclipse of one of the satellites of Jupiter this afternoon, and
from an observation of this phenomenon the industrious captain expects
to regulate our chronometers. He hopes also to get a good observation
to fix our position, for we are somewhat anxious to know just where we
are in this unknown world during the important days of the midnight.

June 24.--For the past three days we have had steady cold weather with
a temperature from -15° to -28° C. (-18.4° F.), and every night we
have also had a brilliant aurora in the usual position, at about the
usual hour. Auroras have been conspicuously absent from our skies for
nearly two months. There was a feeble display on May twenty-ninth, and
possibly a few faint exhibits have evaded our notice, but since the
end of April there has been no auroral phenomenon which has attracted
general interest. With this clear weather there is a noticeable
brightness at noon. To-day the northern sky has a tinge of orange-red,
limited by a band of green with a bit of the moon over it. Overhead we
can see the Cross and other stars of the same magnitude. Our position,
as calculated yesterday, is now far east, latitude 70° 47′ 45″,
longitude 83° 43′ 45″. A sounding at this point would be interesting.
For this purpose we have tried to cut a new hole through the ice. The
old opening was closed by the disturbance and pressure of a fortnight
ago, and since we have not been able to make another, but to-day we
are desperately at work, chopping and cutting ice for a fishing
and sounding hole. Having found that the canvas suits are entirely
inadequate to retain the bodily heat, we are also trying to devise some
more effective clothing.

[Illustration: Nansen, the Mascot. _Drawn by Koren, the Cabin
Boy._]

June 26.--It is Sunday; the weather is warm, wet, and too stormy
to permit our usual Sabbath excursions. We are playing cards and
grinding the music-boxes, and trying in various ways to throw off the
increasing gloom of the night; but something has happened which has
added another cloud to the hell of blackness which enshrouds us. One
of the sailors brought with him from Europe a beautiful young kitten.
This kitten has been named “Nansen,” and it has steadily grown into
our affections. “Nansen” was at home alike in the forecastle and in
the cabin, but with characteristic good sense he did not venture out
on exploring trips. A temperature thirty degrees below zero was not to
his liking; the quarters about the stove and the bed of a favourite
sailor were his choice. Since the commencement of the long darkness
he has been ill at ease, but previously he was happy and contented,
and glad to be petted and loved by everybody. The long night, however,
brought out all the bad qualities of his ancestors. For nearly a month
he has been in a kind of stupour, eating very little and sleeping
much. If we tried to arouse him he displayed considerable anger. We
have brought in a penguin occasionally to try to infuse new ambitions
and a new friendship in the cat, but both the penguin and the cat
were contented to take to opposite corners of the room. Altogether
“Nansen” seemed thoroughly disgusted with his surroundings and his
associates, and lately he has sought exclusion in unfrequented corners.
His temperament has changed from the good and lively creature to one
of growling discontent. His mind has wandered and from his changed
spiritual attitude we believe that his soul has wandered too. A day or
two ago his life departed, we presume for more congenial regions. We
are glad that his torture is ended, but we miss “Nansen” very much. He
has been the attribute to our good fortune to the present, the only
speck of sentimental life within reach. We have showered upon him our
affections, but the long darkness has made him turn against us. In the
future we shall be without a mascot and what will be our fate?

June 29.--Since my last writing there has been nothing to mark time or
disturb the gloom of the long black monotony. The temperature has been
high with its usual accompaniment of stormy discomfort. Yesterday and
the day before the thermometer rose to zero and everybody accordingly
rose to a spirit of discontent. Such disaffections are always heaped
upon the meteorologist who is blamed for all the freaks of the weather,
but he receives no credit for the blessings of the steady cold weather
which we like.

[Illustration: Amundsen After a _Ski_ Run.]

July 4.--It is the day of the Declaration of Independence of the United
States. With characteristic Belgian thoughtfulness the Commandant has
ordered a special feast and has sent up the Stars and Stripes to float
over the _Belgica_ to be waved by the virgin antarctic breezes.
America and American affairs are the topics around which our ideas
revolve to-day. It is curious to watch our thoughts wheel around the
incidents of current events. The beauty contest in April was succeeded
by heated discussions and sentimental philosophy for several weeks.
This was followed by the serious sentiments caused by the last sight of
the sun and the death of Danco. Then followed a lot of light talk about
“Nansen,” the cat, and his future. Has he a soul and is there a Heaven
for him? To-day we are building up a United States of Europe, and are
dreaming of annexing Canada and all of South America into one grand
Union of States.

There is a strong, steady, westerly wind charged with great quantities
of drift snow. The ice is separating, leaving wide, endless, ice-free
leads running north and south. In these we have seen a few finback
whales, spouting, and sporting, and courting, in the midday twilight.
The increasing light at noon is now very evident. From 10 A. M. to
2 P. M. on bright days it is clear enough to make _ski_ runs over
the pack, without tumbling over the many hummocks which a week ago
were invisible. Though the curtain of night is lifting, the men,
when carefully examined, show an alarming physical condition. Almost
everybody when questioned vows that he feels well, complaining only of
a lack of ambition, but the actual condition is otherwise. We are pale
and green about the facial folds. A slight exercise makes us gasp for
breath, and the heart runs at an alarming speed. We now make it a rule
to take an hour’s walk outside in a path about the bark, and during
these walks the men easily freeze parts of the face, the fingers and
toes, without knowing it. The reason for this is the blunted condition
of our senses and the enfeebled circulation, with imperfect blood.

July 8.--The temperature is again falling; to-day it is -30° C.
(-22° F.). All of the leads and open spaces of water of a few days
ago are covered with ice thick enough to travel over without fear of
breaking through. In this new ice there are small holes about two
inches in diameter. Along the edge of these holes is a ring of silvery
hoar-frost, and out of it there comes a jet of vapour every few
minutes. These are the blow-holes of seals, and the puff of vapour is
the expired air of the animals as they breathe. We have been anxious to
see these seals, for we have seen none since sunset, more than fifty
days ago. They must have come southward from the outer edges of the
pack, through the open leads a few days ago. In travelling over the
new ice we found a place to-night where the new ice had been broken,
and out of it came one seal after another, until about twenty had
mounted to the surface of the old ice. They all marched towards us,
and when within fifteen feet they stopped, sniffed the air, grunted,
showed their teeth, and then sought for a comfortable place to
sleep. Evidently our odour was not to their liking, for they ignored
our presence until we attacked them a half hour later. We killed
three, and surrounded two with the intention of driving them to the
_Belgica_. After a long chase over a tortuous path we brought the
animals to the side of the bark, and there examined them scientifically
and gastronomically at our leisure.

[Illustration: The _Belgica_ in September. The New Tent and
the Pack Travelling Outfit.]

June 10.--It is a bright, calm day, with a gentle air from the south
and a temperature of -30° C. The men are scattered over the pack in
little cliques. The Norwegians are quite separated from the Belgians,
and all are on _ski_. Some are aiming for a favourite nook
where there is a prospect of finding seals or penguins; others are
striking out for a hummock eastward, which offers a splendid slope for
_ski_ exercises. We of the cabin have formed a small party to make
the first long journey. There is an iceberg about two miles westward
which had been the favourite spot for _ski_ sport in the early
winter, and we are anxious to see what effect the winter has wrought
upon this berg.

We had no serious difficulty in reaching the berg; the ice was much
crevassed, and about the leads were great lines of hummocks which
made _ski_ travelling a task; but we were unencumbered and had
become somewhat accustomed to rough roads. We started shortly after
one o’clock. It took us an hour to reach our destination, and we spent
about forty minutes on the berg and about it, but then, noticing
that the light was quickly departing, we hurried home. The winter
effect upon the berg had been considerable. The pack-ice about it had
been much broken and raised in numerous hummocks by pressure. To the
westward side a great quantity of ice had been forced upon the berg
to a height of twenty feet, indicating what we had expected, that
the prevailing pressure during the night had been from the west. The
old crevasses were mostly closed, and the sharp, projecting spires
were coated with great quantities of coarse hoar-frost. There was no
evidence about the berg to warrant a belief in an upbuilding of bergs
during the winter. On the contrary the signs were indicative of their
having been considerably reduced in bulk. On our way back we secured
one king penguin, the first during the night, and it will be a pleasant
addition to our larder.

July 12.--The light is daily increasing at midday, which should be a
potent encouragement, but we are failing in fortitude and in physical
force. From day to day we all complain of a general enfeeblement of
strength, of insufficient heart action, of a mental lethargy, and
of a universal feeling of discomfort. There has, however, been one
exception; one among us who has not fallen into the habit of being a
chronic complainer. This is Captain Lecointe. The captain has had to
do the most trying work, that of making the nautical observations,
which often keeps him handling delicate instruments outside, and in
trying positions in the open blast for an hour at a time. He has come
in with frosted fingers, frozen ears, and stiffened feet, but with
characteristic good humour he has passed these discomforts off. His
heart action has steadily remained full and regular. The only other
man in the party of equal strength is the cook, Michotte. But to-day I
have to record the saddening news that Lecointe is suddenly failing.
Not that he has complained of any ill-feeling, for he still maintains
that he feels well; but in the usual daily examination, I notice that
his pulse is intermitting, the first sign of coming debility. He is
assuming a deathly pallor, does not eat, and finds it difficult to
either sleep or breathe. There is a puffiness under the eyes, his
ankles are swollen, and the entire skin has a dry, glossy appearance.
The symptoms are all similar to those of Danco in his last stages; but
Lecointe has a steady heart and sound organs, which augur in his favour.

July 14.--Lecointe has given up all hope of ever recovering, and has
made out his last instructions. His case seems almost hopeless to me.
The unfavourable prognosis has sent another wave of despair over the
entire party. Almost everybody is alarmed and coming to me for medical
treatment, for real or imaginary troubles. The complaints differ
considerably, but the underlying cause is the same in all. We are
developing a form of anæmia peculiar to the polar regions. An anæmia
which I had noticed before among the members of the first Peary Arctic
Expedition, but our conditions are much more serious. To overcome this
trouble I have devised a plan of action, which the sailors call the
“baking treatment.”

Medicament, I find, is of little service. A temporary relief is
sometimes effected by well-directed drugs, but the lasting effects
are disappointing. Iron and arsenic, and many of the ordinary tonics
effective in home anæmias, are entirely inert. After considerable
experiment, I have abandoned drugs as an important aid. Fresh food,
artificial heat, a buoyant humour, judicious clothing, and the
least possible humidity are the conditions which suggest a rational
treatment. I should like to take up this subject in detail and give
my reasons for this plan of treatment, but the discussions would take
us into a long and technical consideration, which I fear would be
of interest only to medical men. The plan of treatment in brief is
as follows: As soon as the pulse becomes irregular and rises to one
hundred beats per minute, with a puffiness of the eyes and swollen
ankles, the man is stripped and placed close to a fire for one hour
each day. I prohibit all food except milk, cranberry sauce, and fresh
meat, either penguin or seal steaks fried in oleomargarine. The patient
is not allowed to do anything which will seriously tax the heart. His
bedding is dried daily, and his clothing is carefully adjusted to
the needs of his occupation. Laxatives are generally necessary, and
vegetable bitters, with mineral acids, are a decided help. Strychnine
is the only remedy which has given me any service in regulating the
heart, and this I have used as a routine. But surely one of the most
important things was to raise the patient’s hopes and instil a spirit
of good humour. When at all seriously afflicted, the men felt that they
would surely die, and to combat this spirit of abject hopelessness
was my most difficult task. My comrades, however, were excellent
aids, for as soon as one of our number was down, everybody made it his
business to create an air of good cheer about him.

[Illustration:

OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.

Twilight Amid The Antarctic Ice]

The first upon whom I tried this system of treatment systematically was
Lecointe. I had urged part of it upon Danco, but he could not eat the
penguin, and when I told him he must, he said he would rather die. When
Lecointe came under treatment I told him that if he would follow the
treatment carefully I thought he would be out of bed in a week. I did
not have this faith in the treatment at that time, but I had confidence
in the soundness of Lecointe’s organs and I wished to boom up the man.
Lecointe replied by saying, “I will sit on the stove for a month and
eat penguins for the rest of my polar life if that will do me good.”
(He did sit beside the stove two hours daily for a month, and he ate,
by his own choosing, penguin steaks for the balance of his stay in the
polar circle. In a week he was about, and in a fortnight he again made
his observations, and for the rest of his polar existence he was again
one of the strongest men on the _Belgica_).

For a number of days the temperature has remained below -30° C.
Yesterday and to-day it has ranged from -34° to -37° C., with a strong
southerly and westerly wind. With such temperatures and a strong wind
it is impossible to exist outside. One freezes the extremities so
quickly that it is positively dangerous to be out; but in still weather
there is no temperature too low to prevent outdoor work. To-day the
ice is separating, leaving leads running eastward and westward, but for
a week past the entire horizon has been one solid, unbroken mass. There
is no life visible, but we have seen tracks of both the royal and the
small penguins.

July 15.--The weather continues cold, but clear and calm, the only
three qualities which make the antarctic climate endurable during
the night. There is now much light. One can read ordinary print at
9 A.M., and at noon the north is flushed with a glory of
green and orange and yellow. We are still very feeble. An exercise of
one hour sends the pulse up to 130, but we have all learned to like
and crave penguin meat. To sleep is our most difficult task, and to
avoid work is the mission of everybody. Arctowski says, “We are in a
mad-house,” and our humour points that way.

July 17.--If we had not fresh meat to eat and an abundance of fuel to
give heat, I am sure we would have an alarming mortality in less than a
month. Several lives have certainly been saved by eating penguins, and
we shall always owe them a debt of gratitude. And now the sun though
invisible is rising higher and higher under the horizon, giving us a
long dawn from nine until three o’clock. Everybody is advancing in
cheerfulness with the rising sun, but physically we are in a deplorable
condition. Alcohol, even in small quantities, has now a deleterious
effect upon us. We have been accustomed to take light wines at meals,
but the wine has a bad effect upon the heart and kidney functions, so
much so that we have stopped its use altogether.

July 19.--The health of the sailors is at its minimum. All are anæmic,
but their general appearance is as good as at any previous time. They
look strong and rugged, and have not lost weight; but their complexion
is somewhat pale and yellowish. When they work outside for an hour the
pulse runs up to from 120 to 150. In the cabin we are improving, but
the Commandant, Arctowski, and Amundsen are making a slow recovery.
On our excursions we now see many seal and penguin tracks, and the
northern sky gives every promise of soon sending forth the sun. The
shades of dawn are first green, then orange-red, followed by a bright
yellow, so bright that one almost imagines a sight of the upper rim
of the sun. The ice for days has been intensely purple. We have had
a few feeble auroras during the past two nights, beginning at about
three o’clock and lasting for only a short time. The sky is losing its
bright, cheerful and restful blueness, which it has exhibited during
the past fortnight of cold and comparative calm. A thin veil of gray is
gathering over us, which presages another spell of warm, stormy, and
dirty weather. The barometer is very high, the temperature is falling,
and to-night there is a wind from the north. All of this, as usual, is
an introduction to a wind from a warmer and more humid region,--the
north and west.

July 21.--Yesterday the temperature was but one degree below zero, and
for two days the weather has been warm and stormy. To-day it is again
-24° C. A beautiful, clear and cloudless day-- with a cheerful glow
of reflected splendour radiating over the northern horizon. At eight
o’clock the sky above the sun was a joyous golden; at noon it was
crimson. We have not had an observation in twelve days, and are thus
unable to determine our exact position; hence it will be impossible to
calculate with precision the day of the rising of the sun, after its
long and wandering debauch. We saw two white petrels, the first except
one which we saw two weeks ago, since the first days of the night.
There are no open leads or bands of water-sky.

Three days have been declared as official holidays. It is the time for
the Belgian national feasts, and we are making, during this period,
hard efforts to boom up the failing spirits of the men. Special foods
have been prepared to please the palates; wines are sparingly served
to infuse an air of good cheer, and we try to steer the topics of
conversation in such a manner that a new interest may be created, but
it seems to me that all of our good intentions in this direction are
wasted. Arctowski and Dobrowolski are in a bad way. Knudsen, Johansen
and Melaerts are in the baking treatment, and altogether we are in a
deplorable condition. If it now became necessary to throw suddenly a
difficult physical task upon the men there would be few able to endure
it. If we were compelled to make a prolonged march over the cheerless
pack we should fail miserably. In the cabin we know this helpless
condition perfectly well, but we try to push it to the background and
talk of the usual home sentiments of the feast, the coming sun, and
the brighter prospects of a coming summer campaign of exploration.
The sailors, always anxious for a holiday, though their work is never
severe, are assembled in groups, some in the forecastle playing cards,
others scattered over the pack on snowshoes drinking in the glory of
the coming day.

[Illustration: A Hunter Taking a Sun Bath.]

[Illustration: The Last to Enter the Three-Man Sleeping Bag.]

The night is clear and sharp, with a brightness in the sky and a
blueness on the ice which we have not seen since the first few days
after sunset. An aurora of unusual brightness is arched across the
southern sky. The transformation in its figure is rapid, and the wavy
movement is strikingly noticeable. We are all out looking at the
aurora, some by way of curiosity, but others are seriously studying
the phenomenon. Arctowski, bundled in a wealth of Siberian furs, is
walking up and down the deck, ascending to the bridge and passing
in and out of the laboratory, as if some great event were about to
transpire. Racovitza, with a pencil in his bare hand, in torn trousers,
and without a coat or a hat, comes out every few minutes and, with a
shiver, returns to make serious sketches of the aurora and humorous
drafts of the unfortunate workers in the “cold, lady-less south.”
These daily touches of humour by “Raco” are bitterly sarcastic but
extremely amusing. Lecointe, lost in a Nansen suit of furs, has been
out on the pack in his observatory, which he calls the “Hotel,” and is
particularly elated because he has succeeded in getting an observation.
“Now,” says he, “we will know when this bloody sun will rise.” Our
position is latitude 70° 36′ 19″, longitude 86° 34′ 19″. We are
drifting northward and eastward; this we have already learned by the
naturalist’s drag-nets, but it is comforting to know the exact rate of
drift. If we continue to drift northerly a little, if the temperature
remains low enough to give a great refraction, and if the weather
remains clear, the captain promises us a peep of the sun for a few
moments to-morrow. This is the happiest bit of news which has come to
us, and it sends a thrill of joy from the cabin to the forecastle.

[Illustration:

H. Arctowski. G. Lecointe.

The Four O’Clock Tea Discussions.]

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.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SPRING (CONTINUED)--RETURN OF LIGHT--A SLEDGE JOURNEY

The morning of July thirty-first opened with a golden glow northward,
and a fair but cold wind, driving the hard crystals of snow over the
crust with a metallic ring. The weather for several days had not
been promising, but on this morning the barometer was steady, the
temperature -34° with a fresh breeze from the south. The meteorologist
assured us that the signs promised excellent weather. We have learned
to take the official weather forecasts with an air of disbelief. Still
we started; the sledge was put on the ice, the bundles of food, fuel,
furs, tent, etc., were tossed on the snow, and quickly our sledge was
snugly loaded, and a sail set to a fair wind. The sail helped us much;
its force was equal to that of one man. The surface of the ice was
fairly good for sledge travelling, a thin crust on the top offering
little friction to the sledge, and generally the runners did not break
through. Such a condition was found on the larger pans upon which there
were small snow-covered hummocks, from one to three metres high here
and there, but around these we could always find a passage.

Physically we believed ourselves in fine trim. Every moment of sunlight
had been used by us for exercise. We had been on a forced diet of
penguin meat, and had undergone the baking treatment to bring our
strength to the maximum. We were, however, far from normal, though
our ambitions, like the spring flow of rivers, were no longer to
be confined to ordinary bounds. Our real difficulty began when we
left the large old fields to cross the young ice of leads. Here were
huge ridges of pressure-lines all nearly impassable, and the little
valley-like spaces between were covered by beds of dry snow in very
small crystals, over which a sledge runs about as easily as over sand.
Another disheartening series of regions, were the sites of recent leads
and lakes over which it was necessary to pass. These were sheets of
water thinly covered with ice from three to six inches in thickness,
and coated by a most beautiful fur of hoar-frost. The nearness of
this to the level of the water, and the great difference between the
temperature of the water and that of the air kept it constantly humid.
An evaporation rose from this new ice as if water were boiling under a
screen. The mixture of water with cold snow offers a surface over which
a sledge slides with the greatest difficulty. There are several methods
of overcoming this resistance. One method is to shoe the sledge with
ivory or whalebone, or what I like fully as well, penguin skin, but for
this we were not prepared at the time.

At a distance of about a mile from the ship we stopped to take compass
bearings of her and the surrounding icebergs or landmarks. The scene
here was a picture for the gods. In the north the sun, a great yellow
ball of fire, was gliding westward along the horizon, laying beams of
gold on the endless sheets of white of the pack. The moon, nearly full,
a bright globe of frosted silver, floated high in the eastern heavens.
The sky was, here and there, thinly veiled by stratus clouds formed by
the ever-present microscopic specks of snow which float about in the
antarctic atmosphere. The colours above were not rich but restful, and
on the frozen bosom of the sea there was a charm which cannot be made
to flow under my pen. The surface was everywhere rough and ragged, the
line of horizon in some places looking not unlike a profile of ruined,
marble buildings. The many, rough edges of blue hummocks, the thin
plains of green and yellow, young ice, the clear-cut edges of icebergs,
with walls assuming various colours, according to the amount and kind
of light absorbed, made a dreamy, fairy-like scene.

[Illustration: The Midnight Sun Over the Pack-ice.]

Before us, apparently within gunshot, was our destination, the great
tabular iceberg, its deceptive nearness urging us on to action, and
offering us the hope to be able to camp in the lee of it before night.
But in reality it was not less than sixteen miles away. Behind us was
the little _Belgica_, the only speck of human life in this rolling
sweep of the great south frigid zone. How little and insignificant
she seems amid these huge sheets and mountains of ice! Yet upon her
stability, upon her power to fight and resist the awful attacks of
the storming rams of ice, depends not only our comfort and success,
but our lives. We travelled in perfect comfort and with much ease, two
on _ski_, and one on disc snowshoes to push and guide the sledge.
The sun sank under the horizon at about two o’clock, the moon which
had been visible all day now assumed a more hopeful face, and little
by little the dark-blue twilight circle rose on the southern sky. In
the twilight it was difficult to see the hummocks, the crevasses, and
the weak sheets of ice. When we began to think of a site for a camp we
were, apparently, no nearer our destination after the day’s march of
seven miles than when we started. At this time we saw a small smoky
discoloration on the sky ahead of us, from which we concluded that
water was not far off. A little later, we came to a lead covered with
new ice over which we crossed to a very rough peninsula of old ice.
From here we saw first a line of greenish yellow ice, which we have
learned, by experience, is usually not strong enough to bear the weight
of a man; then we saw a black line of open water beyond. After a little
careful observation we were able to distinguish many whales and seals
in this lead.

Our course being directly across this break in the ice, we decided to
pitch the tent on the nearest floe which offered a solid bed. This lead
had a general direction from east to west; it was about one mile wide
at its narrowest points, but in other places there were expansions of
from two to four miles. A good floe was found to be south of this, and
our site for camping resembled in many ways the margin of a large
river. The old ice with the ridges of hummocks offered an elevated
bank. In the centre were fragments of ice, floating about like the
winter ice of a stream. It was a real joy to pitch the new tent, after
our experience with the ill-adapted old ones. In less than three
minutes it was set, and a fire was in progress for a needed meal. The
temperature was -20° C., and a strong breeze came from the south, but
even with these atmospheric conditions we were comfortable in our
shelter.

It took us a long time to prepare our food--about six
hours;--everything which contained water was frozen to the consistency
of stone, and to heat this, or indeed any kind of food, the Jackson
apparatus, which was the only stove we had taken from the ship, was
inefficient, while its consumption of alcohol was, in our experience,
so wasteful that its use as an item of polar equipment is injudicious.
It took us about two hours to thaw out some penguin steak, and two
more to make a soup which has the enchanting name of “_bonne femme_.”
In this we managed to mix a liberal supply of reindeer hair, penguin
grease, and other flavouring material. The soup was a failure,--but
not quite so much so as the chocolate prepared shortly after. This was
made in a can in which the penguin steak had been warmed. It contained,
besides chocolate, milk and sugar, much butter, penguin oil, blood,
and pieces of fishy meat, some “_bonne femme_” soup, and reindeer
fur. Lecointe, who had the honour of having the first cup, received,
besides the major quantity of oil, the lighter floating material.
He pronounced it “scandalous!” But the other victims who tried it
praised its nutritious qualities very highly. After our feed we stowed
ourselves away in our bags, falling on each other’s stomachs, as our
efforts to reach the bottom failed. Finally we went to sleep while the
wind roared and the snow dropped on our tent, making a sound like bits
of metal; a music which, when comfortably stowed in our bags, proved
restful and conducive to sleep.

[Illustration: Ice-Flowers.]

[Illustration: The Assembled Discs of Ice Crystals which give
Origin to Polar Ice.]

We arose the next morning complaining somewhat of the cold, but this is
the grievance of every first encampment. After three hours of cooking,
chocolate was prepared, and with it we ate alpine biscuits. This was
quite sufficient for our morning meal. Then we crawled out of our bags,
took our furs from the snow under the bags, shook the snow out of them,
and quickly dressed. Once in our travelling garments, though frozen
and filled with fine dust-like snow, we soon felt comfortable and dry.
Emerging from the camp we saw the sun about fifteen degrees east of
north and close to the horizon, from which we concluded it was eleven
o’clock. Our watches had refused to tell the time in the cold. The day
was not promising, the sun was screened by an increasing mist and the
horizon was everywhere indistinct. The pack was gray, and the leads
black with many smoky zones on the sky, indicating a disruption of the
ice and much pack movement. We were permitted a look at our projected
journey’s end, the tabular iceberg, and from our position the way to
it seemed simple enough. Its distance from us was about nine miles;
it was 2,000 feet long and from 250 to 300 feet high, with a smooth
upper surface and vertical cliffs; along the base, on the two sides
visible to us, was a huge ice fort about 50 feet high and 100 feet
wide. On this were fragments of ice mostly covered with snow, giving it
an appearance of a smooth terrace. Here and there were huge fissures
visible only at the top, and widening into a valley towards the base.
These valleys were strewn with ponderous boulders of ice. There was no
evidence of fresh fissures, no blue lines or stratas; everything wore a
homogeneous mantle of unblemished purity.

The lead before us proved, on further examination, an impassable
barrier for the time. It extended as far as the eye could penetrate
to the east and to the west, a great polar river in a mid-polar sea
of ice. In it were hundreds of whales, finbacks and bottlenoses, and
countless seals, Weddell sea-leopards, and crab-eaters, but strangely
enough no penguins. The new ice forming was not of sufficient strength
to bear our weights, hence we returned to the tent to prepare our
dinner, the last meal of the day. When it takes six hours to prepare
one meal, one does not provide more than two, and in actual practice
that is found sufficient.

[Illustration: An Iceberg Held by the Ensnaring Influence of the
Pack-ice, Forming the So-called “Barrier.”]

Finding that to cross the lead was quite impossible for a day or two,
we decided to build a snow-house which is always preferable to a tent
for a long stay. This was the second snow-house which we built in the
antarctic, and the first in which men lived. It was constructed on
the Eskimo model, conical in shape, like a bee-hive, with circular
lines of blocks, each circle decreasing in size until the top, which
is small enough to cover with one or two pieces. The Eskimo does this
with an ordinary knife or a crescent-shaped instrument, made from a
walrus tooth; but this requires much dexterity and some experience. I
have always found that a small saw was better adapted for the purpose.
With this, one can improve on Eskimo methods and build a much stronger
_igloo_.

We selected a bank of driven snow with a hard consistency. To get
a working edge here we first made a straight cut, then a slanting
circular incision, raising the crescent out in pieces. Then we sawed
another groove parallel to the first and cut this strip into blocks of
a size easy to handle. Finally we passed the saw under the surface at
the desired thickness, after which a slight touch from the hand or foot
separated the block. There is no rule as to the size of the blocks;
they must be cut according to the strength of the snow. Usually blocks
one foot thick, two feet long, and eighteen inches wide are the most
convenient. These can be transported on a sledge to any desired site
for the _igloo_. Such a place is never far off. The man who builds
the wall must be careful that the blocks of each succeeding circle will
centre on the lines of meeting of the blocks below, a law well known in
masonry. He must endeavour to keep the surface of the wall from sloping
in or out, and every piece must rest firmly on each of its neighbours.
When the _igloo_ is finished there will be found many holes
between the blocks, but these are easily filled from the outside. The
door should be cut after the structure is erected. If the _igloo_
is intended for a continued residence, a low arched entrance is
necessary to keep out the sand-like blasts of fine snow.

Our sojourn in this particular house was very agreeable. It was an
experience which I shall long remember. We placed the sledge sail
on the snowy floor, and on it our sleeping bags. The only culinary
articles which we used were fixed in terraces on the wall, or simply
driven in the blocks. To undress and get into our bags in this house
was an easy matter. Taking off everything but our underwear, we placed
the travelling suit, including our boots, under the bags, and without
more discomfort than a little snow down our backs we slid into the
zenith of polar comfort, the sleeping-bag. The scene outside was
dazzling beyond description; the scene inside was restful beyond all
expectation. Through the crevices of the dome the sharp, silvery rays
of the moon pierced and played in quivering beams and zones of colour.
The pale blue sky, with its wealth of starry gems, was visible from
one or two positions. A brisk, cold wind drove a little snow into our
_igloo_ and over our beds, but this did not disturb us. We wrote,
read, and played cards by the aid of a candle, and at a time which we
guessed to be eleven o’clock, we fell asleep.

[Illustration:

Arctowski. Lecointe. Racovitza. Gerlache.

The Midsummer Christmas Dinner.]

August 2.--We did not awake until about nine o’clock to-day. Breakfast
was prepared while we made a hasty examination of our situation.
The horizon was obscured by a light fog; it had snowed a little
during the night; the lead was separating, and zones of water-sky
were noticed in nearly every direction. These prospects forbidding a
continuation of our journey, we packed up for the return. Many seals
appeared on the ice as we left, and some came over to our camp as if
to say “good-bye.” We did not molest them. The ship was not in sight
when we started, and we knew by its changed position yesterday that
there was considerable motion in the ice, enough to make the actual
direction of the _Belgica_ somewhat doubtful. The light was dull
and diffused, making it impossible to observe hummocks and drifts;
a fact which caused constant stumbling, and the destruction of one
pair of _ski_. We tried to take a compass course, but this was
difficult because the light was too vague to make hummocks or landmarks
discernible. Many ill-defined, smoky figures of clouds, generally
oblong, were on the sky. These indicated the disruption of the ice
and an exposure of bands of open water, which we were soon to locate
definitely, with much disappointment and discomfort.

As we advanced we heard whales spouting on all sides, but could not yet
see them or the open water in which they gambolled. A little farther
on we saw many seals, and soon after a belt of ice fissured in every
direction. Thinking that we could cross this we strode over one pan
after another, expecting every moment that we would reach more solid
ice where we might pitch our tent for the night. The darkness advanced,
and the pans separated more and more. Soon it was perfectly dark.
The ice was so black that we could not easily mark the difference
between it and the waters. To proceed was now impossible, and to
camp on a little pan, the centre of a great pressure angle, was not
conducive to rest, but we had no other choice. In a few moments our
tent was pitched, and light within offered a spark of cheerfulness, but
everything outside was as dismal as it could possibly be. The wind blew
with a despairing howl, driving snow into every opening or seam of our
fur suits. The ice groaned and cracked, and complained of the pressure
forced against it; our floe was little by little reduced in size until
we could hear the seals in the water as plainly as if they were under
the tent. I cannot imagine a position on the polar pack more hopeless.
We were tired and knew well that we would sleep, and perhaps not awake
until dropped into the cold water. To overcome this danger we kept
watch.

[Illustration:

Before. After.
Frederick A. Cook. Frederick A. Cook.
Roald Amundsen. Roald Amundsen.
Emile Racovitza. Emile Racovitza.

(We were all reasonably good-looking when we embarked, but we
were otherwise when we returned. The long night effected a
radical transformation in our physiognomies.)]

The seals during the night came upon the ice to examine our tent, our
_ski_, and our sledge; but evidently these were not to their
liking, for they went away, and played and gambolled like children on
the end of the floe. Whales also spouted all around us, and the wind
brought their spray onto our tent in icy globules. About four o’clock
in the morning the pan broke within two metres of the tent, and we
expected momentarily to see an opening in our floe. Dawn came at last,
but the atmosphere was again too obscure to permit a hope of an early
advance. We thought we could see more firm ice south of us and made an
effort to reach it, but we only mounted the neighbouring pan. From
here all further progress was stopped by black bands of open water. We
pitched our tent again and prepared some hot food and drink. The mist
was so opaque and so much fine snow was drifting that it was impossible
to see more than ten or fifteen metres. Occasionally there appeared
bright spots in various directions, and in these we thought we could
distinguish familiar icebergs, but they always proved to be only small
hummocks at a short range.

In the afternoon the wind came out of the south and cleared the air. We
now saw the _Belgica_, and also men coming in our direction. This
gave us great pleasure. The ship was not more than a mile from us, and
the men soon reached a floe south of us, but they could not gain our
floe. Van Mirlo made a desperate effort, but slid into the water and
nearly lost his life. We ate a hearty meal, then again crept into our
bags. For this night it was not necessary to keep a watch, because the
pressure had ceased and the temperature was falling rapidly, protecting
our pan by one of new elastic ice; but a knife was kept ready to cut an
opening for our escape should the ice suddenly separate under us. The
night was one of comparative quietness.

We arose early the next morning,--about 8 A.M.,--prepared
breakfast, and at noon were ready for a desperate attempt to get to the
vessel. We left the tent and most of the equipment behind, but took
on our sledge enough food and our bags, in case it became necessary
to make another camp. Using the sledge as a bridge, we succeeded in
crossing the many leads and crevasses and reached the _Belgica_
about two o’clock. She seemed now a big ship full of comfort and rest.
It was nearly two weeks before the ice was sufficiently formed and
packed around this pan to permit a removal of the tent.

The month of August was, on the whole, one of the greatest
disappointments of our experience in the antarctic. We expected low
temperatures and bright, cheerful weather. With the coming sun we
hoped to dispel our anæmia and make ourselves ready for a series of
difficult tasks to be undertaken in September and October; but instead
we failed more and more in strength, and developed alarming mental
symptoms. One man was temporarily insane, and several others were
nearing a similar condition. The weather was stormy, the atmosphere was
charged with clouds of sand-like drift-snow, and the sun was almost
constantly invisible, though it rose higher and higher and swept more
and more of the horizon daily. For one month following sunrise, like
the month preceding its departure, the conditions were in effect a part
of the night. It is true we had a little misty grayness at noon which
we called daylight, but this was counterbalanced by the never ceasing
tempests which drove such a blast of cutting snow that life outside
was impossible. The first glimpses of sunlight had aroused us to new
ambitions, and to spasmodic spells of cheerfulness, but this hellish
series of storms sent us again into the most abject gloom of the night.

The last week of August and the first two weeks of September was the
coldest period of the year. At this time the thermometer ranged
steadily from -20° C. to -43° C.; the lowest temperature of the year,
-43° C., being recorded at four o’clock in the morning of September
eighth. The lowest average for any one continuous month was in July,
-12° C. From the minimum on September eighth, the temperature rose
rapidly to +1° C. during the week following, which was a point within
a half degree of the maximum of the hottest weather of midsummer. We
thus had our coldest and our warmest weather in the month of September
which, in the cycle of the seasons south, is similar to March of the
northern hemisphere. Great quantities of drift-snow were driven over
the ice at this time, and the air was so charged with crystals that
halos of the sun and moon, and parhelias and paraselenes, were of
almost daily occurrence. The ice was now the most continuous of any
period of the year. The limit of the field in which the _Belgica_
was held was not visible from the masthead. From the crow’s nest it
was always difficult to determine the edges of the fields, because the
raised pressure ridges made the cracks and narrow lines of water beyond
invisible. We were, however, easily able to locate some wide leads, and
the almost constant smoky vapour, which rose over fresh breaks, made it
possible to determine even small cracks.

We have made the subject of finding open spaces of water a special
study. Such knowledge is part of the acquirement of an antarctic
hunter. An inexperienced wanderer will walk over the pack day after
day until his eyes are blinded by the dazzling blink of the ice before
he finds a trace of life; but an adept will adopt the methods of the
penguin or the seal, who, when stranded on a field with the blow-hole
closed, will mount a hummock and scan the horizon to find the jets of
black vapour which rise from open spaces of water. We have to go a long
distance now to secure game to replenish our larder with fresh meat,
which is, at present, almost our sole diet. The life at best is very
scarce, and to find it we must roam over the ice for several miles.
With a revolver in our pockets, and a sheath knife at our sides, we go
about daily from crevasse to crevasse, eagerly looking for penguins and
seals. As a rule we are fairly successful; at any rate, the table is
liberally supplied with fresh steaks.

CHAPTER XXVII

SUMMER

October, 1898.

[Illustration: Snow-Goggles.]

It is but slowly that this blackness of the polar night is dissolved
by the whiteness of the coming day. Until the first weeks of September
we felt little of the cheering influence of the rising sun except
for short, spasmodic periods. The human system accommodates itself
sluggishly and poorly to the strange conditions of the polar seasons,
and we, too, are slow in adapting ourselves to the awful despondency
of the long winter night. It is possible to close your eyes and befog
your brain after a time, when all the world is enveloped in prolonged
darkness, but this is not physiological adaptation; it is abnormal
education. We have all felt the effects of the night severely. The
death of Danco, and also the insanity of a sailor, are due to this
withdrawal of light. Now that the light is brightening every day, we
are as backward in recuperating as we were in establishing a balance
of living comfort during the vanishing dawn of the early night.
The present cheering influence of the rising sun invites labour and
frivolity. The soothing light of the long evening twilights invites
repose. The change from day to night and from night to day, so long
absent from our outlook, is now beginning to lighten the burdens of the
weary mind and the aching muscles; elevating the depressed spirits of
hope, augmenting the dwarfed courage, and raising the moral perceptions
to the great life battle of work before us.

We have talked only of the discomforts of the night, and of the
misery. The long unbroken darkness has not totally blinded us to
its few real charms which are strikingly brought out by the awful
contrasts of heat and cold, of light and darkness. As lovers of
Nature, we found many pleasures for the eye and the intellect in the
flashing aurora australis, in the play of intense silvery moonlight
over the mountainous seas of ice, and in the fascinating clearness of
the starlight over the endless expanse of driven snows. There was a
naked fierceness in the scenes, a boisterous wildness in the storms,
a sublimity and silence in the still, cold dayless nights, which were
too impressive to be entirely overshadowed by the soul-despairing
depression. The attractions of the polar night are not to be written in
the language of a people who live in a land of sunshine and of flowers.
They are found in a roughness, ruggedness, and severity, appreciated
only by men who are fated to live in similar regions, on the verge of
another world, where animal sentiments take the place of the finer, but
less realistic human passions.

From May 31, when we were in latitude 71° 36′, a point farthest south,
to September 16, when we were in latitude 69° 51′ 16″, we steadily and
persistently drifted northward. The movement has been extremely slow,
and at times we have been stationary, but we have not gone south with
northerly winds. This we explain by the fact that new ice forms rapidly
in the leads which open behind us, thus closing all the spaces. In a
similar manner, but with many more interruptions, and with a much more
rapid pace, we have drifted eastward during this time from longitude
87° 33′ 30″ to 82° 22′ 45″. The longitudinal drift, however, has
changed with every direction of the wind. From this time until November
19, we drifted southward again, while still continuing our easterly
drift.

October 15.--We are now able to read our thermometers and other
instruments outside without artificial light from 2:30 A.M.
to 9:30 P.M. The five hours of night are made so brilliant
by the twilight during clear weather that we can read ordinary print
all night. We no longer need lamps on board during the day, which is
fortunate, for our stock of candles and petroleum is getting low.
The snow in the night now assumes a noticeable brightness after a
day of sharp sunshine. During the long night, and in the early days
of spring when the sun was feeble, the snow was dull and black. The
present change to a sort of phosphorescence I have ascribed to a kind
of latent retention by the snow of the light of the sun. I have taken
much interest in this phenomenon, and have recently made certain
tests which seem to confirm my theory. For a number of days I have
placed black cloths over certain smooth fields of snow. During the
night I have removed these and invariably there has been a dark spot,
corresponding to the size of the cloth, while the snow everywhere else
was semi-luminous. This, in my estimation, proves that the snow absorbs
and retains for a time certain rays of light.

There is now considerable life, but we must go far to find it. The
leads are several miles from the ship. When we get to them they seem
like huge endless rivers, winding through a white plain. On the banks
are lines of pressure ridges, from two to twenty feet high. In these
spaces of water are some freed icebergs and a few small pans of old
ice; but the low temperature soon covers every bit of open sea with
an even sheet of new ice, through which the whales and seals must
force their blow-holes. Nature favours them by breaks here and there;
but the steady, calm, cold weather of the present is opposed to much
ice-movement, which accounts for the few breaks. All of the seals
which have been seen since the months of April and May are crab-eaters
(_Lobodon Carcinophaga_). They seem to travel in groups of from
two to ten, and they follow the leads southward after every storm. The
whales do the same, and when the new ice forms, and the retreat is
cut off, they seek the regions about the icebergs where the retarding
influence of the bergs in the drift causes enough commotion to keep
spaces of water open. Failing in this, they break through the new
ice by forcing their heads through it. It is a curious fact that,
up to the present, we have seen only finback whales (_Balaenoptera
Sibbaldii_) in the pack, but now we find an occasional bottlenose
(_Megaptera Boops_) in the little lakes and streams. The
convenience, which the whale and seal holes offer, made us think that
perhaps penguins might utilise them as breathing spaces, but this never
happened so far as our experience went. Penguins, being better able to
move over the ice, have a wider range of habitation, and they always
use open leads.

[Illustration: An Old Wind-swept Hummock.]

[Illustration: The Sand-like Drift Snow.]

The weather, the ice, and the general life and surroundings have been
so monotonous for the past month, that I have found little of interest
to tabulate. The general health of the crew is improving. They no
longer have an anxious, dejected aspect, and their spirits are rising.
In clear weather they sing, and dance, and speak in happy, cheerful
tones. The ship is being prepared for sea, which is a matter of
considerable work. Being imprisoned in the grasp of the pack for these
many months has made the locality like a small village. Outhouses,
sledges, sounding machines, and many other things are strewn on the
pack. Aboard, the fixtures have all been more or less disarranged, so
that everything must be restored and refitted for the new voyage. We
have filled the water-tanks with snow. By burning seal blubber and coal
in our condenser, we are able to melt snow and bring the resulting
water to a boiling point very quickly; this is poured over the snow
in the tanks. This method is very satisfactory, for in this way we
are able to make several hundred gallons of water daily. I believe,
however, that a jet of steam directed into the tanks would do the work
much more quickly and with greater economy; but to make the necessary
alterations for this is, with our equipment, quite impossible.

Could there be a more melancholy, a more maddening, or a more hopeless
region than this? We are passing rapidly into the polar summer, the
time when, in other zones, all Nature smiles;--even the sister zone,
the arctic, has striking attractive features at this time. The birds
fill the air with music, new animals make their appearance, and on land
even flowers and mosquitos serve to make life interesting; but here,
in this icy antarctic wilderness, the charm of Nature is dead. We see
the sun so seldom that it is, indeed, a surprise when its unobstructed
rays fall upon the frosted whiteness. Though it sweeps more than half
of the horizon daily, we get only the cold blue light which is filtered
through a constant haze of icy clouds. An occasional sunburst for a
few moments each day and a clear sky once fortnightly is our average.
Storms, tempests, and steady howling winds with snow, are our constant
lot, and these come from all points of the compass. There is no
inspiring solitude, no rest, no cheerful outlook; the sea is imprisoned
under a restless and irregular mass of storm-driven ice. The sky is
always cloudy and dirty; the air is always wet, cold, and agitated;
under such circumstances the human mind assumes a like attitude.

[Illustration: The Tabular Iceberg, the Largest Berg within the
Horizon of the _Belgica’s_ Drift. It is about 200 Feet High,
and a Half-mile Long.]

For two days we have had a fierce gale veering from south-east to
south-west; an excellent direction to send us north at a rapid pace,
which is a pleasant consolation for the ill-effects on the spirits
and on the personal comfort. The storm is, of its kind, the worst I
have ever seen. The wind is strong, but one could hardly call it a
tempest; it brings with it, however, all the elements of misery which
follow a tempest. The air is so loaded with very fine snow-crystals
that its action upon the face is something of the nature of emery
paper. This snow is blown in gusts and constant streams, which scrape
and rasp all projections, and bury every declivity, while the snowy
surface is cut into small ridges which we call _cestrugi_; and
around the _Belgica_ it is deposited to such an extent that
nothing but the masts are visible. A very strange accompaniment is a
perfectly cloudless blue sky at the zenith, while all along the horizon
there is an opaque circle of icy haze, which is tinged with the most
delicate hues of red, blue, and yellow. One can nowhere see more than
100 metres, yet this haze seems far off. It is, of course, the driven
snow which causes this phenomenon, and also a nearly constant parhelia;
but the fact that the sky above is perfectly clear proves that the
obscurity is very low on the ice, perhaps not more than ten metres, for
the topmasts of the ship are visible above it, and now and then the
tops of icebergs also appear. The picturesque effect of this hurling,
seething confusion of icy crystals is far beyond my power to paint
in words. It is a picture at once full of incomprehensible grandeur,
indescribable discomfort, and irresistible attractiveness. But who
will tabulate this with enthusiasm when snow is being driven down your
neck, into your eyes, ears, and almost into the pores of your skin,
while your boots, your mittens, and every opening or fold of clothing
are filled with snow at a temperature of -20° C.? Who will paint the
colours, or sing the joys of Nature, when the wind pipes the notes of
a buzz-saw, and will not permit you to stoop without helping you to a
somersault?

The Commandant gave us a new programme yesterday for the summer
campaign but we do not now regard programmes seriously. We think more
of the many little things which cause life to fall and drift and
settle into our boots, like the snow around us. Indeed, there are but
few things greatly interesting, except the character of our food, the
prosecution of our special work, and the prospect of our release from
the iron grasp of the rigid pack.

I have heard of a deaf man who once said that life was of value to
him only because of “reading, eating, drinking, and the prospect of
death.” This sentiment in a modified form would, I am certain, be the
confession of many, if not most, of our party, during every stormy
period. The modification is, perhaps, only in the last word, and this
we would change to “the prospect of an early return to the inner world
and to renewed social conditions.” The storms are so numerous and close
that a tempest is nearly always on the horizon. If it is not so, as
was the case a week ago, the air about the _Belgica_ rings with
happy voices and musical sounds. But there is always something to make
hilarity short-lived. If it is not the weather it is a frozen batch
of skins, a garment hopelessly torn which needs mending, a watch to
repair, a boot to mend, a camera to alter, or any one of a thousand
discomforts and distractions about the ship which send the soul to the
verge of desperation. To-night I have stockings to darn, to-morrow
pantaloons to mend, and all of next week carpenter-work, mending and
making sledges, sewing sails, dressing skins, and taking photos in a
temperature -22° C.--all of this is far from pleasant, but it contains
a lesson. It teaches us how much of the drudgery of life is done
uncomplainingly by mothers, sisters, wives, and other members of the
family circle. It makes us feel the importance of feminine existence,
causes us to see the ups and downs, the ponds and eddies, the rapids
and cataracts of the humdrum side of life which man ordinarily escapes.

November 16.--The winter night, with its death-dealing blackness,
has passed; the spring, with its awful storms and gray monotony has
followed, and the summer, with its continuous noonday splendour,
commences to-day. At least it ought to, if our estimated position is
correct. We have, however, had no observations in a week, and are not,
in consequence, able to fix our exact position, and the persistent
cloudiness of the sky is such that we cannot determine whether the sun
is above or below the horizon at midnight.

November 25.--Latitude 70° 25′, longitude 83° 27′. For more than a week
the sun has sailed around our heavens without setting, and thus we have
entered upon our summer nightless days. We should have seen its warm
glow at midnight and at midday, but we have not seen it at all, not
even for one hour, during this time. By this I do not mean that it is
dark; in fact, it is quite the contrary. It is too light. The sky has
been constantly lined with thick clouds, and there has been an endless
period of fog and snow; but under all of this opacity the light, by
refraction from the cold mist and by reflection from the dazzling
whiteness of the unbroken snow, has been so great that all who have not
worn goggles have complained of incipient snow-blindness. At night, or
during the sleeping hours, the men are compelled to hang black cloths
over the ports to gain sleep and rest from the diffused, piercing
light. Nearly every one is suffering, more or less, from insomnia, and
the cases which have been mentally deranged before show new signs of
disturbance. Thus, though the light, even during cloudy days, is too
strong for our eyes, and at night too piercing to permit sleep we long,
with an intensity impossible to describe, to see the unobscured face of
the sun, and we hunger for its warm, life-giving rays.

November 26.--At last we have had a little direct sunshine, and what
seems very strange is that this has come to us with continued northerly
winds. Without exception thus far, the wind from this direction has
been warm and humid, bringing clouds, snow, rain and everything to
make life uncomfortable. We can only come to one conclusion, which is
that we have been steadily driven south against the main body of a
closer pack. The pack before us towards the open sea, of which there is
perhaps not less than three hundred miles, has been driven together.
With such a condition of things we might suppose that the wind would
not be so thoroughly charged with pack vapour. But this is a
hypothesis. The fact is that we have fair weather, which is unusual
with wind from any direction but south, and we are feasting our souls
on direct sunny rays, the first in weeks.

[Illustration: On January 1st, 1899, the _Belgica_ was
still Hopelessly Held in a Field of Ice Two Miles in Diameter,
while within Two Thousand Feet there was a Long Open Expanse of
Navigable Water.]

There is a somewhat surprising movement in the individual masses of
the pack, as is seen by the changing position of the various icebergs.
In this movement there is regular order in the direction. It is not a
motion like the entire drift of the main pack, to and fro in response
to the wind. The _Belgica_, firmly held in the body of a floe
whose general diameter has been about four miles, has turned her prow
steadily with but very little interruption from south in May, to west
in August, to north in October, and she is now 22° on her way to
the east. From this we can draw only one conclusion--that there is
a feeble under-current which, acting on the bergs, is the cause of
local disturbance in every pack. Our observations thus far verify this
curious suggestion. The floe in which we are fixed has no icebergs in
its grasp, like many of the floes around us. If such a current existed
it would not be propelled with the same force as the berg-charged
floes, but with a tendency to lag behind an active mass to the one side
would, by friction against its side, cause it to revolve. Such has been
our experience. A group of floes, in which there have been several huge
tabular bergs entangled, has slowly but persistently passed around our
starboard, while we have turned in response to it; and as a final proof
of this movement we have constantly observed the appearance of new
bergs south, and the disappearance of old friends to the north.

The winter effects on the ship have been extremely injurious. Her hull
has been subjected to very little pressure, but she has been unevenly
covered with snow; the stern, buried and forced below her natural
water-line, has made her leak; the bow has been exposed to the many
alternate freezings and thawings; the rigging, for much of the time,
has been loaded with a ponderous weight of accumulated hoar-frost
which, with its continued movement in the never-ceasing storms, has
weakened every fibre of rope, and now the burning sun splits the masts
like sticks of green wood near a fire. The interior has also suffered
great injury. The constant drying effects of the internal heat has
split or cracked nearly every important beam, while the seams are
everywhere wide open. There are two things we seldom have here which
will certainly seem strange to my readers. They are sunshine and
snow-showers. In a region where the sun does not set for a period of
more than two months, one certainly has a right to expect fair and
sunny days, and likewise in an area where the whole face of the earth,
both land and water, is buried under a perennial sheet of snow one
naturally expects to see frequent falls of heavy snow; but in reality,
both sunshine and actual snow-showers are very rare, so much so that
their appearance affords a special delight and a great surprise. To-day
we have had the phenomenal pleasure of having both in one day. Real
sunbeams in the morning, large and slowly falling flakes of snow in
the afternoon. We have had appropriate music to celebrate the occasion
and are happy.

[Illustration: Old Hummocks.]

[Illustration: A Tonite Explosion Used in Efforts to Free the
_Belgica_.]

November 27.--Our winter temperature was very slow in falling, and the
minimum was not reached until after sunrise. Our lowest observation was
recorded on September 8, -43.1° C. In less than ten days after this it
had risen to a fraction above zero, and we were drenched with rain and
melting snow; since then it has occasionally fallen to -20°, but it has
slowly and persistently risen until now the normal temperature is one
or two degrees below zero, falling with a southerly wind to -10° and
rising above zero with a strong northerly wind.

The zoölogist has seen what he persists in calling a new bird. It
resembles the giant petrel in size and colour, but its motion is
entirely different. Anatomical details have not been observed, and,
“The bird,” says the naturalist, “is either shot-proof or it is able
to dodge the lead.” But since Mr. Racovitza had considerable fun from
our mistaken reports of true sea-leopards, we have taken advantage
of this story to restore our fallen reputation. We persist in saying
that unless he produces the bird, or gives us an exact technical
description, anatomical and physiological, we maintain the privilege of
ascribing the sight to a kind of sunny intoxication which at present,
under the influence of the midnight sun, is not uncommon.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SUMMER (CONTINUED).

December 2.--Our drift lately has been almost imperceptible. The winds,
always feeble and never continuing long in one direction, have simply
kept up a little agitation in the pack while the tides have driven the
bergs to and fro a little, and thus the pack has become more and more
divided. For most of the time the wind has followed the sun around the
horizon, and nothing could be more ineffectual in making ice navigable
than light, shifting winds. Since it takes the pack a long time to gain
momentum, a wind which does not last for several days is of no use
unless it is a tempest. Our latitude to-day is 70° 18′, longitude 83°
25′. Our drift throughout the season has been considerable. If it had
been in one direction it could have taken us across the south pole or
to the magnetic pole.

During the winter, and a part of the advancing summer, we have made
various guesses as to when the bark would be liberated from the grasp
of the pack. The captain has set the day of departure at October
25; I at November 15; Amundsen, February 1. Both the captain and I
are already overruled, and there is even some fear of a possible
second winter. Yesterday a lead made its appearance 100 metres to the
east, running north, and for the past few weeks we have watched with
considerable interest the slow but persistent diminution of our pan.
From its original nearly circular form, five miles across and three
metres thick, it has dwindled to less than one-half its original
size, and even the thickness of the ice is rapidly decreasing. The
temperature has gradually ascended, with very many irregular curves,
from an average in September of -18° to -3° C. now. But the change has
been so irregular that the effect has hardly been felt.

During the entire winter and throughout the year, though snow fell
almost every day, even on the brightest and the clearest days, the
total snowfall seemed small at all times. There are two reasons for
this. First, the actual snow-showers, as seen in temperate regions,
periods when much snow falls within a short time, were quite unknown.
Second, the topography of the pack is such that every wind carries
before it huge drifts of snow which it deposits in open leads, where it
is either melted or converted into ice at once. During the blackness
of the night, and during the endless gray snow-days since, we have
constantly longed for a fair old-time snow-storm: a storm bringing
sufficient snow to blanket the ship and keep us warm inside: a gentle,
quiet fall of large, soft flakes to soften the hard outlines of the
pack, and without the ever accompanying thunder of winds and whizzing,
cutting, maddening ice-crystals. But such a pleasure has not been
mixed with our assigned experiences. I think it is Nansen who says “the
snowless ice-plain is like a life without love,” and in this there is a
truth which can only be realised by men who, like us, are imprisoned in
the polar pack. The constant war of the winds, which here strive for a
place, brings about a restless agitation of the ice. Now it is driven
east, then north, then south, and so on, tearing the floes, crushing
pans, crowding huge pieces over each other, making hummocks, cliffs,
ridges, crevasses, and what not; a veritable chaos of icy destruction,
a surface impassable for a journey, and unpleasant to the eye.

The sharp, rough angles of the hard ice project like the ribs of a
famished animal, making a picture quite as melancholy in the feeble
light of winter and early summer. Snow, deep, soft snow, has upon
this coarse framework an effect like that of fat on the animal. It
covers the ugly open rifts, pads the sharp corners, and it gives a
smooth, pleasant, rounded surface to the pack in general. It buries the
unpleasant ruggedness and the gloomy blackness under a velvety covering
of white, which is always pleasing to the eye. It gives to the pack a
face at once suggestive of warmth and fertility. It is only within the
past few days that we have had sufficient snow at one time to give to
our moving sea of ice this much-to-be-desired aspect. Snow has fallen
in great quantities; not softly and without wind, but noisily and with
the never-ceasing gale which is so characteristic of this region. The
quantities, however, have been sufficient to bury the _Belgica_ in
a huge drift, and the bare ridges, hummocks and irregularities, are
softened by the most beautiful crystal drift in which the sunbeams play
like kittens.

December 16.--There appears to be a promise in the air and in the quick
rising of the barometer which bespeaks a tempest, and how we long for
it! Almost the entire year has been one long monotonous series of
tempests, but now that we need one to break asunder the floe which
retains us as prisoners, and open navigable leads of water, it is tardy
in making its appearance. For nearly two months the barometer has
been steady, and only spasmodic jerks or varying breezes have driven
us about. If we had had but one of the many tempests which, during
the winter, made life so miserable, we might have been freed. The
temperature is rapidly rising; now generally about -2° C., at midday
slightly above zero, and at midnight from -6° C. to -10° C. We thus
have our greatest diurnal range. The snow on the pack is melting with
a surprising rapidity, and about the ship there is a zone of water
in which she sits in her natural environment. The pack everywhere
is breaking into small pans, but our old floe holds together with a
surprising tenacity; it is about seven miles in circumference, and
is lessening very slowly along its fringe, but apparently the snow
which the masts have swept and condensed out of the winds holds it
with unnatural firmness, for it is certainly the largest floe in our
neighbourhood. We watch every new piece which is torn off its edge
with a pleasure and an assumed confidence of an early liberation, but
if the _Belgica_ were now in free water she could do nothing but
wait. The ice is so closely packed that progress would be absolutely
impossible.

These unsystematic winds and steady weather have kept us in a locality
over which we have sounded and fished, hence there is a sort of
stagnation of work--no sounding and no fishing. To obtain birds for the
collection, meat for our food, and blubber to melt snow is, however,
a matter of no little labour. The men have had the second week of
half-days to mend their personal effects, and since these are next to
nothing they use the time in hunting, reading and discussion. A new
system of penguin hunting has been discovered. At meal-time a cornet
is used to call the men together, and the penguins, it seems, also
like this music; for when they hear it they make directly for the
ship, and remain as long as the music lasts, but leave at once when
it ceases. In this manner we have only to wait and seize our visitors
to obtain penguin steaks, which are, just at present, the prize of
the _menu_. But not so with the seals,--they like music, and
will come up out of the water onto the ice to enjoy it, but they will
not deposit their carcasses, penguin fashion, on board. On the other
hand, when we approach them they are more easily obtained. A shot from
a revolver straightens them out, but then, we have to transport 150
pounds of blubber and 50 pounds of meat over rough, hummocky ice to the
ship. This is an occupation which easily drives sport out of one. Our
good sailors, however, do it voluntarily, and at times when free from
regular work.

A few days ago Amundsen and I resolved to make a final attempt to
reach the tabular iceberg in the east. It has long been our ambition
to do this, as it has been the one venturesome aim of every man on
board. We have tried it several times before, but always in vain. Wide
open leads have prevented our going more than four or five miles, and
have also cut off our retreat. But now we decided to take no food and
no provision for sleep, but to push boldly to the berg and back in one
day. We left after _matte_ at 4 o’clock; the wind was light and
easterly, the sky clear, with a temperature -7°. We had no difficulty
in making the first seven miles, but the two miles about the berg were
much torn and separated by lakes. Among this small ice there were
several seals, mostly Weddells (_Leptonychotes Weddelli_), but we
also killed the first true sea-leopard (_Ogmorhynus Leptonyx_)
here, and also a crab-eater (_Lobodon Carcinophaga_), which we
cached with a view to later use as a food supply as a last resort in
case the ice separated so much as to prevent our easy retreat. We saw
here, also, some giant petrels (_Ossifraga gigantea_), and some
white petrels (_Pagodroma nivea_). The floes appeared smaller and
smaller, as we approached the berg, and around it they were mere discs
of about an average diameter of seven metres; these were separated by
huge quantities of brash. After considerable difficulty we finally
found a place on the iceberg where we could make a debarkment. The
ascent was over a long platform which resembled an ice-fort of the
arctic land-ice. It was the base of a cliff of ice which once covered
it, but the berg was perfectly tabular. We estimated the iceberg to
be 800 metres long, 500 metres wide, and 40 metres high. To its crest
there was but one access in the valley made by the decay of a part of
the cliff. We ascended this without difficulty, and reached the top in
a few moments.

From here the view of the pack was superb. We counted seventy-five
icebergs on the horizon, of which ten were tabular. They seemed to
be evenly scattered over the pack. The sea-ice appeared blue under
the midnight sun, for it was nearly midnight before we reached our
destination. The floes seemed small, averaging about one mile in
diameter, except those close to the berg. Here and there were seals,
and white petrels flew about our heads. The _Belgica_ appeared
in the endless blue expanse westward, and to us, at our distance, she
was not unlike a stick in the ice not far off. Nothing particularly
new was in our increased horizon; possibly a few new bergs were in
view eastward, but about these there was little remarkable. From the
crow’s nest on the ship, we could count sixty-four icebergs, and the
view in general was similar to that which now spread out before us.
The top of the berg had a gentle inclination westward; its surface was
generally flat, excepting here and there the line of a crevasse filled
by re-congelation. We came back over the same path on _ski_, which
we had used on the top, and for the first two miles we had no serious
trouble. The ice had remained the same, but at this point there had
been much commotion. The easterly wind had gone down, and the ice
immediately began to separate, and thus in the few hours occupied by
our ascent onto the iceberg the entire topography of this part of the
pack had changed. Huge lakes had formed, and a dense fog shut off our
way. With the compass we sought points of each floe where they touched
others, and thus we worked until 4 A.M., when we reached the
ship with photos of the berg, and the head of the leopard as a trophy.
The work and the resulting fatigue had been so great that Tollefsen,
who had joined us at the last moment of our departure, fainted twice
after he reached the ship. Poor fellow! his brain has for a long
time been unsteady as a result of the unbroken daylight and hopeless
isolation. We thought this jaunt would do him good, but it has had a
contrary effect, for his mind is now permanently deranged.

[Illustration: Removing the Upper Sheet Preparatory to Sawing the
Hard Undersheets.]

[Illustration: Cutting a Canal through the Ice to Release the
_Belgica_ from her Year’s Imprisonment.]

December 25.--Christmas in midsummer is certainly an anomaly to
residents of the northern hemisphere, but our midsummer is more sterile
than the midwinter of any known spot on the globe. At home there may be
snow and wind, but there is at hand the companionship of warm friends,
the cheer of a bright fire, the charm of flowers and pretty things;
but what have we in place of this accustomed holiday gayety? Each man
has, among the _Belgica’s_ company, his special corps of chums,
and brotherly distress has strengthened these bonds, but there are no
other human souls within reach to enter our narrow circle of life with
new inspirations. We have long since worn out all social enthusiasm,
and can unearth nothing new to infuse fresh life into the desired
good cheer of our Christmas dinner. Inside then, there is nothing
new, while outside all is cold and white and wearisome. There is no
flowering-plant within thousands of miles, and no land, not even barren
rocks, within hundreds of miles. At dinner we drank to the health of
“King Leopold,” to the pleasure of “Queen Wilhelmina,” to the continued
success of the expedition, and everybody expressed a hope of an early
release from our ice-imprisonment. Altogether, I noticed that the
enthusiasm was forced. At heart we were not in a feasting mood, and the
doubt of our future was pictured on every face.

We have now been nearly a year in this hopeless desert of ice.
Everything seems solid and immovable. We seem to be frozen to the
earth, for there is nothing which indicates movement. But with all this
appearance of solidity we are in reality continually afloat, adrift
with the polar winds, on a perennial ice-sheeted sea. How we long to
put our feet on solid ground! We do not desire so greatly to see trees,
and plants, and flowers as we do to sit upon something immovable;
something not covered with this eternal whiteness, and not glittering
with a dazzling ice-blink--plain ground and bare rocks will satisfy us.

[Illustration: Floating-Mountains of Ice.]

[Illustration: View from the Top of a Tabular Iceberg.]

January 1.--New Year’s Day passed like Christmas, with a special feast
followed by anxious discussions as to the time of our prospective
liberation. We are now doing much travelling over the pack-ice,
studying the life and the ice-changes. The _Belgica_ is about
ready for the sea, so far as her internal arrangement is concerned,
but outside there is nothing which promises a disruption of the ice
in such a manner as to permit us to push out of it. The field, in
which the bark is held, is still about two miles in diameter. The sun
has reached its highest altitude and is sliding down the hillside of
winter. We cannot hope that the fading days of summer will bring us
relief, since the bright days of November and December were of so
little avail in breaking the ice.

In October and November the ice separated, leaving wide open leads,
often a mile in width, winding around the floes to the end of vision.
If we had been free at this time, we might have gone farther south or
north to the open sea in a short time, for we were then only about
two thousand feet from a lead of navigable water. We are not now any
closer, but the entire pack has changed since then. Around the bergs
the ice is broken into small pans. There are a few fields about two
miles in diameter, but the main body of the pack is made up of floes
less than a half mile in diameter and with an average thickness of
six feet. This smallness of the floes prevents severe pressure, but
it gives the pack a sort of elasticity which opposes the formation of
wide open leads necessary for navigation. We no longer see the great
zones of tempting sea, but instead, only small lanes along the edge of
the large fields. If, however, we were able to get into these we might
take advantage with every shift of the ice to force our way into more
favourable localities.

Since Christmas the weather has already become colder. New ice is
forming every night, but early in the morning this thaws again and
the snow of the pack is melting rapidly; the solid ice seems to lose
little of its thickness, though it is becoming more porous and is
more easily disrupted. By a series of holes drilled by Mr. Arctowski,
he finds the general thickness to be 2.60 metres. This is nearly the
same as I found it to be two months ago; from twenty-five measurements
along fresh cracks it was 2.65. To-day there are many signs of pack
movement, but for three weeks with the steady easterly winds we have
moved south-westerly, holding the same relative position with our
neighbouring icebergs. A sudden brisk westerly wind is sending us east
and north rapidly. This wind does a triple service. It sends us north,
it loosens the pack, and it breaks the floes. It is indeed a godsend so
early in the new year, for we are already half expecting a prolonged
ice-imprisonment through another year, and if for another year, perhaps
for much longer.

At midnight we, of the cabin, went forward to surprise the crew. We
took with us a liberal allowance of wine, also an abundance of cheese,
ham, and biscuits for a lunch. The sailors received us with song and
music, and then told us stories which were new to us, but had been told
a hundred times in the forecastle. We in return did some speech-making,
and a little story-telling, too. The meeting was certainly a success
as an entertainment, and though the music was limited to accordions
which, from the combined effects of cold, humidity, and rough usage,
had many defects, we sat and listened to the discordant notes with real
enjoyment.

Outside the scene was beautiful, the sun was in the south, low on the
horizon, spreading golden rays over thin stratus clouds to the zenith.
In the north the moon was high, and though somewhat paled by the sun
it was bright, and stood out in the cold, cloudless blue like a ball
of lustreless silver. The endless sea of ice under us was ridged by
a line of pressure, at right angles to the line of force, which was
from south-west to north-east, and separated by inky lanes of water
parallel to the lines. The entire ice was a mass of quivering blue. It
was thus midnight and midsummer, and New Year’s Day, and to this series
of strange contradictions we owe the peculiar phenomenon of seeing both
the sun and the moon at the same time, and that at a nocturnal scene.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIX

FREED FROM THE ICE-EMBRACES--RETURN TO CIVILISATION

January 5.--We are satisfied with the success of our mission to the
present. We should like to terminate our campaign with a striking sweep
of discoveries, such as marked our beginning last year, but such a hope
is now quite beyond the range of possibility. Our provisions are nearly
all used, and to penetrate again into another part of this ice-strewn
sea, with our present equipment, would be injudicious. We are inclined
to bundle our results, and quit the under-world of ice as soon as the
ice breaks enough to give us freedom.

[Illustration: Curious Weather-worn Icebergs, 300 Feet High.]

Indeed, we ought to be contented with the unparalleled series of
scientific records which are now written in our journals. Beginning
with Tierra del Fuego, we have secured ethnological data of a race
of primitive people, scientifically unknown; there we have also read
the story of two vanishing American races; while the naturalist and
geologist have worked out facts and gathered specimens unique in
value and usefulness. We have sounded the unknown seas between the
terminating point of South America and the antarctic land. In the
new regions south of Cape Horn we have discovered many islands, and
several hundred miles of the coast of a great country. Passing into
the pack-ice we have drifted thousands of miles over the bed of a
virgin sea; have discovered a great submarine bank, and have collected
skeletons and skins of a curious life, previously almost unknown.
Racovitza has hundreds of bottles of odd-looking specimens of creatures
in alcohol, and his notes record, for the first time, the life story
of antarctic fauna throughout the year. Arctowski has a record of
hourly meteorological observations taken systematically, night and
day, during one year. This, too, is a valuable record, for previously
we have had only a few short notes on the climate of the summer months
of the antarctic. Lecointe has made a painstaking series of magnetic
observations, which will be useful in making valuable deductions
for the compass, in the southern hemisphere. There are many studies
valuable to oceanographic sciences, and our examination of a part of
the great restless sea of ice, which encircles the pole, will be the
basis of all future work in this region. We shall emerge from an area
of perennial winter, never before invaded by man, with the knowledge
of having been the first of all human beings to pass through the south
polar winter and its long night. We feel, one and all, that our mission
has been accomplished, and we are waiting impatiently to be freed from
this embrace of the frozen sea.

January 9.--From the first to the ninth there was little of
interest aside from the usual run of life. We took a few Ross seals
(_Ommatophoca Rossi_), saw two new birds, but did not secure them,
and were generally busy preparing the ship for the home voyage. We
have had a continuous southerly wind, but its force was so light that
we drifted little, though our sounding yesterday was 1490 m., which we
take as an encouragement of a northerly movement off of the shallow
sea over which we have floated so long. The bergs continue to change
positions, but our pan, which is a little over two miles in diameter,
is the same as it was two months ago, except that the snow has melted
to an average thickness of about a half metre. Because our floe has not
changed its form or shown any signs of disruption since November first,
and also because we have had no ice-destroying tempest since that time,
we have no good reason to suppose that we shall have a storm, or that
our floe will fracture in a line to liberate us during the remaining
two months of possible navigation.

[Illustration: Star-Fish and Sea-Urchins from the Bottom of the
Antarctic Sea.]

[Illustration: A New Shrimp of the Genera of Euphausia,
Discovered by Racovitza. It is the Staple Food of the Penguins
and Seals.]

There is at present sufficient water in long leads to navigate, and
to reach this is the ambition of all on board, from the Commandant to
the cabin-boy. But thus far we have done nothing to liberate the ship.
It is true, our men have had more than sufficient work to prepare
the sleeping _Belgica_ for the sea, but for this they will have
sufficient time during the many days when we shall be pressing out of
the pack. If we do not help ourselves, as matters go now there is a
great possibility of wintering again in the pack. To do something in
this direction, I submitted, yesterday, a plan to the Commandant. It
is based on the fact that the sun acts much more powerfully upon water,
and upon everything else of a dark colour, than upon snow. Keeping this
in mind, my suggestion involves the digging of two trenches, one from
the bow, the other from the stern to the water, at the edge of the
_Belgica_ field. These trenches are to be carried through the snow
and the superficial fresh water sheet of ice, leaving a narrow current
of water from the ship to the lead, which we hope by the aid of the
sun will so weaken the ice in this direction that it may break in this
line. Otherwise it might fracture, if it fractured at all, a mile to
the other side of us, and then our position would be no better than it
is now.

January 12.--We have finished the trenches. For three days we have
worked, not like men, but like dogs in chase of game. With picks and
axes and shovels, we have excavated the ditches, and have hardly taken
time to eat or sleep, because we have been so eager to watch the
progress and effect of our work. As the work is completed, we find that
our project is a failure. The sun at midnight is now so feeble that it
permits the formation of new ice to such a thickness that the heat of
the following day is barely sufficient to melt it. Had we done this in
December, the result might have been more satisfactory, but now it is
too late.

With the cutting of these trenches I proposed, as a last resort, to
cut a canal through the ice from the _Belgica_ to the edge of the
field. The lines for the trenches were so laid that the saws might be
run through the same groove; in this way we hoped to save the labour
of twice removing the upper sheets of ice and snow. The work of sawing
was begun last night and at first the progress was encouraging. Upon
more careful examination, however, by drilling, we found that the lines
which we had laid out for the canal, though shorter, ran over several
submarine projections of ice from fifteen to twenty-five feet thick. We
had learned by this time that with the saws it is nearly impossible to
cut ice more than seven feet in depth. We now began renewed experiments
with tonite, an explosive said to be more powerful than dynamite and
much safer. It certainly is decidedly safer, but we were unable to
discover its power.

Two months ago we all had faith in tonite. We had on board a large
supply, and believed that with it we could blow the _Belgica’s_
ice-fetters to atoms. Our confidence was much shaken with the early
experiments. In the first trial we were afraid of the stuff. We handled
it with the greatest care, placed it cautiously on a sledge, and drew
it with a long rope. We selected a spot nearly two miles from the
_Belgica_ for the first explosion. At the time of this experiment
the bark was not yet ready for the sea, and we thought it not wise to
break the ice in close proximity. We also feared the “great power” of
the tonite, and thought the whole field would be broken and scattered
in the air, only to fall down and smash the decks, but all of this
faith in, and fear of, tonite changed upon a more intimate acquaintance
with the stuff. We are now amused at our extraordinary precautions
during the first experiments. We took the tonite far away, put to it
long fuses to permit us to run off a great distance out of the reach
of the expected shattered fragments. The explosion went off with a
hiss and a great fire, but in the air there was only smoke, and under
the explosion there was only soot and a concavity in the snow. There
was nothing broken, not even a hole through the ice, and we stood a
half mile away behind a hummock, shivering for fear the ice would be
so broken that we could not return to the _Belgica_. In later
experiments we were more bold, and brought the scene of action nearer
the ship, but we found that in temperatures lower than -10° C. (14.0°
F.) the tonite exploded feebly, so much so, indeed, that the engineer,
seeing the beautiful fire it made, vowed he would get better service
by using it to get up steam. Most of us have lost faith in the power
of tonite to release the _Belgica_, and we have also lost faith
in its power to do damage of any kind. Instead of handling it with
the extreme care of a few months ago, we now have it in our beds, on
the table, and in every corner of the cabin. Lecointe and Racovitza,
however, still have some confidence in the destructive powers of the
explosive, and before we begin the seemingly impossible task of sawing
a canal it is important to determine the limits of tonite in breaking
the ice.

A number of experiments were made yesterday and to-day, but the
consensus of opinion is that tonite will “cut no ice.” If we are to
get freedom, we must seek it by our own muscular efforts with the saw
and the axe. We have argued for several days in favour of sawing a
canal. To this there has been considerable opposition, based upon the
fact that the entire working force could not be spared for such work,
and that the suggestion, at best, gave little promise of success. The
sawing experiments in the trenches, however, proved that much could be
done, and the eagerness of the men assured a concerted effort if the
plan could be made the one aim of everybody. The repeated failure of
the tonite proved that a continuation of our work in the old trenches
was unwise, because ice of more than seven feet was impregnable to
us. Gerlache has suggested the sawing of an old lead over the stern
which might prove less obstructed by hummocks. A vigilant sounding of
this lead proved the general depth of the ice about five feet, but
the distance was somewhat greater than the line of our trenches. A
careful study of all other possible routes easily proved this the most
practical. The plans were then made as cautiously as if we were to dig
the Nicaragua Canal, and every contingency was vigorously discussed by
the officers. When the project was once thoroughly developed we divided
into three or four crews according to the work, and every man, from the
highest officer to the cabin-boy, took to the saws and the axes.

The work on this canal was begun on the evening of January eleventh,
and was continued night and day until the bark was released. The
distance of the canal was about 2200 feet. The sawing of the two sides
with the cross sections made the distance to be cut, in a straight
line, something over a mile and a half. We were able to remove the
upper sheets of ice and snow by shovels and picks and specially
constructed implements to the depth of from one to two feet. This left
solid ice from three to four feet thick to be cut by the saws. We kept
at it day after day, working eight hours daily, as do day labourers.
No men ever worked harder or more faithfully. We were sixteen in
number, officers and sailors working side by side, with no easy berth
for anybody. Our main food supply was only sufficient to last three
months longer. We were accordingly put on reduced rations, but we had a
plentiful supply of seal and penguin meat and were adding to the larder
every day the game coming into our new canal. We ate ravenously, and
were contented with the fishy penguin steaks, developing strength and
enthusiasm with the increased length of the canal.

January 23.--We are still hard at work at the channel for the release
of the _Belgica_. Every man is still putting in eight hours
daily on the work except the cook, and he is working twenty hours a
day in doing his own work and that of the cabin-boy and steward. The
work is proceeding nobly, so quickly and so perfectly as to surpass
all expectation. This can only be explained by the cheerful manner
and manly vigour with which every man is at work. The men need no
urging, no special direction, no superintendence. Given a plan and
system of action, they arrange themselves and work with an effort
almost superhuman. The Commandant, the captain, the first officer, the
meteorologist, zoölogist, and the doctor are all shoulder to shoulder
with the sailors, and occupied at the same work. The meteorologist
says, “There simply exists no longer a Commandant, no captain, no
officers. We are all ordinary workmen.”

I have had little time to write for one week. Eight hours daily with
a heavy saw, and the spine twisted semi-circularly, is not conducive
to literary ambitions. It is, however, a capital exercise. Everybody
is being hardened to the work and developing ponderous muscles. Our
skin is burnt until it has the appearance of the inner surface of boot
leather. Our hands, we have found by experience, are more comfortable
if not washed, especially with soap, because then they crack and
become painful. The result is that we all have a more savage physical
appearance than most Indians. But this is of little consequence to us.
There are no ladies here to arouse the sleeping vanity which we all
once possessed, and our one ambition is to free the ship. This now
seems quite certain. We eat like bears the meat of seals and penguins
twice daily, disposing of three, four, and five steaks each. We find
time and gastric capacity for no less than seven meals daily. All work
was stopped Sunday morning at 4 A.M., and it began again
Monday, at 8 A.M.; during that time we slept no less than
thirty-six hours, and twelve hours is about an average of our daily
sleep with the channel work. Before the canal was begun we could barely
sleep eight hours.

By the first of February we had extended our canal to within one
hundred feet of the _Belgica_, but the ice which remained to be
cut was from six to seven feet in depth, and of a consistency so hard
that the saws barely made an impression upon it. In one spot we sawed
eight hours and cut less than five feet. While we were busily occupied
in devising new plans to cut this ice, the wind changed and altered the
drift of the ice, bringing a strong pressure on a tongue of the floe,
which caused a fracture contiguous to our canal, around the bark and
through the remaining ice to the edge. This new crevasse opened, and in
so doing, the new floe drifted, partly closing our canal. This sudden
and unexpected change, before our canal was completed, brought a look
of disappointment and despair to every face. Now our prospective way
of retreat was not only useless, but our position was such that the
_Belgica_ was subjected to dangerous pressure. To relieve this
pressure we cut an oblong concavity in the body of the main floe with
the idea of taking the vessel to this as a harbour. In this effort
we succeeded on the evening of the thirteenth, but our canal was so
effectually closed by new ice and the pressure of neighbouring floes,
that we could not escape. On the morning of the fourteenth, the wind
again changed. There was a general expansion of the pack, leaving wide
open leads on all sides, and our canal again widened. We lost no time
in steaming out. No body of men were ever happier than the officers and
crew of the _Belgica_ as the good old ship thumped the edge of the
ice which had held her a prisoner for nearly a year.

Our supply of provisions did not permit a continuation of the campaign,
and after all our mission was about fulfilled. Accordingly we headed
northward in the most direct manner for the open sea. In two days we
pushed, through closely packed ice, twenty miles northward, and then we
entered a zone of the pack where the ice was broken into small pieces
and closely pressed by an almost continuous line of icebergs. Beyond
the bergs there was a dark blue-black sky which, after a time, we
recognised as a water sky, indicating that under it there was the open
ice-free Pacific. Here, within sight of the open sea, we were again
imprisoned by the closely packed ice for thirty days, but at last, when
we had almost abandoned all hope of escape and were preparing for work
during a second winter night, a gentle southerly wind drove us with the
sea ice out beyond the line of icebergs, and then we were free to seek
the world of life in our own way. We left the pack-ice in latitude 70°
45′ south, longitude 103° west, and then headed for Cape Horn.

[Illustration: A Group of Penguins,--Visitors to the
_Belgica_. (To the Left is a Lead into which They dive for
Food.)]

At last we feel again the pleasure of being out of the frigid stillness
and on the bound of the broad ice-free waters. We have left the white
line of the pack-ice under the black sea behind us, and now the
ever-present electric glimmer, the ice-blink, is fading over our stern.
As the blink vanishes, and the sky is screened by the normal South
Pacific dulness, we descend from our world of lofty thoughts, in which
we had been raised and upheld by the long months of isolation, and
frost, and storm; and with this descent our minds and our hearts are
set on the joys of home-going. The feeling of isolation and desertion
now comes over us stronger than ever before. There is still a long
spread of tempestuous waters between us and Punta Arenas, the nearest
outpost of civilisation, and as we plough this hopeless sea, with souls
raised to a fever-heat of anticipation, our old winged companions in
the long drift with the frozen sea leave us. While among them, we
thought we were wearied of their songless poses on the icy spires, and
of their noiseless flights. We believed that we had seen all of their
cold white world that we ever desired, but even before we have felt the
heat of the sunny inner zones we are half sorry to leave this weird
other-world life. A year hence, I am sure we shall all long to return
again to this death-like sleep of the snowy southern wilderness; but
just at present we long, as no tongue can tell, for the kindly breast
of Mother Earth, with her soul-stirring warmth, her running streams,
her sweet-smelling flowers, and her air of colour, of perfume, and of
pleasant musical sounds.

On the morning of March 28, 1899, we steamed into the port of Punta
Arenas. After a fifteen months’ absence from civilisation the
new delights which we saw around this end-of-the-world town were
surprising. We noticed with considerable interest the worn roads
snaking through grassy fields, around groups of trees to the summits
of green hills. Behind us were the olive and purple waters of Magellan
Strait. The harsh Cape Horn winds, which blew over the forest-covered
lands, seemed soft to us; to our frozen perceptions the sweets which
these winds brought seemed to combine into one joyous perfume.

Little time was lost in seeking the shore. We were hungry for home
news, and anxious to tread on solid ground. The sensation of having
real earth under our feet was new to us. For more than a year we had
roamed about over the moving frozen waters of the antarctic sea, with
no sight of land, and no feeling of stability. When we mount the first
hill we shall sit down and watch and wait to see if it, too, does
not move like the hills of ice upon which we have rested so long. We
landed quietly, and almost unnoticed; there was no crowd, no tooting
of whistles, and no display of bunting as we passed over the long iron
pier. In Patagonia nothing short of a volcanic eruption creates an
uproar, which was to our liking, for we hated excitement and display
and much desired to spend our time as it best suited our inclinations.
A few of the sailors who came ashore remained on the beach, kicked
about in the sand, and tossed pebbles. So much were they interested
in this first touch of solid ground that they continued to play in
the sand for hours, with the delight of children at the seashore. The
officers marched straightway to a hotel, but in getting there they
were made to feel their own previously unnoticed awkwardness. It is
a sad undertaking for one endowed with a graceful walk to engage in
polar exploration. I do not know whether any one on the _Belgica_
ever boasted of such an accomplishment, but I do know that our walking
attitudes, as we strolled up these streets, were a study in alcoholism.
We had travelled on _skis_ and other snowshoes so long, and had
been tossed about on the sea so much, that we had forgotten how to walk
normally. We spread our legs, dragged our feet, braced and balanced
our bodies with every step, and altogether our gait was ridiculous. It
may all be imagination, but we felt unnatural, as, indeed, we must have
looked.

[Illustration: The Sailors at the End of the Long Night.

A. Tollefsen.
M. Van Rysselberghe. J. Melaerts. J. Van Mirlo.
J. Koren. H. Somers. G. Dufour.
H. Johansen. E. Knudsen. L. Michotte.]

We had hardly learned to realise this ourselves when we got a glimpse,
for the first time in many long months, of a woman. She simply stood
and stared at us, and we at her, and then she gathered up a couple of
youngsters nearby and rushed away from us into the house, as if we
were dangerous characters. Morally hurt by this incident we went along
taking some notice of the men who eyed us with considerable interest.
Presently we passed a door in which two pretty girls were standing.
This sight sent a new sensation through us like that of a Faradic
battery. Somehow we all, at the same time, unconsciously brushed aside
the year’s growth of hair from our faces, and made an effort to arrange
our neckties and change the set of our coats, but we were made to
realise, more and more, that we looked hideous. The girls gave a sudden
giggle, rushed back into the hall, and we had to content ourselves with
the rustle of skirts. This rustle of the skirts of these first girls
who warmed our frozen hearts would make spicy poetry if we dared to
write it. But we are not poets: we must hasten on to the hotel where we
hope quickly to change our freak-like appearances.

At the hotel we soon learned something of the events which had occurred
during our absence, but we were able to get very little connected
news. The Spanish-American War and the Dreyfus Case, of which we knew
nothing, were explained to us. We next tried to get a hasty glimpse of
the newspapers, but the fifteen months previous being a blank to us, we
were unable to read the papers with any idea of assimilation. It was
impossible for us to understand the short daily announcements until we
were able to get a general idea of the drift of the previous events,
and this we knew would take long. We next returned to our rooms and
began to scrutinise ourselves in the mirrors, to learn the reason why
mothers guarded their youngsters, and girls ran away as we came along
the streets.

We presented curious and funny physiognomies. Our faces were drawn,
and but a shade lighter than old copper kettles; our skins were rough,
like nutmeg-graters; and our hair was long, stubborn, and liberally
lined by bunches of gray, though the eldest among us was less than
thirty-five years of age. Our clothing was in a good state of repair,
but its appearance was odd. We had been short of patching material,
hence pieces of leather, bits of canvas, and strips of carpet were
used to cover the tears and to reinforce the weak parts of our coats
and trousers. We were ourselves so used to all of this that we did not
think it strange; but when we heard the rustle of skirts it brought our
sleeping vanity all back. Henceforth we must again wear boiled shirts
and bright feathers. We soon brought in the barber, who made for us
new faces, and the tailor, who fitted us with presentable up-to-date
outfits. While this was being done the mail was brought, and at once
each took a bundle and wandered to some corner. These were moments
of sentiment. Business letters, cheques, drafts, papers, and, indeed,
the bulk of correspondence was put aside, and each had soon in hand a
series of sheets with feminine inscriptions, in which all interest for
the time was centred. Racovitza said: “What means it all? Surely the
indications are that in six months there will be as many new wives as
the present number of bachelors on the _Belgica_.”

After a time, however, this sentimental trance gave way to material
instincts. We had ordered a dinner to be specially prepared for us. We
didn’t care for fancy dishes and desserts; our appetites craved plain
substantials. We had fed during a year on “embalmed” foods and meat,
tasting like cod-liver oil. We enjoyed this when we could get nothing
better, but now we want beefsteak, and a good deal of it. The waiter
interrupted our interesting occupation by the announcement that dinner
was ready. We all followed without a second bidding, and I should be
ashamed to confess to the amount of beefsteak which we devoured.

In a few days we settled down in the normal routine of life. An
opportunity was found to send a cable message by steamer to Montevideo
announcing our discoveries and the general results of our explorations.
Most of us lingered a few weeks in southern South America to prosecute
various branches of research, and then the scientific staff sought
their respective homes by the easiest and quickest routes, leaving the
_Belgica_ to follow in her own slow way.

It seldom falls to the lot of polar explorers to be made to feel, as
we have been, the importance of their work and the success of their
mission. By the honours bestowed upon us by his Majesty, King Leopold;
by medals from the Royal Society of Belgium, the Geographical Society
of Brussels, and the Municipality of Brussels, we are assured that our
hard efforts have been appreciated. The favourable criticism of the
geographers of all lands convince us of what we had hardly dared to
hope, that the expedition was an entire success. I am sure that I voice
the sentiment of every member of the expedition when I say that in
receiving the substantial recognition of King Leopold, of the various
scientific societies, and above all of our fellow-countrymen, we feel
that we have been rewarded beyond our deserts. Such appreciation by
knowing critics is indeed the highest honour which falls to man.

APPENDICES

APPENDIX NO. I

GENERAL RESULTS OF THE BELGIAN ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION

ÉMILE RACOVITZA

TRANSLATED BY PROFESSOR ÉMILE COULON DE JUMONVILLE

A great many parts of our globe are yet unexplored or imperfectly
known. Among these regions the antarctic is certainly the largest and
the least known, but not the least important.

The solution of the numerous questions connected with atmospheric
circulation and oceanic waters, the biology of aquatic animals and the
geographical distribution of living species, depends upon the progress
of our information in that part of the globe. The aim of antarctic
expeditions must, for the present, be scientific. It is of far less
importance to reach high latitudes in those quarters than to bring as
much scientific information as possible. It was this idea which moved
Adrien de Gerlache, the promoter, organiser, and chief of the Belgian
Antarctic Expedition. He consecrated to the scientific implements
an important portion of the feeble resources he had on hand, and
surrounded himself with specialists to whom he intrusted the care of
making scientific observations during the voyage.

To Georges Lecointe was intrusted hydrography and cartography; to Émile
Danco, the magnetic observations and the pendulum--after the latter’s
death, which occurred in June, 1898, his service was continued by
Georges Lecointe. The meteorological observations were made by Henryk
Arctowski and by Antoine Dobrowolski. Arctowski also had charge of
the oceanographical and geological studies. Frederick A. Cook, the
surgeon of the expedition, took charge of the photographic service and
anthropological observations. I was charged with the zoological and
botanical observations.

The materials brought by the expedition are numerous in all their
branches, but their study will not be completed before two or three
years. It will not be until then that we can ascertain the importance
of the results obtained. Thanks to the Belgian Government, a great
publication is expected, and a commission has been chosen to organise
and direct it.

We can, nevertheless, and immediately, enumerate some of the results.
This is what I propose to do in a few words with this reservation: that
these indications are, for the most part, provisional and far from
representing a complete table of the scientific advantages which will
be derived from the expedition.

GEOGRAPHY AND GEOLOGY

THE geographical discoveries were made in the south and west of
Bransfield Strait in Dirk-Gerritz Archipelago. In this region earlier
explorers noticed a large land (Palmerland), separated by a gulf
(Hughes Gulf) from another land situated in the east (Trinityland).
Larsen, the captain of the _Jason_ (1892), having seen south of
Louis Philippeland a vast communication between the Atlantic and the
Pacific, Trinityland became an island for geographers. Dallmann, the
captain of the _Grönland_ (1872), had discovered on the Pacific
side an entrance to a strait (Bismarck Strait). Geographers then made
an effort, upon the maps, to communicate Hughes Gulf with Bismarck
Strait.

The observations of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition demonstrate that
this is all incorrect. Palmerland is a vast archipelago of small
islands; Hughes Gulf is the entrance to a large strait which brings
Bransfield Strait into communication with the Pacific Ocean. This
strait extends from latitude 63° 51′ to 65° south, and its direction is
north-east to south-west. The Pacific mouth of Belgica Strait does not
coincide with the entrance to Bismarck Strait, which, from the position
assigned by Dallmann, is situated much farther south; but it is
possible that Dallmann made a mistake in his observation, and that this
is the very same strait. Trinityland is but the cape-land of a large
tract (Dancoland) which forms the eastern shore of Belgica Strait, and
which is only the continuation of Grahamland.

The shores of Belgica Channel are formed by high, mountainous
table-lands with steep slopes and narrow valleys. One of the peaks
appears to rise above an altitude of two thousand metres. The channels
which separate these lands have steep perpendicular shores and possess
great depths in their centre. The appearance of these lands and
channels indicates that we have to do with a sunken region, in which
the valleys were invaded by the sea. These lands are entirely formed
by ancient crystalline rocks, granites, greenstones, and syenites. We
have seen gneiss only at the mouth of the Pacific Strait. This fact
indicates that we were in the central part of the antarctic chain,
whose general direction is that of Belgica Strait. At the time of our
sojourn in these regions, from the 23d of January to the 12th of
February, the strait was free from ice. There were only a few icebergs.
If some small islands were only partially covered with ice, all those
of a larger extent and Dancoland were completely covered with an
immense crust of ice which showed itself under three different forms.
The interior was all occupied by a frozen sheet, which may be compared
with the Greenland inland ice. Everywhere upon the mountain-sides were
suspended glaciers, and in all the valleys were tremendous crystalline
currents which ran into the sea. The limit of eternal snow coincides
here almost to a certainty with the level of the sea. The study of the
moraines allowed us to state that the glaciers had receded, and at the
same time gave us a decisive information as to a much more considerable
extension at an anterior epoch. The erratic materials furnish us with
rocks much more varied than those found on the spot. We have even met
with transformed sedimentary rocks.

Another important geographical discovery is that of a continental
table-land or plateau situated between longitude 75° and 103° west
of Greenwich, and from latitude 70° to 71° 36′ south. Its mean depth
is 500 metres; with an abrupt fall to 1500 metres towards the north.
The depth of the continental plateau, generally placed at from 200 to
300 metres, shows that this region has also undergone the depressive
movement which was remarked in the lands of Belgica Strait. The
continental plateau rises gently towards the south, and lowers in
its eastern portion towards the north in order to connect itself
most assuredly with the continental plateau of Graham and Alexander
lands. It must connect in a like manner towards the west, fifty
degrees farther, with the continental plateau discovered by Ross east
of Victorialand. We would then have a continuous or uninterrupted
continental mass from longitude 50° west to 63° east. However, the
discovery made by the _Belgica_ gives a serious support to the
hypothesis of an antarctic continent--an hypothesis made the more
likely from many other considerations, of which I shall cite only
one, which is in its place here; that is to say, the terreous nature
of the sediments of the continental plateau and neighbouring regions.
Indeed, these sediments contain, besides the grayish slime, a very
strong proportion of sand, gravel, and a very great number of pebbles
of rounded form, which were certainly rolled by the sea, and were a
part of a littoral cordon. I need not say that the transport of these
substances must have been made by the ice. If this plateau indicates
the existence of a continental mass south of the seventy-second
parallel, inversely, the driftway of the _Belgica_ demonstrates
the non-existence of the ice-wall reported by Bellingshausen, and the
same thing may be said of the land signalled by Walker, since we passed
with the ice-drift over its supposed position. The easy drifting of
the pack towards the west renders impossible the presence of the land
reported by Cook towards longitude 105° west.

ASTRONOMY AND MAGNETISM

The magnetic observations were the object of mensuration upon the
deflection, inclination, and terrestrial magnetic intensity. They were
effected principally with the aid of the Neumayer apparatus; Gambey’s
compass and Brunner’s theodolite were utilised on land, either at the
stopping-places on Belgica Channel or in the known regions, where they
were used for comparing and determining constant quantities. On the
ice-pack the perpetual motions of the ice did not allow us to install
our apparatus for variations. Absolute and ready measurements were the
only ones made. The magnetic stations number sixty.

The astronomical observations had for their principal object
chronometric regulations. We utilised the method of lunar
distances--that of star occultations by the moon, as well as the
eclipses of Jupiter’s satellites.

Pendulum measurements were made in the Strait of Magellan, at Punta
Arenas.

The sketch of Belgica Strait was drawn by taking, as principal points,
twelve stations whose co-ordinates were astronomically determined.
The other stations were obtained either by the method of sufficient
segments or by that of magnetic bearings. We employed also Admiral
Mouchez’s method.

While drifting, the positions of the ship were observed and calculated
either by Marcy Saint-Hilaire’s method or Borda’s, when the latitude
had been determined beforehand by a culmination or a circummeridian.

METEOROLOGY

The only notions we had about the climate of the antarctic were based
upon the very inadequate observations made during the three summer
months. The Belgian Antarctic Expedition is the first which enables us
to furnish a series of observations taken hourly during a full year.
These observations were made during the year of the imprisonment of the
_Belgica_ in the ice-pack between latitudes 70° and 71° 36′ south,
and from longitude 85° to 103° west. In order to appreciate thoroughly
the conclusions which can be derived from these observations, we
must not forget that the _Belgica_, during her wintering in the
ice-pack, was in the neighbourhood of free waters; in consequence,
the climate studied is a coast climate, influenced partly by the
neighbourhood of the sea, partly by that of the continental antarctic
land mass covered with eternal snow. The definite corrections of
figures obtained have not as yet been made; still, we are able to
present the general results with an adequate approximation.

The minimum temperature was observed in September; it was -43°. The
maximum is remarkably low: +2° (in February). The month of July is the
coldest of the year, with an average of -22.5°. The warmest month is
February: average, -1°. The mean temperature of the year is -9.6°, an
extraordinarily low figure for that latitude.

North of the Spitsbergen, at latitude 80° north, we have -8.9°. The
mean temperature in summer is -1.5°, a figure just as remarkable for
its latitude, considering that the expedition of the _Fram_
obtained for a summer average -1.2° by latitude 84° north. This low
temperature can only be explained by the absence of land towards the
north, and the presence of an antarctic continent entirely covered with
ice. This hypothesis is based upon a fact which was observed by the
expedition. Every time the wind blew from the north the temperature
rose, even in midwinter, to 0°, but did not ascend higher. As soon as
the wind shifted and blew from the south the thermometer descended
abruptly, even in the middle of summer, to a very low temperature.

In the interior of the antarctic continent there must be a pole whose
temperature is much lower than the frigidity of the arctic poles of
cold; the frozen surface of the antarctic continent is in effect much
larger than that of Greenland, northern Siberia, or North America.
The zone explored by the _Belgica_ lies in a cyclonic region;
yet the mean barometric pressure of the year, 744 mm. .7, obtained
by a direct observation, is superior by 6 mm. to the theoretical
figure obtained by Ferrel for that latitude, and demonstrates that the
pressure does not decrease progressively towards the pole, where, on
the contrary, there must reign an anticyclone. The absolute minimum
was 711 mm. .74, one of the lowest pressures observed on the level
of the sea. The maximum pressure was 772 mm. .14. The maximum average
monthly variations of the barometer height is 34 mm. .30--a very high
figure, which indicates that the tempestuous region extends beyond
the polar circle. The barometer height is in the average maximum at
the solstices, and minimum at the equinoxes, which shows that in the
antarctic there is a direct and very simple relation between the
barometric pressure and the sun’s altitude. Winds are frequent and
generally violent. Only fifty-five days of calm or very feeble wind
were reckoned for a whole year. In the summer, breezes blow mostly
from eastern regions; in winter from the western. It is probable that
our region is already freed from the direct influence of the circular
antarctic zone of western winds. The air is almost constantly saturated
with watery vapour, and humidity settles down in the form of fog and
snow with remarkable facility. Hoarfrost accumulates in enormous
quantities upon every object--upon the ice-pack, the new ice, and even
upon the falling snowflakes. During the year we counted two hundred and
fifty-seven days of snowfall, and fourteen days of drizzling rain. The
sky is almost constantly obscured by a cloak of grayish and low mists,
which, when they sometimes happen to disappear, allow a pure sky to be
seen, upon which only a few high clouds and very elongated cirri may
be noticed. It would not do to generalise these observations and come
to the conclusion that the whole antarctic is subject to the climatic
régime which we have just described. It is very probable, on the
contrary, that in the interior of the antarctic continent the sky must
be very often pure, humidity lighter, and snowfalls less frequent. The
_Belgica_ was, in fact, imprisoned in a littoral zone, that is,
in a zone where came, to be condensed itself, all the humidity brought
forth by the winds of the vast regions of a free sea situated farther
north. The south wind, or land wind, always had the effect of driving
the clouds away and bringing on a dry cold. Optical phenomena were very
often noticed. Splendid sunrises and sunsets, parhelia, paraselenæ, and
mirage phenomena were remarkable and varied. During the whole winter
austral auroras were frequent, but not remarkably vivid. One single
drape-like aurora was seen; the others looked like luminous clouds
traversed by moving rays.

Insolation during the summer months is considerable. On the 30th of
December the thermometer with a black ball marked +41°, while the
temperature of the air was at -1°. The effect of that insolation is,
however, but little felt upon the ice-pack; the upper layer of snow
hardly melts in summer.

ICE

The observations made with regard to this subject confirm what was
already known from the examination of the arctic ice. The ice directly
produced by the freezing of sea-water is never of great thickness,
but this thickness increases on one side by the accumulation of snows
on its surface, and on the other by the heaping of blocks during the
pressure. These mechanical phenomena are able to form slabs eight
metres in height. The pressures are produced, in the regions explored
by the _Belgica_, by the wind, which is thus foretold: In summer,
during calm weather, there is always a change in the ice-pack, which
is accompanied by a formation of cracks and leads. The pressure is
produced afterwards, but before the wind is felt; it generally ceases
some time after the wind prevails and when the ice-pack is drifting.
This seems to me to prove that the pressure is the result of difference
in the velocity of the drifting parts of the ice-pack, and this
difference is due to the fact that a wind which begins to blow drives
the portion of the ice-pack on which it blows upon the rest, which has
not hitherto felt its influence.

It must be said that the pressure may also be produced when the
ice-pack is driven by the wind against land. The icebergs met by the
expedition are incontestably formed by an ice which has a different
origin from that which forms the ice-pack, properly speaking. An
iceberg is indisputably a fragment of a terrestrial glacier. All the
particulars which we have been able to state, concerning the structure
of the floating iceberg, were equally observed in the structure of the
façades of the glaciers of Belgica Strait.

OCEANOGRAPHY

A sounding-line was much used between Staten Island and the South
Shetlands. It allowed us to find out that Drake Strait is the
prolongation of the oceanic basin of the Pacific. At a short distance
from Staten Island the continental plateau falls abruptly from 296
metres to 1574 metres; farther south we find 4040 metres; then the
bottom rises gently towards the South Shetlands, which rest themselves
upon a continental plateau. These soundings bring forth an important
argument for those who, like myself, believe in the independence of
the American and antarctic continents. The chain of the Andes, first
directed from north to south, bends or inclines towards the east to
Tierra del Fuego, and takes a west-easterly direction in Staten Island.
Perhaps also this curve is in the direction of the north-east through
the Falkland Islands. In the same manner the chains of Grahamland are
divided from south-west to north-east, and through the South Shetlands
from west to east, a direction which, in the South Orkney Isles, leans
slightly towards the south-east. It seems to me that there is here a
system of divergent chains. Other people, however, connect these two
chains by means of a vast hypothetical curve. It is evident that this
question can only be solved by the oceanographical study of the region
comprised between New Georgia of the south and Drake Strait.

In Drake Strait the temperature of the superficial sheet of water is
above 0°, but below its surface the temperature descends to -1°, to
ascend again from 200 metres thereabout, and maintains itself in the
depths above 0°, at the bottom (3660 metres), where it is +0.6°; the
whole column of water cools progressively towards the south. The sheet
of cold water signalled below its surface has the shape of a wedge,
whose point is directed north and whose base is south. This sheet of
cold water increases in thickness towards the south, and nears the
surface at the same time. It is due to the presence and melting of
icebergs.

In the region situated between longitudes 75° and 103° west, and from
latitude 69° to latitude 71° 30′ south, the temperature of the water is
somewhat diverse.

Above the continental plateau the superficial sheet of water has a
temperature of -2°, but the temperature ascends gradually as far as the
bottom, where it maintains itself between 0° and +1°. The cold water
occupies a greater thickness than the warm water, and this thickness
increases towards the south. North of the continental plateau the
temperatures of the water are nearly the same as in Drake Strait.
No constant currents were observed, although the ice-pack in which
the _Belgica_ was inclosed was in constant motion; and though
the drifting movement exceeded sometimes ten miles a day, it is not
possible to establish to a certainty the existence of a current.
The drifting was certainly determined by the exclusive influence
of the wind, and I do not doubt but that a careful comparison of
the successive positions of the ice-pack and mariners’ cards will
demonstrate it in a definite manner.

The sediments found upon the continental plateau and north of it are
of a terreous origin, as stated before; but what is most remarkable is
the great number of globigerinæ which are met there, and an absence
of diatomaceæ. Yet the rapid examination of the plant showed a very
abundant or rich flora of diatomaceæ, and almost no globigerinæ.

ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY

As I have already remarked, the Belgica Channel lands are entirely
covered with a continuous and thick cloak of ice; a few small islands,
shores, and perpendicular cliffs alone show the naked rock. Upon this
limited portion of antarctic land can vegetation alone develop itself;
and, indeed, it does on these spots. The only floriferous plant we
found is of the order _Gramineæ_, which probably belongs to the
_Aira_ species; but the mosses (known among others, _Barbula_
and _Bryum_) and the lichens (known among others, _Lecanora_,
_Verrucaria_, and _Usnea_) are more abundant. On the spots
where the water oozes from the melting snows there grow some soft
water-wracks--oscillariaceæ and diatomaceæ.

The terrestrial animals, properly so called, are represented by a
small species of _Diptera_ with rudimentary wings, podurellæ in large
quantities, living with three or four species of small _Acarida_ or
mites among mosses and lichens. Upon soft water-wracks there rises a
microscopic fauna composed of _Nematoidea_, _Rotifera_, _Tardigrada_,
_Infusoria_, and _Rhizopoda_. These animals and plants represent at
the present day the terrestrial antarctic fauna and flora, and no
other living animal has yet been discovered upon the whole extent
of the properly called antarctic region, for we cannot consider as
terrestrial animals the birds and seals which inhabit this region.
The question is to know what has become of the autochtone fauna and
flora, which must have inhabited the great antarctic land and wastes
during the geological periods, when the ice had not invaded the polar
regions. To this question, it seems to me, there is but one answer to
be made. The whole terrestrial antarctic fauna was destroyed during
the glacial epochs, which, before the present epoch, covered over with
ice more completely than to-day the whole antarctic region. We possess
decisive information concerning the existence of a vast crystalline
cap which stretched over the whole of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Moreover, we observed in Belgica Channel some glacial phenomena which
incontestably indicate a much greater extension of ice than the present
existing one. I believe that even the plants and terrestrial animals
that were found upon the lands of Belgica Strait are not the remains
of the antarctic flora and fauna of the preglacial epoch, but American
immigrants brought by the large-winged birds which are common to both
regions.

Birds are very numerous in the Belgica Channel, and the greater part
of them rest in the holes and cracks of the cliffs. With but one
exception, the _Chionis alba_, all are web-footed and are a part of
the orders _Gavia_, _Tubinares_, _Steganopoda_, and _Impenes_. The
most common are the Dominican sea-gull (_Larus dominicanus_), the
brown sea-gull (_Megalestris antarctica_), the sea-swallow (_Sterna
hirundinacea_), the large petrel (_Ossifraga gigantea_), the bird of
tempests (_Oceanites oceanicus_), the Cape pigeon (_Daption capensis_),
the carunculated cormorant (_Phalacrocorax carunculatus_), the Papuan
penguin (_Pygoscelis papua_), and the antarctic penguin (_Pygoscelis
antarctica_), these latter two living in vast rookeries; in short, the
curious beak-sheathed bird (_Chionis alba_) which, like most other
birds already mentioned, nests in the holes and crevices of rocks.

Two varieties of seals were seen in Belgica Channel--the Weddell
seal (_Leptonychotes weddelli_), frequently met in small bands,
and the crab-eater seal (_Lobodon carcinophaga_), which is more
scarce. Among the _Cetacea_, the _Megaptera boöps_ (?) is
met in large troops, often in the company of a large balænoptera
(_Balænoptera Sibbaldii_) (?), but no genuine black or Greenland
bone whale was ever seen. The littoral fauna and flora are badly
represented on account of the constant motion of the ice along the
rocky shores of the sea. Sea-wracks cannot fix themselves upon them,
nor can animals. Yet in some well-sheltered crevices I found some rare
sea-grasses (_Desmarestia_, etc.), and patellæ with small inferior
animals.

The first biological example we could ascertain, during our
imprisonment of thirteen months in the ice-pack, was a general
presence of diatomaceæ on the superficial sheets of the sea, as well
as upon icebergs and in the interior of the holes and cracks of the
sea-ice. The most frequently represented species are _Chætoceros_,
_Coscinodiscus_, and _Chorethron_. The bed or plant is not very rich
and but little varied. It is composed of small-sized animals, of which
the most frequently represented are enumerated in the order of their
frequency: the _Copepodaes Radiolaria_ (_Protocystis_, _Cannosphæra_),
_Pteropoda_ (_Limacina_), _Polychæta_ (_Pelagobia_), _Copelata_
(_Oikopleura_), _Ostracoda_, _Siphonophora_ (_Eudoxia_), etc.

The size of the bed or plant undergoes a season’s change. During the
winter, sea-ice, being very thick, intercepts daylight; in consequence
the diatomaceæ cannot increase and the bed decreases considerably in
size. In the summer, on the contrary, sea-ice thins, cracks, and tracks
are numerous; light can thus penetrate, which accounts for an abundant
growth of diatomaceæ, and the bed increases considerably in volume.

One of the most important _plancton_ forms or plants, with regard
to the part it plays in the economy of antarctic life, is a species
of the _Euphausia_ kind. In fact, there exist immense shoals of
this animal under the ice-pack, and these shoals serve as an almost
exclusive food for seals, penguins, and presumably cetaceans.

Dredgings performed upon the continental plateau spoken of elsewhere
brought forth a fauna which, from its general character, shows a
remarkable affinity with the abyssal fauna. We fished, in effect,
pedunculated _Crinoidea_, _Elasipoda_, benthal _Asterias_, _Aselidæ_,
_Pantopoda_, _Gorgonidæ_, _Polychæta_, _Cumacea_, _Mysidæ_, _Ascidiæ_,
which have a striking air of relationship with the similar forms fished
in the great oceanic depths. This fact ought not to astonish us, for
we well know that the great factor in the distribution of marine
animals is temperature. Now, the temperature of the water upon this
plateau of five hundred metres in depth is much the same as that of the
oceanic depths. The groups best represented are the _Echinodermata_,
_Crustacea_ (_Edriophthalma_), _Polychæta_, _Gorgonidæ_, and _Bryozoa_.
The birds which were constantly present upon the ice-pack are not
numerous: the very large petrel (_Ossifraga gigantea_), the snow petrel
(_Pagodroma nivea_), the antarctic petrel (_Thalassocca antarctica_),
the brown sea-gull (_Megalestris antarctica_), Forster’s penguin
(_Aptenodytes forsteri_), and the Adelia land penguin (_Pygosulis
adeliæ_).

The whole four seal species inhabiting the antarctic were seen during
our stay in the ice-pack; that is, the crab-eater seal (_Lobodon
carcinophaga_), Weddell sea-leopard (_Leptonychotes weddelli_),
the true sea-leopard (_Ogmorhynus leptonyx_), and Ross’s seal
(_Ommatophoca Rossi_). _Balænoptera_ of a small size and
_Ziphiidæ_ came very often to breathe in the cracks and leads
of the ice-pack. The temperature of the bodies of the seals is about
+37°, that of the penguins about +40°. These figures are below the
normal. These animals, in order to fight against the exterior cold, do
not create more heat than this, only they lose less, and they arrive
at this result by means of the thick covering of fat which surrounds
them. Direct observations allow us to state this fact. The cold does
not appear to have a pernicious influence upon the human organism.
In temperatures of from -30° to -40° and calm weather, the feeling
one experiences is rather pleasant and invigorating. It is naturally
otherwise when the wind blows. I believe that for a traveller the
great inconvenience of cold upon the ice-pack is that it creates a
condensation of aqueous vapour which is eliminated by the skin’s
surface. At the end of a short time the clothes are all wet, and it is
hard under such conditions to get warm. But the greatest inconvenience
in polar regions lies in the absence of the sun during the winter
months. The pernicious influence of the absence of direct sunbeams,
upon the human organism, was witnessed to a certainty during the winter
of 1898.

The whole crew of the _Belgica_, without exception, presented
symptoms which in medical books are grouped under the name of chronic
anæmia. With them all we could notice a discoloration of the mucous
membranes, dyspnœa, acceleration of the pulse, dizziness, insomnia,
a complete incapacity for prolonged intellectual work, and even a
swelling of the legs. The report of the surgeon of the expedition
promises to be interesting under this head.

I have spoken only to call attention to the studies which were made
by the members of the expedition in Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
They will bring out some zoological, botanical, geological, and
anthropological contributions for the knowledge of these important
regions of the globe.

APPENDIX NO. II

THE ANTARCTIC CLIMATE

HENRYK ARCTOWSKI

The following is a preliminary account of some of the additions to our
knowledge of the meteorology of higher southern latitudes contributed
by the recent Belgian Antarctic Expedition.

These desolate antarctic regions, still so little explored, present
many physical problems of the highest interest; the question of their
climate, attacked as early as the time of Croll, must prove a subject
of exhaustive investigation in the immediate future. The results I
have obtained were not originally intended for publication in their
present form, because the mean values involved can only be regarded as
first approximations; however, it appears that my provisional numbers
are sufficiently exact to indicate the general nature of the climatic
régime in parts of the globe about which we have been, up to the
present, practically without information. The fact that other antarctic
expeditions are about to set out has decided me to publish my figures
as they stand.

For the purposes of our inquiry, it is a matter of indifference
whether an antarctic continent exists or not; we have undoubtedly to
deal with a continuous surface of ice, which the meteorologist must
regard as a land surface as opposed to an open sea. This ice-cap is
entirely isolated by an ocean which surrounds it, and is subjected
to the peculiar conditions of polar day and night. Hence the first
points to be considered are the average distribution of pressure and
the direction of the prevailing winds. The positions (about 81° and
95° west longitude, and 69° 50′ and 71° 30′ south latitude) show
a relatively small distance from the open sea and great distance
from the pole. In consequence we experienced two distinct types of
climate according to the direction of the wind,--a continental and
an oceanic,--in effect a coastal climate depending on the passage of
cyclones which varied in frequency with the seasons. This seems to
be the key of the whole position. As regards details, I take into
consideration the mean and minimum temperatures and the barometric
pressures, the direction of wind, the amount of cloud, and the amount
of precipitation.

Table I. gives the mean values obtained from hourly observations of
temperature made on board the _Belgica_ during her drift in the
ice.

July was the coldest month; its mean temperature was -23.5° C. (-10.3°
F.), and the lowest temperature observed during the month, -37.1°
C. (-34.8° F.). The extreme minimum of temperature was observed in
September, -43.1° C. (-45.6° F.).

The warmest month was February, with a mean temperature of -1.0° C.
(30.2° F.), and minimum for the month, -9.6° C. (14.7° F.).

If we regard June, July, and August as the antarctic winter months, and
December, January, and February as summer, we may take it that the mean
winter temperature is -16.8° C. (1.8° F.), and the mean for summer,
-1.5° C. (29.3° F.).

Table II. shows the minimum temperature for each month. The maximum
temperatures are less interesting; the winter average is -1° to 0° C.
(30° to 32° F.); the absolute maximum for the equinoctial months is 0°
to 1° C. (32° to 34° F.), and for summer, 2° C. (36° F.).

These tables show that between the seventieth and seventy-first
parallels of the southern hemisphere, and amid the ice of the Antarctic
Ocean, first, the mean temperature is lower than that of the northern
coast of Spitsbergen--Mossel Bay, 1872–73, -8.9° C. (16° F.); second,
the minimum temperature is quite as low as the minima observed on the
east side of Greenland (Sabine Island and Scoresby Sound); and third,
that the mean temperature of the three summer months is lower than the
corresponding mean in the ice of the Arctic Ocean--the observations
of the _Fram_ give a mean for June, July, and August of -1.2°
C. (29.8° F.). Note that the calculations of Spitaler and Supan give
a mean temperature for the parallel of 70° north latitude of -10.2°
C. (13.6° F.). If we consider that a considerable fraction of the
seventieth parallel of south latitude is land, we can suppose that it
may have a mean temperature as low as the seventieth degree north, and
include a pole of cold with lower temperature, as the Asiatic or North
American poles of cold.

As in the case of the mean temperatures, the values I am able to
give for mean barometric pressure must be regarded only as first
approximations. During our drift in the pack-ice hourly observations
were made with a marine barometer and with an aneroid. I have not yet
been able to apply exact corrections to these observations, but if
we bear in mind that while the temperature correction is negative,
the correction for latitude is positive, and that for temperatures
about 13° to 15° C. (55° to 60° F.) these corrections are numerically
nearly equal, we can accept the uncorrected values as near enough for
our present purpose. Table III. gives the averages of the aneroid
observations, calculated to whole millimetres only. The mean for the
year is 744.7 mm. (29.319 inches).

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Tables IV. and V. give the principal minima and maxima of pressure
observed; the values are reduced to the freezing-point and gravity
at 45° latitude. The lowest pressure observed during our wintering
was 711.74 mm. (28.022 inches), and the highest 772.14 mm. (30.400
inches), a range of 60.40 mm. (2.378 inches). Table VI. gives the
monthly variations of the barometer, the mean value of which amounts
to 34.30 mm. (1.350 inches), showing even more clearly than Table IV.
that the cyclonic belt extends beyond the polar circle. From this
table it appears, further, that the three months of almost continuous
daylight (November, December, and January) are characterised by a very
small variation of pressure--only 23.95 mm. (0.943 inch). The three
corresponding months of winter have also a mean less than those for
the intermediate or equinoctial months. Compare this with the mean
pressures (Table III.). The differences between the annual and monthly
means (Table VII.) show that February, March, and April form a negative
group, in which the pressure is relatively low; the three months of
polar night form another group of maximum barometric pressure; then
follow August, September, and October, months of decreasing pressure, a
group which, although not actually negative, forms a distinct secondary
minimum; and lastly, three months of polar day forming a secondary
maximum of pressure. The general result is illustrated in Fig. 1,--high
pressure at the solstices, low pressure at the equinoxes,--and the
existence of a direct simple relation between the barometric pressure
and the progress of the sun is at once obvious.

Table VIII. gives the observed wind directions: the figures indicate
the number of hours during which the wind blew from each direction
during the twelve months, the sums constituting the “wind-rose” of the
point of observation. Fig. 2 shows that winds blow from northerly and
southerly points with almost equal frequency, and that easterly winds
predominate over westerly. The directions of greatest frequency were
west, east, and north-east.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

The monthly wind-roses show some interesting seasonal variations in the
prevailing directions of the wind; we note specially the predominance
of north-east to south-east over westerly winds from November to
February, and the relative frequency of westerly winds during June,
July, and August (Fig. 3). The figures show that, on the whole, the
station was beyond the westerly wind region, although at certain
seasons the westerly system did extend as far south.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

Some further points must be referred to in describing the climatic
conditions we experienced. The temperature of the air is doubtless the
most important element in the study of climate; but it seems to me
that its importance is relatively less in polar regions than in other
parts of the globe. In polar latitudes the human organism is chiefly
influenced by the absence of the sun during the night of winter. In the
summer, on the other hand, the radiant heat of the sun is so strongly
concentrated that the temperature of the air scarcely measures the
warmth we feel. Further, the action of the solar rays is directly
beneficial--the sun strengthens and reanimates. And besides direct
insolation, the diffused daylight itself must be considered. One feels
quite different under a cloudless vault and under a sky overcast and
sombre. The presence or absence of the sun is a much more important
matter to us than the state of the thermometer.

The wind is another extremely important factor from the physiological
point of view. In calm weather a temperature of -20° C. (-4° F.) is
quite tolerable, even agreeable if the sun is shining; but with a light
breeze one feels the cold at once, and in strong wind it is impossible
to remain long in the open air with so low a temperature. It appears to
me that humidity plays a quite secondary part in the physiology of the
polar climate--at least, at low temperatures; in any case, the humidity
of the atmosphere rarely makes itself felt.

Some actinometric observations will serve to indicate the intensity
of radiant heat. At 2 P. M. on December 30, the temperature
of the air being -0.2° C. (31.6° F.), the black-bulb thermometer read
45.1° C. (113.2° F.) in the sun, which explains why in reality the
weather felt very warm.

The sky was usually overcast, most frequently with a thick layer of
stratus, which formed a uniform gray covering, and often persisted for
days or even weeks together, with only short breaks. Table IX. shows
the state of the sky during each month of the year.

The number of days during which the air was not saturated, i.e., on
which the hygrometer indicated humidity less than ninety per cent.,
was, in October, 12; November, 18; December, 22; January, 15; and
February, 11.

If we include ice-deposits from fog and similar precipitation, we find
that snowfall is recorded on 257 days of the year, made up as shown on
the first column of Table X. The second column of Table X. shows the
number of days on which rain (even a few drops) was recorded. Speaking
generally, it may be said that the weather was extremely cloudy, that
fogs were frequent, that snow fell on many days, and that the air was
saturated nearly the whole time.

Table XI. gives particulars with regard to wind force.

TABLE I.--MEAN TEMPERATURE.

-----------------+-----------------+------------
| °C | °F
-----------------+-----------------+------------
1898. March | -9.1} | 15.6}
April | -11.8} -9.1 | 10.8} 15.6
May | -6.5} | 20.3}
| |
June | 15.5} | 4.1}
July | 23.5} -16.8 | -10.3} 1.8
August | -11.3} | 11.7}
| |
September | -18.5} | -1.3}
October | -7.9} -11.1 | 17.8} 12.0
November | -6.9} | 19.6}
| |
December | -2.2} | 28.0}
1899. January | -1.2} -1.5 | 29.8} 29.3
February | -1.0} | 30.2}
-----------------+-----------------+------------
Year | -9.6 | 14.7
-----------------+-----------------+------------

TABLE II.--MONTHLY MINIMA OF TEMPERATURE.

-------------------------------+--------+-------
| °C | °F
-------------------------------+--------+-------
1898. February 23, at 10 p.m. | -7.6 | 18.3
March 15, at 4 a.m. | -20.3 | -4.5
April 3, at 6 p.m. | -26.5 | -15.7
May 29, at 8 p.m. | -25.2 | -13.4
June 3, at 6 p.m. | -30.0 | -22.0
July 17, at 10 p.m. | -37.1 | -34.8
August 28, at 3 a.m. | -29.6 | -21.3
September 8, at 4 a.m. | -43.1 | -45.6
October 25, at 3 a.m. | -26.3 | -15.3
November 2, at 4 a.m. | -21.4 | -6.5
December 2, midnight | -14.5 | 5.9
1899. January 2, at 2 a.m. | -8.1 | 17.4
February 11, at 2 a.m. | -9.6 | 14.7
March 4, midnight | -12.0 | 10.4
-------------------------------+--------+-------

TABLE III.--MONTHLY MEANS (APPROXIMATE) OF
BAROMETRIC PRESSURE.

-----------------+---------+--------
| MM. | INCHES.
-----------------+---------+--------
1898. February[1]| 738.5 | 29.075
March | 741.4 | 29.190
April | 735.6 | 28.961
May | 746.3 | 29.382
June | 749.5 | 29.508
July | 747.8 | 29.441
August | 747.2 | 29.418
September | 745.5 | 29.351
October | 744.7 | 29.319
November | 746.0 | 29.371
December | 748.2 | 29.457
1899. January | 747.3 | 29.422
February | 736.5 | 28.997
-----------------+---------+--------
Year | 744.7 | 29.319
-----------------+---------+--------
[1] Latter half of month only.

TABLE IV.--MINIMUM PRESSURES OBSERVED.

-----------------------------+------------------+------------------
| REDUCED TO | REDUCED TO
| FREEZING-POINT. | FREEZING-POINT
| | AND LAT. 45°.
-----------------------------+--------+---------+---------+--------
| MM. | INCHES. | MM. | INCHES.
1898. February 18, at 6 a.m. | 724.53 | 28.526 | 725.93 | 28.581
March 22, at 4 a.m. | 719.96 | 28.345 | 721.48 | 28.405
April 20, at 3 a.m. | 714.66 | 28.136 | 716.15 | 28.195
May 10, at 11 p.m. | 730.26 | 28.751 | 731.78 | 28.811
June 21, at 1 a.m. | 733.58 | 28.881 | 735.11 | 28.941
July 31, at 2 a.m. | 731.77 | 28.811 | 733.28 | 28.870
August 12, at 4 a.m. | 715.81 | 28.182 | 717.31 | 28.241
September 22, at 6 a.m.| 719.29 | 28.319 | 720.77 | 28.377
October 23, at 4 a.m. | 722.06 | 28.428 | 723.53 | 28.486
November 19, at 3 p.m. | 731.33 | 28.793 | 732.82 | 28.852
December 22, at 10 p.m.| 735.52 | 28.958 | 737.01 | 29.016
1899. January 30, at 10 p.m. | 733.92 | 28.895 | 735.43 | 28.955
February 17, at 11 p.m.| 718.59 | 28.292 | 720.08 | 28.350
March 2, at 3 a.m. | 710.26 | 27.963 | 711.74 | 28.022
-----------------------------+--------+---------+---------+--------
Absolute minimum, 711.74 mm. = 28.022 inches.

TABLE V.--MAXIMUM PRESSURES OBSERVED.

-----------------------------+------------------+------------------
| REDUCED TO | REDUCED TO
| FREEZING-POINT. | FREEZING-POINT
| | AND LAT. 45°.
-----------------------------+--------+---------+---------+--------
| MM. | INCHES. | MM. | INCHES.
1898. February 11, at 4 p.m. | 755.82 | 29.757 | 757.11 | 29.808
March 29, at 1 a.m. | 755.35 | 29.739 | 756.95 | 29.802
April 26, at 7 a.m. | 753.80 | 29.678 | 755.37 | 29.739
May 13, at 4 p.m. | 764.28 | 30.090 | 765.90 | 30.154
June 11, at 1 a.m. | 770.48 | 30.334 | 772.14 | 30.400
July 18, at 8 p.m. | 761.53 | 29.983 | 763.10 | 30.044
August 29, at 6 p.m. | 765.43 | 30.135 | 766.99 | 30.197
September 16, at 9 p.m.| 757.77 | 29.834 | 759.31 | 29.894
October 12, at 8 a.m. | 764.80 | 30.111 | 766.35 | 30.172
November 13, at 4 a.m. | 754.05 | 29.688 | 755.58 | 29.748
December 18, at 5 a.m. | 757.65 | 29.829 | 759.20 | 29.890
1899. January 24, at 8 p.m. | 760.76 | 29.951 | 762.33 | 30.013
February 22, at 3 a.m. | 751.63 | 29.593 | 753.17 | 29.653
-----------------------------+--------+---------+---------+--------
Absolute maximum, 772.14 mm. = 30.400 inches.

TABLE VI.--MAXIMUM VARIATIONS OF PRESSURE, AND MEANS OF THOSE
VARIATIONS.

----------------+----------------+---------
| MM. | INCHES.
----------------+----------------+---------
1899. February | 33.09 } | 1.303
1898. March | 35.47 } 35.93 | 1.397
April | 39.22 } | 1.544
| |
May | 34.12 } | 1.343
June | 37.03 } 33.66 | 1.458
July | 29.82 } | 1.174
| |
August | 49.68 } | 1.955
September | 38.54 } 43.68 | 1.518
October | 42.82 } | 1.686
| |
November | 22.76 } | 0.897
December | 22.19 } 23.95 | 0.874
1899. January | 26.90 } | 1.059
----------------+----------------+---------
Mean | 34.30 | 1.350
----------------+----------------+---------
Extreme range for the year: 772.14--711.74 = 60.40 mm.
30.400--28.022 = 2.378 inches.

TABLE VII.--DIFFERENCES OF MONTHLY MEANS OF PRESSURE FROM THE
MEAN OF THE YEAR.

The + sign indicates pressure greater than the mean, the - sign
pressure less than the mean.

-----------------+---------+-----------------------
| MM. | INCHES.
-----------------+---------+-----------------------
1899. February | -8.2 | -0.323 }
1898. March | -3.3 | -0.130 } minimum.
April | -9.1 | -0.358 }
-----------------+---------+-----------------------
May | +1.6 | +0.063 }
June | +4.8 | +0.189 } maximum.
July | +3.1 | +0.122 }
-----------------+---------+-----------------------
August | +2.5 | +0.098 }
September | +0.8 | +0.031 } 2nd minimum.
October | 0.0 | 0.000 }
-----------------+---------+-----------------------
November | +1.3 | +0.051 }
December | +3.5 | +0.138 } 2nd maximum.
1899. January | +2.6 | +0.102 }
-----------------+---------+-----------------------

TABLE VIII.--TABLE OF WIND DIRECTIONS.

The figures show the number of hours during which the wind blew from
each direction.

------+---+---+---+----+---+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
| N.| N.| N.| E. | E.| E. | S.| S.| S.| S.| S.| W.| W.| W.| N.| N.
| | N.| E.| N. | | S. | E.| S.| | S.| W.| S.| | N.| W.| N.
| | E.| | E. | | E. | | E.| | W.| | W.| | W.| | W.
------+---+---+---+----+---+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
1898.| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
March | 14| 26| 38| 60 | 68| 50 | 34| 30| 82| 22| 64| 56| 78| 22| 22| 10
April | 30| 22| 13| 27 | 84| 64 | 76| 59| 32| 21| 25| 20| 51| 49| 50| 31
May |100|121| 72| 8 | 17| 33 | 4| 7| 9| 1| 2| 17| 65| 75| 61| 83
June | 14| 22| 26| 33 | 34| 25 | 28| 9| 24| 8| 76| 38|191| 87| 37| 16
July | 22| 10| 1| -- | 24| 72 | 31| 70| 54| 28| 48| 38| 81| 48| 25| 4
August| 32| 14| 38| 29 | 26| 9 | 34| 5| 19| 10| 47| 56|141| 76|104| 38
Sept. | 51| 24| 74| 44 | 46| 22 | 28| 14| 49| 16| 47| 21| 59| 45| 24| 17
Oct. | 47| 31| 46| 8 | 45| 11 | 7| 18| 41| 24| 69| 74| 91| 42| 83| 32
Nov. | 34| 35| 69| 93 | 79| 32 | 21| 14| 21| 31| 37| 28| 38| 28| 18| 21
Dec. | 3| 12| 53| 92 | 67|107 | 55| 16| 21| 24| 63| 58| 44| 5| 11| 7
1899.| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Jan. | 8| 16|124|156 |104| 84 | 52| 72| 20| 12| 28| 16| 8| --| --| --
Feb. | 32| 42| 70| 49 |111| 99 | 72| 37| 22| 10| 13| 23| 35| 13| 17| 6
------+---+---+---+----+---+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----
|387|375|624|599 |705|608 |442|351|394|207|519|445|882|490|452|265
------+---+---+---+----+---+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----

TABLE IX.

Column 1 shows number of days of continuous fog or overcast sky.

Column 2 shows number of days with sky partially clear for
several hours in succession (cloud amount 30 per cent. or more).

Column 3 shows number of days on which fog was observed.

-----------+------+------+----
| 1 | 2 | 3
-----------+------+------+----
March | 6 | 15 | 14
April | 10 | 14 | 26
May | 15 | 8 | 27
June | 5 | 16 | 28
July | 7 | 22 | 17
August | 9 | 15 | 25
September | 9 | 14 | 14
October | 16 | 12 | 23
November | 13 | 10 | 18
December | 9 | 13 | 13
January | 17 | 6 | 17
February | 21 | 1 | 23
-----------+------+------+----

TABLE X.

Column 1 shows the number of days on which snow was recorded.

Column 2 shows the number of days on which rain was recorded.

-----------+-------+-----
| 1 | 2
-----------+-------+-----
March | 13 | --
April | 22 | --
May | 30 | 4
June | 24 | --
July | 14 | --
August | 26 | 1
September | 19 | --
October | 25 | 2
November | 25 | --
December | 18 | --
January | 19 | 4
February | 22 | 3
-----------+-------+-----
Year | 257 | 14
-----------+-------+-----

TABLE XI.

Column 1 shows the number of days of calm, or of wind not exceeding
force 1.

Column 2 shows the number of days of wind force less than 4.

-----------+------+-----
| 1 | 2
-----------+------+-----
March | 0 | 11
April | 2 | 5
May | 3 | 13
June | 3 | 11
July | 15 | 25
August | 3 | 15
September | 7 | 20
October | 4 | 11
November | 8 | 21
December | 4 | 21
January | 5 | 24
February | 1 | 12
-----------+------+-----

APPENDIX NO. III

THE BATHYMETRICAL CONDITIONS OF THE ANTARCTIC REGIONS

HENRYK ARCTOWSKI

The scientific work of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition was commenced
in the channels of Tierra del Fuego, and after the vessel left the
pack they were concluded at Punta Arenas. It is thus impossible to
discuss the physical geography of the antarctic regions in general
without including the scientific results of the expedition of the
_Belgica_.

The works of Murray, Neumayer, Fricker, and others,[2] give a general
account of the previous state of our knowledge of the antarctic
regions, and therefore I prefer to give a short summary of the results
obtained by the Belgian Antarctic Expedition from the point of view of
oceanography.

[Illustration]

The _Belgica_ had the advantage of navigating a region in which no
previous bathymetric researches had been made, and her soundings have
a special value (although their actual number was not great) because
they were not taken at random. On the voyage from Staten Island to the
South Shetlands, a line of soundings was run nearly from north to
south, giving a transverse section of the “antarctic channel” which
separates the Andes from one of the projecting angles of Murray’s
hypothetical antarctic continent. In another place also, beyond the
antarctic circle, and to the west of Alexander I. Land, we were able to
obtain a series of soundings, some before entering the ice, the others
on account of the drift of the vessel when imprisoned in the pack. The
soundings on our way southward are given in the Table as Nos. 1–9, and
those taken between 70° and 107° west as Nos. 10–56, while the results
are represented chartographically in the two maps.

[Illustration: SOUNDINGS IN THE PACK

(Soundings in fathoms)]

The first map shows the probable arrangement of the depths to the south
of Cape Horn and in the antarctic regions. Soundings Nos. 1, 2, and 3
prove that south of Staten Island the continental shelf is very narrow,
and terminates seaward in an abrupt slope, the greatest depth sounded
(2209 fathoms) lying, in fact, very near the island. To the east, on
the contrary, the continental shelf extends to a great distance as
Burdwood Bank.

Between the southern versant of the Andes and the mountain system
forming the framework of the antarctic lands visited by the expedition,
there lies a deep, flat-bottomed depression, the floor of which rises
gently towards the south, and not far from the South Shetlands an
abrupt slope leads up to the rocky shallows near Livingstone Island.
The last sounding taken gave a depth of 2625 fathoms in 56° 28′ south
and 84° 46′ west, proving that the depth increases towards the Pacific
Ocean. As, on the contrary, the Sandwich group, South Georgia, and Shag
Rocks lie to the east, it seems probable that this great basin (called
Barker Basin on the chart in the _Challenger_ Reports) does not
extend to the east of these islands. In a note on the interest which
attaches to the geological exploration of the lands in the far south,
which I published in December, 1895,[3] I suggested that “Grahamland
is connected with Patagonia by a submarine ridge, which forms a great
arc extending between Cape Horn and the South Shetland Islands,
and that the tertiary chain of the Andes reappears in Grahamland.”
I maintain this hypothesis, which demands for its satisfactory
demonstration not only the geological study of the land, but also and
chiefly a detailed bathymetrical map. The first step to this end has
now been made.

The second map, showing soundings in the pack, is on a larger scale
than the first, and shows the distribution of the soundings to
the west of the land, and within the antarctic circle. It clearly
demonstrates the presence of a continental shelf. The section along
the line _AB_ is extremely characteristic, showing distinctly
that the submarine slope is discontinuous. The submerged bank, which
terminates abruptly towards the ocean, has depths of from 200 to 300
fathoms, and farther south the depths are probably still less. I shall
not discuss the configuration of this submarine elevation as one might
imagine it to be from the soundings taken upon it, for the soundings
are not numerous enough for this to be done profitably. But I cannot
refrain from calling attention to one point which seems to me of great
importance. The edge of the plateau is indicated by the isobath of 300
fathoms, beyond which the depths increase very rapidly. Now, it is
the 100-fathom line which is generally accepted as the limit of the
continental shelf, and it would appear possible that in the antarctic
regions the continental shelf had been submerged. The discussion of
this interesting question would, however, lead us too far.

It is noteworthy that the soundings carried out by the _Erebus_
and _Terror_ to the east of Victorialand, and north of the
ice-barrier discovered by Ross, also indicate the existence of a
continental shelf with much greater depths to the north. Between the
two there still remains a space of 60° of longitude to explore before
one can say whether they are connected.

[Illustration: METHOD OF SOUNDING]

All the positions were fixed by M. Lecointe, and I am indebted to the
kindness of this accomplished astronomer for the exact place of each
sounding. The sounding-machine of the _Belgica_ was constructed by
Le Blanc at Paris, and is similar to that employed on the _Pola_
by the Austrian expedition. During the wintering in the ice, M. de
Gerlache had a simple but effective arrangement constructed on board,
which was fitted up on the ice close to the ship, and only required a
hole to be cut in order to allow a sounding to be made. It consisted of
a wooden drum carrying the sounding-wire, a brake consisting of a cord
and a strong piece of wood serving as a lever to regulate the descent
of the weight, and two cranks on the axle of the drum to heave in the
wire. A wheel of one metre in circumference, with a counter from the Le
Blanc machine, allowed the depth to be read off. The line ran through
a block attached by a dynamometer to three poles arranged as a tripod.
The soundings and temperature observations were laborious, and it is
due to the co-operation of MM. Amundsen, Tollefsen, Johansen, Melaerts,
Van Rysselberghe, and of M. de Gerlache himself, that it has been made
possible for me to write these notes on the bathymetrical conditions of
the antarctic regions.

TABLE OF SOUNDINGS.

--------+----------+--------+---------+---------+----
DATE. | DEPTH |FATHOMS.|LATITUDE.|LONGITUDE| NO.
|IN METRES.| | | WEST. |
--------+----------+--------+---------+---------+----
1898. | | | ° ′ | ° ′ |
Jan. 14| 296 | 162 | 54 51 | 63 37 | 1
„ 14| 1564 | 855 | 55 3 | 63 29 | 2
„ 15| 4040 | 2209 | 55 51 | 63 19 | 3
„ 16| 3850 | 2105 | 56 49 | 64 30 | 4
„ 18| 3800 | 2078 | 59 58 | 63 12 | 5
„ 19| 3690 | 2018 | 61 5 | 63 4 | 6
„ 20| 2900 | 1586 | 62 2 | 61 58 | 7
„ 20| 1880 | 1028 | 62 11 | 61 37 | 8
„ 28| 625 | 342 | 64 23 | 62 2 | 9
Feb. 16| 135 | 74 | 67 59 | 70 40 | 10
„ 19| 480 | 262 | 69 6 | 78 21 | 11
„ 23| 565 | 309 | 69 46 | 81 8 | 12
„ 24| 510 | 279 | 69 31 | 81 31 | 13
„ 25| 2700 | 1476 | 69 17 | 82 25 | 14
„ 27| 2600 | 1422 | 69 24 | 84 39 | 15
„ 27| 1730 | 946 | 69 41 | 84 43 | 16
Mar. 1| 570 | 312 | 71 6 | 85 23 | 17
„ 1| 520 | 284 | 71 17 | 85 43 | 18
„ 2| 460 | 251 | 71 31 | 85 16 | 19
„ 4| 530 | 290 | 71 22 | 84 55 | 20
„ 5| 520 | 284 | 71 19 | 85 29 | 21
„ 9| 554 | 303 | 71 23 | 85 33 | 22
„ 20| 390 | 213 | 71 35 | 88 2 | 23
April 22| 480 | 262 | 71 2 | 92 3 | 24
„ 26| 410 | 224 | 70 50 | 92 22 | 25
May 4| 1150 | 629 | 70 33 | 89 22 | 26
„ 20| 435 | 238 | 71 16 | 87 38 | 27
„ 26| 436 | 238 | 71 13 | 87 44 | 28
Sept. 2| 502 | 274 | 70 0 | 82 45 | 29
„ 9| 510 | 279 | 69 51 | 82 36 | 30
„ 14| 480 | 262 | 69 53 | 83 4 | 31
„ 22| 485 | 265 | 70 23 | 82 31 | 32
„ 26| 485 | 265 | 70 21 | 82 52 | 33
„ 29| 480 | 262 | 70 21 | 82 39 | 34
Oct. 7| 480 | 262 | 70 30 | 82 48 | 35
„ 16| 532 | 291 | 69 59 | 80 54 | 36
„ 19| 580 | 317 | 70 1 | 81 45 | 37
„ 24| 537 | 294 | 69 43 | 80 51 | 38
Nov. 2| 518 | 283 | 69 51 | 81 24 | 39
„ 10| 490 | 268 | 70 9 | 82 35 | 40
„ 28| 459 | 251 | 70 20 | 83 23 | 41
Dec. 20| 569 | 311 | 70 15 | 84 6 | 42
„ 22| 645 | 253 | 70 19 | 84 51 | 43
„ 27| 630 | 344 | 70 20 | 85 52 | 44
„ 29| 660 | 361 | 70 15 | 85 51 | 45
„ 31| 950 | 519 | 70 1 | 85 20 | 46
1899. | | | | |
Jan. 2| 1360 | 744 | 69 52 | 85 13 | 47
„ 4| 1470 | 804 | 69 50 | 85 12 | 48
„ 7| 1490 | 815 | 69 52 | 85 32 | 49
Feb. 10| 1166 | 638 | 70 34 | 93 17 | 50
„ 19| 1740 | 951 | 70 30 | 94 12 | 51
Mar. 2| 430 | 235 | 70 53 | 97 17 | 52
„ 5| 425 | 232 | 70 51 | 97 57 | 53
„ 12| 564 | 308 | 70 56 | 100 18 | 54
„ 13| 1195 | 653 | 70 50 | 102 14 | 55
„ 23| 4800 | 2625 | 56 28 | 84 46 | 56
--------+----------+--------+---------+---------+----

APPENDIX NO. IV

NAUTICAL POSITIONS AND MAGNETIC DEDUCTIONS

CAPTAIN GEORGES LECOINTE

--------+--------------+-----------+-----------+--------+-------+-------
| | | LONGITUDE |TEMPERA-| |
DATES. | LOCAL TIME. | LATITUDE | WEST OF | TURE |DECLI- |INCLI-
| | SOUTH. | GREENWICH.| CENTI- |NATION.|NATION.
| | | | GRADE. | |
--------+--------------+-----------+-----------+--------+-------+-------
Jan. 2 | 5.30 p.m. |69° 52′ 00″|85° 13′ 30″| -1.6 | 34.22 | 68.27
Jan. 7 | 9 a.m. |69° 52′ 00″|85° 32′ 15″| -2.8 | 34.21 | 68.27
Jan. 14 | 12 m. |54° 50′ 40″|63° 39′ 00″| | |
Jan. 14 | 5 p.m. |55° 02′ 50″|63° 29′ 15″| | |
Jan. 15 | 12 m. |55° 50′ 45″|63° 19′ 15″| | |
Jan. 16 | 12 m. |56° 47′ 30″|64° 23′ 45″| | |
Jan. 16 | 5 p.m. |56° 48′ 45″|64° 30′ 30″| | |
Jan. 17 | 5 p.m. |58° 43′ 30″|63° 43′ 15″| | |
Jan. 18 | 12 m. |59° 58′ 15″|63° 12′ 15″| | |
Jan. 19 | 12 m. |61° 05′ 30″|63° 04′ 15″| | |
Jan. 20 | 12 m. |62° 02′ 15″|61° 58′ 15″| | |
Jan. 20 | 4 p.m. |62° 11′ 00″|61° 37′ 15″| | |
Jan. 23 | 12 m. |63° 28′ 30″|62° 13′ 00″| | |
Jan. 24 | 12 m. |64° 09′ 00″|62° 13′ 00″| | |
Jan. 25 | 10 a.m. |64° 06′ 24″|61° 59′ 30″| | |
Jan. 25 | 3 p m. |63° 57′ 04″|61° 47′ 34″| | |
Jan. 27 | 7 a.m. |64° 02′ 26″|61° 35′ 20″| | |
Jan. 27 | 12 m. |64° 09′ 00″|61° 35′ 20″| | |
Jan. 28 | 8 a.m. |64° 22′ 45″|62° 02′ 15″| | |
Jan. 30 | 8 a.m. |64° 31′ 15″|62° 21′ 45″| | |
Feb. 5 | 12 m. |64° 27′ 45″|62° 27′ 45″| | |
Feb. 8 | 12 m. |64° 38′ 00″|62° 27′ 45″| | |
Feb. 9 | 7 a.m. |64° 47′ 15″|63° 29′ 25″| | |
Feb. 9 | 12 m. |64° 54′ 23″|63° 39′ 10″| -2.0 | 38.20 | 70.09
Feb. 10 | 8 a.m. |70° 33′ 45″|93° 17′ 00″| -6.8 | 38.20 | 70.30
|7.15 to 8 p.m.| | | -4.5 | | 70.14
|8 to 8.30 p.m.| | | -4.5 | | 70.22
| 8 p.m. | | | -4.5 | | 70.27
Feb. 11 | 9 a.m. |65° 04′ 25″|63° 00′ 15″| | |
Feb. 12 | 10 a.m. |65° 01′ 30″|63° 49′ 25″| | |
Feb. 16 | 12 m. |67° 58′ 15″|70° 03′ 15″| | |
Feb. 18 | 4 p.m. |67° 59′ 30″|70° 39′ 30″| | |
Feb. 19 | 12 m. |69° 06′ 15″|78° 21′ 30″| -0.8 | 39.16 | 70.07
Feb. 22 | 9 p.m. |69° 48′ 45″|81° 08′ 30″| | |
Feb. 23 | 12 m. |69° 46′ 30″|81° 08′ 30″| | |
Feb. 24 | 12 m. |69° 30′ 30″|81° 31′ 30″| | |
Feb. 25 | 3 p.m. |69° 17′ 00″|82° 24′ 30″| | |
Feb. 26 | 12 m. |69° 13′ 30″|82° 20′ 30″| | |
Feb. 27 | 12 m. |69° 24′ 00″|84° 39′ 15″| | |
Feb. 27 | 5 p.m. |69° 40′ 45″|84° 42′ 30″| | |
Feb. 28 | 12 m. |70° 23′ 00″|85° 56′ 45″| | |
Mar. 1 | 8 a.m. |71° 06′ 00″|85° 22′ 45″| | |
Mar. 1 | 12 m. |71° 04′ 45″|85° 22′ 45″| | |
Mar. 1 | 4 p.m. |71° 17′ 00″|85° 26′ 00″| | |
Mar. 2 | 12 m. |71° 31′ 15″|85° 15′ 45″| +0.6 | 40.41 | 71.17
Mar. 2 | 3.30 p.m. | |97° 16′ 15″| +0.2 | 40.32 | 71.15
Mar. 3 | 12 m. |71° 28′ 00″|85° 11′ 15″| | 35.10 |
Mar. 4 | 12 m. |71° 22′ 15″|84° 54′ 45″| +10.4 | 41.07 | 71.17
Mar. 5 | 12 m. |71° 19′ 00″|85° 28′ 30″| | |
Mar. 6 | 4 p.m. |71° 18′ 30″|85° 34′ 45″| -6.7 | | 71.32
Mar. 7 | 12 m. |71° 26′ 30″|85° 44′ 00″| | |
Mar. 7 | 9 p.m. |71° 29′ 15″|85° 55′ 15″| | |
Mar. 8 | 4 p.m. |71° 28′ 30″|85° 54′ 30″| | |
Mar. 9 | 12 m. |71° 23′ 00″|85° 32′ 00″| | |
Mar. 11 | 12 m. |71° 23′ 15″|85° 38′ 30″| | |
Mar. 12 | 12 m. |71° 24′ 45″|85° 53′ 15″| -12.5 | 41.47 | 71.56
Mar. 13 | 12 m. |71° 19′ 15″|86° 02′ 15″| | |
Mar. 14 | 4 p.m. |71° 16′ 15″|85° 37′ 00″| | |
Mar. 15 | 12 m. |70° 52′ 15″|85° 37′ 00″| | |
Mar. 20 | 3 p.m. |71° 35′ 00″|88° 02′ 00″| | |
Mar. 23 | 12 m. |71° 34′ 45″|88° 50′ 45″| -13.2 | 38.56 |
Mar. 24 | 12 m. |71° 35′ 15″|88° 50′ 45″| | |
Mar. 25 | 12 m. |71° 24′ 15″|88° 32′ 00″| | |
Mar. 26 | 12 m. |71° 19′ 45″|88° 23′ 00″| | |
Mar. 27 | 12 m. |71° 16′ 30″|88° 23′ 00″| | |
Mar. 28 | 12 m. |71° 13′ 00″|88° 23′ 15″| | |
Mar. 30 | 8 a.m. |71° 13′ 00″|88° 06′ 15″| | |
Apr. 2 | 12 m. |71° 09′ 30″|88° 06′ 15″| | |
Apr. 3 | 12 m. |71° 07′ 03″|88° 06′ 15″| | |
Apr. 5 | 12 m. |71° 04′ 15″|88° 06′ 15″| | |
Apr. 7 | 7 p.m. |70° 54′ 45″|88° 42′ 00″| | |
Apr. 8 | 12 m. |70° 53′ 04″|88° 42′ 00″| | |
Apr. 10 | 12 m. |70° 52′ 04″|88° 42′ 00″| | |
Apr. 11 | 12 m. |70° 48′ 15″|88° 42′ 00″| | |
Apr. 21 | 12 m. |71° 03′ 18″|88° 42′ 00″| | |
Apr. 21 | 8 p.m. |71° 02′ 00″|92° 03′ 15″| | |
Apr. 22 | 2 p.m. | | | | |
Apr. 25 | 10 p.m. |70° 50′ 15″|92° 21′ 30″| -24.5 | 36.51 |
Apr. 26 | 8 a.m. | | | | |
Apr. 30 | 10 p.m. |70° 43′ 30″|90° 30′ 45″| | |
May 4 | 7 a.m. |70° 33′ 30″|89° 22′ 00″| | |
May 5 | 11 a.m. | | | | |
May 10 | 11 a.m. | | | | |
May 16 | 4 p.m. |71° 34′ 30″|89° 10′ 00″| | |
May 17 | 7 p.m. |71° 22′ 00″|88° 39′ 49″| | |
May 18 | 8 p.m. |71° 17′ 45″|88° 02′ 15″| | |
May 20 | 7 p.m. |71° 15′ 45″|87° 38′ 15″| | |
May 21 | 8 p.m. |71° 15′ 15″|87° 26′ 30″| | |
May 25 | 7 p.m. |71° 13′ 15″|87° 44′ 00″| | |
May 26 | 11 a.m. | | | | |
May 26 | 7 p.m. |71° 15′ 00″|87° 39′ 15″| | |
May 29 | 7 p.m. |71° 23′ 45″|87° 35′ 00″| -25.0 | | 70.07
May 31 | 7 a.m. |71° 36′ 00″|87° 38′ 30″| -9.0 | | 70.14
June 1 | 7 p.m. |71° 25′ 15″|86° 55′ 15″| | |
June 2 | 10.30 a.m. |71° 25′ 15″|86° 55′ 15″| -28.1 | | 69.38
June 3 | 7 p.m. |71° 23′ 00″|87° 22′ 15″| -27.4 | | 69.18
June 7 | 7 p.m. |71° 23′ 30″|86° 55′ 15″| | |
June 8 | 7 p.m. |71° 21′ 30″|87° 50′ 00″| | |
June 10 | 7 p.m. |71° 20′ 00″|87° 16′ 00″| | |
June 14 | 5 p.m. |71° 04′ 00″|86° 03′ 00″| -27.1 | 35.34 | 69.02
June 15 | 9 p.m. |71° 04′ 00″|86° 36′ 45″| | |
June 22 | 8 a.m. |70° 56′ 15″|83° 30′ 15″| -27.2 | 34.04 | 68.09
June 22 | 8 p.m. |70° 56′ 15″|83° 30′ 00″| | |
June 23 | 7 p.m. |70° 47′ 45″|83° 43′ 45″| | |
July 7 | 11 p.m. |70° 51′ 00″|86° 47′ 15″| | |
July 8 | 9 p.m. |70° 48′ 30″|87° 14′ 00″| | |
July 9 | 9 p.m. |70° 54′ 15″|88° 19′ 00″| -32.6 | 37.04 | 69.15
July 21 | 3 p.m. |70° 35′ 15″|86° 34′ 15″| -29.3 | 35.38 | 69.23
Aug. 10 | 7 p.m. |70° 52′ 30″|86° 33′ 30″| | |
Aug. 19 | 7 p.m. |70° 26′ 00″|84° 26′ 15″| | |
Aug. 20 | 6 p.m. |70° 72′ 15″|84° 03′ 30″| | |
Aug. 22 | 6 p.m. |70° 09′ 15″|83° 41′ 15″| | |
Aug. 24 | 6 p.m. |70° 15′ 30″|83° 15′ 15″| | |
Aug. 26 | 7 p.m. |70° 16′ 00″|83° 15′ 00″| | |
Aug. 27 | 12 m. |70° 16′ 00″|83° 15′ 00″| | |
Aug. 29 | 7 p.m. |70° 13′ 15″|83° 26′ 45″| | |
Aug. 31 | 7 p.m. |70° 04′ 30″|83° 06′ 30″| | |
Sept. 2 | 7 p.m. |70° 00′ 15″|82° 45′ 00″| -23.0 | 33.13 | 68.38
Sept. 2 | 8.40 p.m. |70° 00′ 15″| | -23.5 | 33.19 | 67.16
Sept. 3 | 11 a.m. |69° 58′ 45″|82° 38′ 45″| -15.6 | 33.28 | 67.52
Sept. 4 |2 to 3 p.m. | | | -20.5 | | 68.09
| 3 p.m. | | | -20.5 | | 68.07
| 4.30 p.m. | | | -20.3 | | 67.45
Sept. 5 | 7 p.m. |69° 59′ 16″|82° 43′ 45″| | |
Sept. 7 | 12 m. |69° 53′ 45″| | | |
Sept. 7 | 7 p.m. |69° 54′ 00″|82° 35′ 15″| -33.3 | 33.06 | 67.45
Sept. 8 | 7 p.m. |69° 53′ 45″|82° 38′ 30″| | |
Sept. 9 | 7 p.m. |69° 51′ 00″|82° 36′ 15″| -38.5 | 33.11 | 68.23
Sept. 9 | 4.30 p.m. | | | -32.2 | | 68.16
Sept. 10| 7 p.m. |69° 51′ 45″|82° 40′ 45″| | |
Sept. 11| 12 m. |69° 51′ 30″|32° 40′ 45″| | |
Sept. 13| 7 p.m. |69° 50′ 15″|83° 03′ 00″| -32.7 | 33.17 | 67.58
Sept. 14| 1 p.m. |69° 53′ 00″|83° 03′ 30″| | |
Sept. 14| 6 p.m. |69° 55′ 30″|83° 04′ 15″| | |
Sept. 16| 7 p.m. |69° 51′ 15″|82° 22′ 45″| | |
Sept. 22| 3 p.m. |70° 22′ 45″|82° 31′ 00″| -4.8 | 33.40 | 68.13
Sept. 23| 4 p.m. |70° 24′ 30″|82° 37′ 00″| -13.1 | 33.45 | 67.56
Sept. 26| 12 m. |70° 21′ 15″|82° 52′ 15″| -15.2 | 33.58 | 68.06
Sept. 26| 3.45 p.m.| | | -15.2 | | 68.07
Sept. 29| 12 m. |70° 21′ 00″|82° 39′ 00″| -21.5 | 33.45 | 68.10
| 2.30 to 3.30 | | | | |
| p.m. | | | -18.1 | | 68.22
Oct. 6 | 12 m. |70° 38′ 30″|82° 39′ 00″| | |
Oct. 7 | 12 m. |70° 30′ 30″|82° 48′ 00″| -14.5 | 33.42 | 68.20
Oct. 8 | 12 m. |70° 23′ 30″|82° 46′ 45″| -15.1 | 33.12 | 68.17
Oct. 10 | 12 m. |70° 09′ 15″|82° 42′ 30″| -6.2 | 33.29 | 68.02
Oct. 16 | 12 m. |69° 59′ 00″|80° 54′ 15″| -6.0 | 33.16 | 67.40
Oct. 19 | 5 p.m. |70° 01′ 30″|80° 44′ 45″| | |
Oct. 20 | 12 m. |70° 00′ 30″|80° 44′ 45″| | |
Oct. 21 | 12 m. |69° 56′ 15″|80° 44′ 45″| | |
Oct. 22 | 8 a.m. |69° 55′ 00″|80° 31′ 00″| -16.0 | 32.11 | 67.22
Oct. 23 | 12 m. |69° 50′ 15″| | | |
Oct. 24 | 12 m. |69° 43′ 00″|80° 50′ 30″| -19.3 | 32.00 | 67.32
Oct. 25 | 12 m. |69° 38′ 45″|80° 36′ 30″| -19.8 | 31.55 | 67.13
Oct. 28 | 12 m. |69° 39′ 30″|80° 36′ 30″| | |
Oct. 29 | 12 m. |69° 38′ 00″|80° 35′ 30″| -15.7 | 31.50 | 67.37
| 11 a.m. | | | -12.0 | | 67.22
Oct. 30 | 12 m. |69° 44′ 45″|80° 35′ 30″| | |
Nov. 2 | 12 m. |69° 51′ 00″|81° 26′ 00″| -13.0 | 32.21 | 68.22
Nov. 2 | 4 p.m. |69° 51′ 15″|81° 23′ 45″| | |
Nov. 3 | 12 m. |69° 48′ 15″|81° 19′ 00″| | |
Nov. 3 | 5 p.m. |69° 47′ 00″|81° 20′ 00″| | |
Nov. 5 | 12 m. |69° 48′ 30″|81° 20′ 00″| | |
Nov. 5 | 5 p.m. |69° 44′ 00″|81° 28′ 15″| | |
Nov. 10 | 5 p.m. |70° 09′ 00″|82° 35′ 15″| -13.0 | 32.21 | 68.17
Nov. 17 | 12 m. |70° 05′ 30″|82° 35′ 15″| | |
Nov. 20 | 4 p.m. |70° 06′ 00″|82° 30′ 30″| -4.2 | 33.03 | 68.07
Nov. 25 | 12 m. |70° 25′ 00″|83° 27′ 00″| -2.7 | 33.39 | 68.40
Nov. 26 | 12 m. |70° 23′ 30″|83° 27′ 00″| | |
Nov. 28 | 5 p.m. |70° 19′ 45″|83° 23′ 15″| -2.4 | 33.46 | 68.20
Dec. 2 | 6 p.m. |70° 18′ 00″|83° 33′ 15″| | |
Dec. 6 | 12 m. |69° 54′ 00″|83° 33′ 15″| | |
Dec. 7 | 6 p.m. |69° 51′ 30″|82° 48′ 45″| | |
Dec. 9 | 5.45 p.m |69° 50′ 30″|82° 45′ 00″| -1.9 | 32.51 | 67.40
Dec. 12 | 5.40 p.m. |69° 49′ 15″|82° 46′ 45″| -3.1 | 32.53 | 67.52
Dec. 20 | 4.30 p.m. |70° 15′ 00″|84° 06′ 15″| -1.4 | 34.19 | 68.26
Dec. 22 | 5 p.m. |70° 18′ 30″|84° 51′ 00″| -0.9 | 34.33 | 68.41
Dec. 27 | 4.25 p.m. |70° 20′ 15″|85° 52′ 00″| +2.7 | 34.30 | 68.31
Dec. 29 | 5.30 p.m. |70° 15′ 00″|85° 51′ 15″| +0.3 | 34.43 | 68.35
Dec. 31 | 5.30 p.m. |70° 01′ 30″|85° 20′ 15″| -2.5 | 34.19 | 68.32
--------+--------------+-----------+-----------+--------+-------+------

APPENDIX NO. V

THE NAVIGATION OF THE ANTARCTIC ICE-PACK

ROALD AMUNDSEN

Profiting by the accumulated experience of centuries, the arctic
explorers of our day have succeeded in obtaining splendid results.
Upon the lessons drawn from the experiences of the ill-fated
_Jeannette_ expedition, Nansen, to a great extent, built his plan
of drifting across the polar sea. The construction of the _Fram_
also was based upon observations made through ages. Peary is now, with
unshaken energy, step by step working his way towards the north pole.
Here, what aid and support does he not derive from his predecessors,
the English expedition under Nares, of 1875–76, and especially from the
expedition of his countryman Greely, of 1881–84, which came to such a
tragic end, but which now affords the daring arctic explorer the most
valuable assistance by the depot established at Fort Conger and Lady
Franklin Bay! And Nature herself lends a helping hand in always leaving
the line of retreat open to the arctic explorer.

The antarctic explorer, however, is forced to work under far less
favourable conditions. Earlier expeditions have, indeed, tried to
penetrate far south, but without leaving any material sources of help
for their successors. The honour of the earliest acquaintance with the
antarctic region belongs to James Cook, who, in 1774, reached as far
as to 70° 10′ south latitude, where a stop was put to his progress by
compact ice. In 1823 Weddell reached 74° 15′ south latitude, and in
1842 James Clark Ross made the record of farthest south when he arrived
at 78° 9′ 5″ south latitude, which, as far as we know, still remains
the southernmost point that has been reached.

The unexplored region around the north pole only constitutes about
five million square kilometres; that around the south pole amounts to
between twenty-one and twenty-two million square kilometres, or a tract
of land corresponding to more than double the size of Europe.

While we have already learned about the arctic winter from the Dutchman
William Barents, who passed the winter of 1596 in Nova Zembla, and
from many subsequent explorers, the antarctic winter up to our time
has remained but a fable. It was the Belgian Antarctic Expedition, led
by the Belgian, Lieutenant Adrien de Gerlache, that brought the first
information about the south polar night, after spending the winter in
the antarctic pack-ice west of Grahamland in 1898–99.

Taking part in this expedition, I had daily opportunities to survey and
study the ice which for nearly thirteen months formed our surroundings.
It would be premature to pronounce a decided opinion as to the best way
of navigating throughout the entire antarctic region according to the
observations here made. In order to do that it would be necessary to
have a thorough knowledge of the state of the ice in various places.
The knowledge which Ross, and subsequently Kristensen, gained of the
pack-ice north and east of South Victorialand, was widely different
from that acquired by us of the ice west of Grahamland. Therefore, when
I state my opinion below as to navigation in the antarctic ice, I do so
with specific regard to the ice which stopped our progress and held us
prisoners for such a long period of time.

Here it is, from the very start, quite evident to the antarctic
explorer that he incurs a great risk by attacking the ice. To the
south, as far as the eye can survey, he sees nothing but ice, and
by experience he knows that he has to contend with a frozen ocean,
agitated by storm. If his vessel should by chance be hemmed in, and
possibly crushed by the ice, what ways of escape would there be open to
him? The possibility of reaching land in small, open boats he certainly
does not consider very great. The chance of finding human beings on new
land possibly to be discovered farther south, cut off from the rest of
the world by immense masses of ice, appears to be even less probable.
This is, I suppose, the reason why earlier explorers have not dared to
attack the ice in these regions.

It was a north-easterly gale that, on the 28th of February, 1898,
forced us through the ice. Comparing this ice with that which I came
across on my sealing expeditions in the arctic seas on the eastern
coast of Greenland, the difference was at once apparent. While we find
in the arctic ice channels and lakes several miles in length, formed
by the rapid currents prevailing there, in the antarctic ice we do not
find any signs of similar formations. The spaces which we found here
were intermediate spaces between each separate floe of ice, broken up
by the storm and carried away from its original position.

What, above all, struck me after being imprisoned in the antarctic
ice was the “indolence” of the ice--that is to say, its stagnation or
indisposition to move within its own bounds. That the entire main body
of the ice was in lively motion soon became evident from the nautical
observations, but the movements within its compass were very slight.
The cause of this lack of local movement of the ice may, no doubt,
be traced to the nature of the current. That currents exist here, as
everywhere, is not to be doubted, but they must be very insignificant,
and are surely without any importance to navigation.

From the month of December, 1898, up to March, 1899, easterly winds
were predominating, and these caused a very considerable drifting of
the ice. In the course of these three months we drifted in this way
from about 87° longitude west of Greenwich as far as to 103°, or a
distance of about 950 kilometres (this distance is calculated in a
straight line on the seventy-first parallel circle). That this easterly
wind, which prevailed for such a length of time and mostly with great
violence, was no local wind, we can safely assume. Its place of origin
was no doubt the regions around Grahamland and Alexander Islands.
This gives me further cause to believe that the sea along the western
coast of these countries was perfectly navigable during the months of
February and March, 1899. But there is no reason whatever to suppose
that this is the case every year. On the contrary, previous expeditions
have always found this part of the antarctic drift-ice completely
closed. We, on board of the _Belgica_ in February, 1898, also
found within the drift-ice along these countries absolutely no
navigable water. If a future expedition were to choose the same region
where the _Belgica_ did its work for a field of investigation,
my unqualified advice to it would be to linger for some time near the
coast of these countries, awaiting a separation of the ice from the
land. What a great advantage there would be in navigating alongshore!
Possibly harbours might be discovered, stations built, and depots
established, and one would then always have something to depend on.
During our drift in the ice we never dared venture on foot so far out
as to lose sight of our ship. It would be wholly different if there
were regular stations from which to start the work. We could then
safely proceed southward with a sleigh-boat and possibly accomplish
fine results, for the antarctic ice, compared to the arctic ice which
I have had a chance to observe, is much more level and even, and
consequently easier to traverse.

I see a great advantage in having two vessels, but in that case it
is necessary that both of them should be exactly on the same level
in regard to power and outfit, as, in my opinion, the idea of taking
along a so-called “auxiliary vessel,” which in some respect or other
is inferior to the principal ship, is to be entirely rejected. The
principal ship, in that case, might sometimes have to perform the
duty of a tugboat and take the auxiliary vessel in tow. In order that
two vessels of this kind should be able to make any headway in the
drift-ice, they would always have to be within sight of each other, and
one of them being inferior to the other, it is easy to understand that
it would be more of a hindrance than a help. It would be altogether
different if we could start our work from regular stations. Then one
vessel might be stationed on the coast as a reserve ship while the
other pressed onward; but as long as our knowledge of the antarctic
regions remains so insignificant as at present, we must, in order to
work with expectation of success, employ only first-class equipment,
which by experience has been proved effective.

The _Belgica_ entering the antarctic pack-ice was the first ship
to make the venture on this side of the globe. Almost nothing was
previously known about the character of the ice of this region. Now the
situation is entirely changed.

The ice has been tried and examined, and observations have been made
which may prove of invaluable service to future expeditions.

APPENDIX NO. VI

THE POSSIBILITIES OF ANTARCTIC EXPLORATION

FREDERICK A. COOK, M. D.

[Illustration: Sledge-sailing.]

The heterogeneous branches of human knowledge are so intimately
interwoven that it is hard to conceive an improvement in one which does
not conduce to the advantage of others. The modes of association which
exist between the numerous objects of mental and physical research are
like the membranes which embrace the humours of the eye, so minute and
transparent that, while they give union and solidity to the whole,
they themselves remain unperceived or wholly invisible. The general
advancement in the knowledge of our globe, which follows the work of
polar exploration, is not at first perceived. The collective results
are rearranged and interwoven with the other threads which go to make
up the fabric of the various branches of natural science. Around
the two poles of the earth, and particularly around the south pole,
there are extensive unknown regions. In these regions are hidden the
finishing filaments of much exact knowledge. To seek these is the true
object of polar exploration.

Efforts at clearing up the mysteries of the arctic will now for a time
give place to projects for antarctic research. The disputed questions,
bearing upon the value of such enterprises, have been answered in the
affirmative by the Belgian, the British, and the German governments.
Each of these governments has contributed large funds, not to find the
south pole, but to gather the ends of the threads of science which are
there lost in white obscurity.

The possibilities of exploration in the far south are many, and
properly to understand them we must first review the regions actually
known. Perhaps it is not correct to say that anything antarctic is
actually known. Almost the entire space beyond the polar circle, with
the exception of a few dotted lines, is a blank upon our charts. Even
the sub-antarctic lands, like Tierra del Fuego, Kerguelen, and the
Auckland Islands, are for scientific purposes unknown. Of the truly
antarctic lands the first in time of discovery and in value is the
always accessible land-mass south of the South Shetland Islands, which
is erroneously charted Grahamland.

This is a large mass of land which is labelled on the various charts
with different names, and is parcelled out to suit the nationality of
the chart-makers. No navigator will be able to recognise the landmarks
of Grahamland from any modern chart. This was the experience of the
_Belgica_. The American sealer, Palmer, first saw the northern
outline of this land. The British sealer, Biscoe, saw a part of the
western border of the same land. But neither Palmer nor Biscoe has
given sufficient information to make a chart. The British explorer,
James Ross, and the French explorer, d’Urville, touched along the
north-eastern limits, and recently the Norwegian sealer, Larsen, has
traced a part of the eastern limits. From the work of later explorers,
and the guesses of the early sealers, the present map is constructed.
But since the _Belgica_ sailed over two hundred miles of this
region where high land was placed, and since she sailed over the
regions where the Biscoe Islands are placed, it is evident that even
this, which is the best known of the antarctic lands, needs a general
re-discovery.

The actual existence of a land, corresponding to what is charted as
Grahamland, is a matter of considerable doubt. On the map it extends
from the sixty-ninth parallel of latitude northward four hundred miles.
Alexander I. Land, which makes the southern termination of this, is a
group of islands, and we saw no land eastward. The character of the
land which may or may not exist between this and the newly discovered
Belgica Strait is questionable. It may be a continuous land, but, from
the large indentations which we saw, it is quite as likely to be an
archipelago. The possibilities of future exploration in this region are
very great. The country is easy of access, and has an abundance of bays
and channels, which will afford shelter to exploring vessels. It offers
scientific and commercial prospects promised by no other new polar
region.

Following the polar circle from Grahamland eastward, the next land is
Enderbyland. Ten degrees farther another line is put down and named
Kempland. Enderbyland was reported by Captain Biscoe in 1831. The
pack-ice was so closely set around the land that Biscoe was not able to
debark or approach within twenty-five miles. So far as we know, he saw
but one headland to distinguish the land from an iceberg.

Kempland was also inaccessible, and Captain Kemp, the British sealer
who discovered it, gave on his return only a verbal report. Captain
Morrell, an American sealer, but a few years previous sailed over
an ice-strewn sea about fifty miles south of both Enderbyland and
Kempland without seeing anything resembling land. This makes it
extremely probable that neither Enderbyland nor Kempland is a large
mass connected with any other land. The geographical problems which
seem to be indicated here are: Is this an archipelago, like the
Palmer Archipelago, fronting a higher and more continuous country or
continent? Or is it an isolated group of islands? An expedition devoted
to this object and this only would add certain and unique records to
geographic and all other sciences.

Following the polar circle still farther to 100° of east longitude, and
close to the circle, there is another interruption in the unknown. This
is the much-disputed Wilkesland. It is by far the largest land-mass
in the entire antarctic area. The land, including Victorialand, its
better-known eastern border, occupies more than one sixth of the
circumference of the globe. It covers more degrees of longitude
than the entire spread of the United States. In a territory of this
extent, even under the most hopeless spread of snow, would it not be
strange if something of value and much of interest were not found?
It is not at all probable that the disconnected lines seen by Wilkes
are a continuous line of the continent. These are, very likely,
off-lying islands which front a great continent. We are led into the
conviction that there is a continent here by the very great number
and the enormous size of the icebergs which were here encountered.
But this conviction without better evidence will not, and ought not
to, satisfy explorers. Wilkes made his voyage of exploration in small
vessels which were not specially strengthened for ice work. If he was
able to approach the coast in ordinary ships, a vessel fitted for ice
navigation will certainly be able to get nearer and bring back more
definite results.

From Victorialand to Grahamland there is but one spot to interrupt the
movement of the great sea of restless ice. This is Peter Island. It was
discovered by the Russian explorer, Bellingshausen, in 1821, and it
has not been seen since. The _Belgica_, in her year’s drift, came
close to the assigned position, but we saw no indications of land. It
would be interesting to know if this island really exists, and if it is
not a part of another small archipelago.

Before passing from the known to the possibilities of the unknown,
I will answer the business man’s question: “To whom do these lands
belong?” It seems to me that the nations seeking to divide China and
Africa might turn their ambitions briefly towards the antarctic. Here
are millions of square miles which belong to nobody; at least, there
are no valid claims filed, except those which accrue from the right
of discovery. Victorialand would seem to belong to England, but it
is possible for the United States to lay a strong claim by right of
extension of territory. Wilkes, the American explorer, was the first
to see and to chart the great masses of land of which Victorialand is
a part. The work of Ross, though better in quality, is supplementary
to that of Wilkes, which gives the United States a priority claim.
There is also a small French claim. There is indeed room for a future
boundary dispute of the limits and claims of the Americans, English,
and French in Wilkesland. The British Government seems to have no doubt
on this question, for twelve years ago the Queen issued a grant for
Possession Island, making Mr. Albert McCormick Davis, of Montreal,
colonial governor of its numerous cities of penguins, and giving him
for a stipulated period a monopoly of its guano-beds. Mr. Davis never
rose to the dignity of being the first south polar king. He was content
with the honours of appointment, and returned his credentials three
months after their issue.

[Illustration]

Peter and Alexander islands, and one or two islands of the Sandwich
group, belong to Russia. The Bellany and Biscoe and Sandwich groups, as
well as Enderbyland and Kempland, belong to Great Britain. Grahamland,
like Wilkesland, offers many bones of contention. The entire northern
coast should belong to the United States. A part of the eastern coast,
and a part of the still uncharted western coast, belong to England.
Norway has a claim for about two hundred miles on the eastern coast.
The recent discoveries of the _Belgica_ give to Belgium the most
beautiful and the most useful body of water in the entire antarctic
area. In the adjustment of these various claims there is no end of
trouble in store.

It is generally held that all these countries belong to nobody--indeed,
that they are not worthy of ownership; but this is not true. The issue
of a grant for Possession Island is an indication of the sentiment in
England; another indication is to be perceived in an incident which
happened a few years ago. The Argentine Government, being anxious to
secure possession of the South Shetland Islands, aiming probably to
control the harbours and the possible fisheries, made some preparation
to place there a lighthouse and thus take possession by right of prior
occupation. In response to this, according to a rumour said to have
been based on official instruction, a British cruiser was ordered
to speed, as soon as the Argentine steamer left port, to the South
Shetlands and there to receive the Argentinos. The long period which
has elapsed since the discovery of everything antarctic weakens the
natural claims, and any one who now takes the trouble to occupy any
portion of it would undoubtedly become the owner. The man who sits on
the southern ice, under the hellish antarctic storms, long enough to
make good his deed, deserves all there is under him, even if it proves
a Klondike.

I must beg leave to differ with the prevailing opinion, regarding
polar exploration, that there is no commercial or material reward
commensurate with the expenditure of time and money. In the antarctic
there are several prospective industries, and much of the future work
has a direct bearing upon commerce. There are seals, penguins, and
whales in abundance around the circumpolar area. Every rock which
offers an accessible beach is covered with either seals or penguins,
and every channel of open water between the pack-ice or around the
ice-sheltered lands is alive with whales. Fur-seals were at one time so
numerous that a whole fleet of American sealers were engaged in the
hunt; but the fur-seals are now nearly extinct. The several varieties
of antarctic seals have a coarse coat of single hair which is useless
as a fur; but the skin and oil are of considerable value. There is no
reason why a profitable fishery could not be prosecuted, like that
off the coast of Labrador and Greenland. The penguins are not widely
known to commerce, but their countless millions will surely attract
enterprise and yield some useful product. Already they are being taken
at the Falkland Islands for the oil they possess. We must abandon the
hope that right whales, possessing the prized whalebone, exist here in
numbers sufficient to warrant a promise of future whaling. Ross reports
having seen right whales, but a diligent search since has failed to
confirm this report. From the _Belgica_ we saw no whales of this
variety, but finback and bottlenose whales were seen in great numbers.
These are small whales having no bone of commercial value, and a
somewhat inferior quality of oil. But the hunt for a similar variety of
whales in Norway has given profitable employment to thousands of men
in the past ten years. Whaling and sealing in the antarctic cannot,
however, be made to pay the enormous expense of fitting out from Europe
and North America for so distant a hunting-ground. To make these
industries successful, permanent bases must be established either in
the antarctic, on the sub-antarctic islands, or in the southern parts
of South America or Australia.

The guano-beds of Possession Island offer an enterprise which seems to
promise certain results. The guano is rich in nitrates, and exists in
quantities sufficient to keep a fleet of cargo-vessels occupied for
years. There are strong possibilities of the existence of hundreds of
other islands within the area of the unknown, loaded with a similar or
even a greater weight of the fertiliser. Such islands may be found
in more accessible places, outside of the pack-ice, off the coast
of Grahamland, or among the partly known groups such as the South
Shetland, Bouvet, Prince Edward, or Macquarie islands.

The future for fisheries and guano industries has an appearance of
reasonable certainty, but this is not true of the possible mineral
wealth or of other revenue-bearing material which may be hidden behind
the icy gates. Our geological knowledge of this area is still too
imperfect to offer even a guess of the probable finds of precious
metals or gems. Arguing by analogy, the South Shetlands in general
appearance, and what little is known of the geological formation,
resemble Tierra del Fuego, and we now know that gold is here found in
paying quantities. Since these islands are an extension of the Fuegian
lands, is it unreasonable to expect to find gold here? An antarctic
Alaska is by no means beyond the future possibilities.

Are there not people or unknown animals in the regions around the
south pole? Novelists have pictured this mysterious region since the
time of Dalrymple, in 1760, with curious races of people and strange
forms of animal life. It is the last unexplored expanse on the globe of
sufficient area to offer room for fictitious creations of new worlds,
and it will continue to be a special domain for imaginative writers
for many years. From the explorations thus far, we have no reason to
hope for any startling discoveries of human or other animal life.
Borchgrevink, owing to his inexperience and hasty conclusions, mistook
ordinary penguin tracks for the footprints of some large and unknown
animal. No reliable traces of either large new animals or human beings
have been found. The regions are, as homes for adapted people, far
superior to the arctic lands, where the Eskimos periodically starve or
live in blubbery abundance. If sailors or wild people were cast adrift
on the antarctic shores they would not necessarily starve. There is
food and fuel, and even clothing, to be had from the seals and penguins
everywhere. The life would not be full of comforts, if measured by
our standards, but compared to Eskimo existence there is a decided
advantage in life-sustaining prospects of the southern pole--not in
climate or in the degrees of cold, but in the certainty of food. People
then, if they once find a foothold, might easily thrive, but to the
present we have found but one doubtful sign. This was reported by
Captain Larsen, the Norwegian sealer, in 1893. Larsen found about fifty
clay balls, perched on pillars of the same material, on Seymour Island,
off the eastern coast of Grahamland. “These,” said Larsen, “had the
appearance of having been made by human hand.”

There is one train of industries for which the antarctic and
sub-antarctic regions offer the best conditions of the globe. This is
the farming of fur-bearing animals. It is an industry which is still
in its infancy, but the recent experiments upon the barren Alaskan
islands have been eminently successful. There are thousands of isolated
islands in the southern oceans which offer just the conditions for
the cultivation of such life. These islands, though almost barren of
vegetable life, are fertile with birds and seals and smaller forms
of marine life, which will offer food to prospective generations of
transplanted animals. So far as I know, this is a new suggestion to the
future south polar possibilities, but the conditions which I have seen
are too favourable to be ignored. The antarctic lands lie isolated in a
deserted and frozen sea. The drift-ice and the overland mass of glacial
ice bar the passage to adventurous travellers who seek to penetrate
the mysteries of the frozen south. But it is just these barriers which
fence the “land of promise” for the coming fur-farmer, who is to
take the place of the life-destroying hunter. I am sure that in the
near future these wild wastes of the antarctic, with their million
of bird-inhabited islands, will form an island empire of thrifty
fur-farmers. What nation shall guard the interests of this coming race
of hardy pioneers?

Independent of material results, a continued exploration of the
antarctic will certainly disclose priceless scientific acquisitions.
A region of the globe nearly eight million square miles in extent,
into which the foot of man has not yet trodden, is not likely to
prove barren of scientific data. The polar question is not a problem
of adventure, as it is ordinarily thought to be, nor is it a matter
of dollars and cents. It is a problem of science, and has for its
principal objects an exact knowledge of the limits of land and water;
a careful study of the physical condition of the earth and of the
life; in short, it aims at perfecting that network of lines with which
comparative science seeks to surround our planet even at the poles. The
prosecution of this labour will add to our knowledge of the physical
laws which regulate climates, which indicate the origin and destiny of
atmospheric and sea currents, and which serve as analogies for geology
and other natural sciences. The Gulf Stream was discovered by a study
of polar phenomena. Our present knowledge of the glacial system, which,
at some distant time, covered not only the poles, but the lands we now
inhabit, would not have been conceivable without a knowledge of the
present polar ice. Who will say that new gems will not be added to the
annals of science by antarctic explorers?

Specifically, terrestrial magnetism, geography, meteorology, geology,
and oceanography are to be most enriched by the results of far southern
exploration. Magnetism has an important bearing upon the navigation
of the southern hemisphere, and even upon the land surveys. If the
bearings of the compass cannot be accurately deduced, evidently the
course of a ship or the base-line or fixed point of a survey must be
unreliable. For greater accuracy of the all-important compass, more
continued and more prolonged magnetic observations in various parts
of the antarctic are indispensable. Even the seemingly simple task of
fixing by calculation the location of the south magnetic pole is, with
our present knowledge, impossible. The positions assigned by the best
authorities differ several hundred miles from each other, and the work
of the _Belgica_ placed it approximately two hundred miles east
of the spot designated by Ross, whose observations have been generally
accepted.

Closely associated with the magnetic pole is the mysterious phenomenon,
the aurora australis. It would be interesting to have a prolonged
series of auroral observations to add to the first records taken by
the _Belgica_. Perhaps this information would help to solve the
puzzling questions of the physical character and the origin of the
mysterious celestial lights. Some of these questions are: What is the
difference between the aurora australis and the aurora borealis? Is
there any coincidence in the appearance of the phenomena at both poles?
What is the relation of the exhibits with the sun-spots? What relation
have auroras with meteorological phenomena--the weather, the clouds,
the atmospheric electricity? What are the connections between auroras,
earth-magnetism, and telluric currents?

The geographical possibilities have been indicated in our discussion of
the known lands. It would be interesting to know if the various traces
of land, so close to the polar circle, are or are not connected to form
one large continent. What are the physical conditions of this great
unknown area of land or sea? Geographically, this is the only remaining
unknown expanse of our globe where great discoveries may be expected.

The interior south polar lands are likely to prove the coldest part
of the earth. This is contrary to what might be expected, because
the great circular sea which surrounds the entire globe should
warm the comparatively small expanse of land. In the region of the
_Belgica’s_ drift, however, the indications were otherwise. Our
position was in a restless sea of ice, far from land, with large
open lanes of water constantly about us. It follows, then, that we
should have had a mild marine climate. But our temperatures were
persistently low, from -5° to -45° C., rarely above the freezing-point.
And, following southerly winds, the mercury at once sank into the
bulb. The suddenness and intensity of cold which came with interior
winds bespeaks a very high and a very cold area. This question and a
hundred others will be solved by meteorological studies. Problems of
weather are associated with neighbouring phenomena. For the proper
understanding of the climate of the southern hemisphere there is
necessary a long-continued series of meteorological studies within the
limits of perpetual ice.

In geology nearly everything remains to be done. Here are indications
of some very interesting problems. Among them are the numerous open
questions of the great ice age. In the period immediately preceding the
ice age the polar regions were not, as they are now, submerged under a
continental sea of ice, but had a somewhat profuse growth of plants,
extending even to the base of the mountain glaciers. The fossil remains
which have been found in the north and in the south prove that at this
time there existed, among these growths, plants which are now found
only in subtropical regions. This period was a noteworthy epoch in the
history of our planet. It was the time when man first appeared, and
it was the time when the earth was dressed in her best mantles. The
continents then had a greater extension, the life a curious diversity,
and the forests were much more luxuriant than they are to-day. The
antarctic is likely to throw new light upon this interesting period.
The fossil finds may establish the previous existence of a life of
which we now have no indication. In the many departments of geology we
may expect startling discoveries.

To zoology the south offers less flowery prospects than to the
other sciences. The study of the organic life is important for the
understanding of the earlier life of our planet, but some of this has
been gathered. The work which remains to be done is the detail of
anatomy and physiology and the study of microscopical forms of life. It
is not probable that there remain large animals of which we have found
no traces.

Probably the most important results of immediate practical use to both
science and commerce, will be the gain to the newly born science,
oceanography. The ever-increasing usefulness of the ocean for the needs
of modern commerce or warfare, of cable service, and as a nursery for
food, makes it necessary that we know as much as possible about it. We
must know not only the surface, but the bottom and intermediate waters.
We must know not only the warm seas, but the cold as well. There is
a constant interchange between the water of the tropics and that of
the poles, just as there is an interchange of the winds. The cold,
ice-laden waters have a tendency to flow into the warmer regions. The
overheated torrid waters flow poleward. This is the theory, and in part
it is supported by observation; but what is the mechanism?

It is evident that the missing keystones to the rising arches of
science are many, and the material for some of these will certainly be
found in the neglected blank around the under-surface of our globe.
The reasonable certainty of these results is likely to arouse a south
polar enthusiasm within a few years, and in anticipation of this I wish
to offer a preliminary word of warning. Up to the present, antarctic
history has to record no great loss of life, no awful calamities,
like the arctic tragedies. If due precaution is taken, none should be
reported. The arctic and the antarctic are alike only in degrees of
cold and in the quantities of ice. Even in these they differ somewhat,
and in every other respect there is little resemblance. From this it
follows that an antarctic explorer should be differently equipped
from the man who travels in the far north. The hopeless isolation and
impossibility of retreat make a fixed outline, a permanent station, and
strong vessels imperative.

Should an expedition risk their fortunes, as did the crew of the
_Belgica_, in a single vessel, and in the unknown drift lose their
ship, which is always possible, the disaster would mean certain death
for nearly everybody. It is true that the _Belgica_ experienced
no great damage by pressure, but that we escaped with our vessel is
a matter due quite as much to accident as to any wisely prompted
construction of the ship. If a field of ice two miles in diameter
should press upon any vessel in the wrong situation, it would certainly
crush her. This is always to be expected in antarctic navigation, and
it makes a companion ship desirable. The south, also, is a hard school
for explorers. Young men who wish to engage in this work should take
their schooling in the more congenial arctic regions.

From what we saw of the antarctic lands south of Cape Horn, it is clear
that the previously conceived impossibility of landing on south polar
lands is a misconception. The _Belgica_ made twenty debarkments,
and it was discovered that it was possible to land on nearly every
island and neck of land offering a projecting northerly exposure. From
the experiences of the _Belgica_ it would seem that a permanent
base of operations might be established far south, either in Weddell
or in Ross Sea. These are the only regions offering a promising route
to the south pole. The possibilities of reaching it will depend upon
the character of the inland ice. If it is a smooth, even surface,
without mountain ridges or extensive crevasses, such as the interior of
Greenland, and if this land ice extends to the pole, then it is within
the power of man, with present means, to tread on the spot; but if
it is otherwise, then there is only a small prospect of reaching the
southern axis.

In the future exploration of the south polar regions there is the
prospect of universal association which has long been the golden dream
of science. Indeed, just at present such international alliances are
the topics of the hour. The final filaments of the fabric which will
bind together the three greatest nations of the earth are being spun.
It is not a triple alliance in an ordinary sense; it is one of the
products of the evolution of nations. It is a natural selection of the
three peoples best fitted for each other. England, Germany, and the
United States are, at present, held together by a sort of matrimonial
bond, and this bond must be strengthened. Could there be a more fitting
seal to this family union than a triple alliance to explore the last
great unknown area of the globe? England and Germany are organising
expeditions. Will Americans, who have carried the Stars and Stripes
to the farthest reaches of the earth, stand aloof and look on? If we
are to have a well-equipped expedition, ready to work with England
and Germany, some merchant king must come to our rescue. The present
government indications are not favourable to such a venture, but with
the liberal hand of a Bennett, a Harmsworth, or a Jessup, we could
work hand in hand with the subjects of the Queen and the Kaiser. The
combined armies of peace could, in this way, march into the white
silence, the unbroken, icy slumber of centuries about the south pole,
and there collect the needful scientific spoils.

INDEX

Adelaide Island, impression as to, 164

Agassiz, Professor, 54

Argentine Republic, offer of, 97

Air charged with drift snow, 258

Alaculoofs, 98, 99

Alarming physical condition, 327, 328

Alexander Islands, 166, 167, 186, 198

Alexanderland, charted Alexander I. Land, 164

Alexanderland, inlet north of, 169

Alcohol, 90

Alcohol, deleterious effect of, 334

Ambition, 392

American discovery, remarkable fact in, 23

American topics, 327

Amusement, uncomfortable, 313, 314

Animal life, 128, 132–134, 140, 141, 183, 186, 198, 201, 210, 236,
239, 242, 243, 248, 255, 256, 258, 260, 269, 270, 273, 274,
277, 287, 293, 294, 313, 327, 334–337, 350, 356, 359, 360, 368,
369, 383, 384, 392

Amundsen, Roald, mate, appearance of, 42, 127, 136, 141, 147, 158,
244;
presence of mind of, 246;
patching boots, 259;
investigates a light, 286, 287, 300, 335, 349, 378;
resolve of, 382, 383

Ancient explorers, contrast to, 240

Antarctic, mainlands of the, 128–131

Antarctic midnight past, 323

Antarctic, first camping experience in the, 143

Antarctic pack, striking peculiarity of, 174, 175

Antarctic tent, 349

Antipodes, different surroundings in, 131

Anvers Island, 148

Appearances of land deceptive, 272

April 1st, 244;
2d, 245;
3d, temperature, 245;
4th, latitude, longitude, and temperature, 246;
5th, 246;
temperature, 247;
6th, 247;
8th, 248;
9th, 249;
10th, 253;
11th, 255;
12th, temperature, 257, 269;
latitude and longitude, 270;
14th, temperature, 258;
15th, 258;
16th, 258;
20th, temperature, 259;
21st, temperature, 260;
latitude, 261;
22d, temperature and position, 261;
23d, 25th, 261;
temperature, 262, 263;
latitude and longitude, 264;
26th, temperature and sounding, 267;
28th, temperature, 268;
30th, 269;
latitude and longitude, 270

Arc Aurora, 242, 253, 254

Arc snowshoes, 353

Arctic, redeeming features in the, 295

Artificial light, 316, 318, 367

Arctowski, Henryk, geologist, 42;
on Auguste Island, 132, 133, 136, 139, 141, 158, 175, 181;
interviewed by sea-leopard, 211;
in the crow’s-nest, 216;
arranging a new system, 241, 248, 280;
working in the laboratory, 299, 300;
saying of, 334, 335, 336;
on deck, 337, 347;
record of, 391

Astrup Eivind, 147

Atmosphere, clearness of, 145

Auguste Island, 138;
landing at, 131–133

August second, 358

Aurora, patches of, 236

Auroras, 212, 214, 225, 226, 258, 296, 297, 324, 335, 337, 343

Auroras, antarctic, average strength of, 262

Auroral display, 238

“Baking treatment,” 22, 331, 336, 351

Balaenoptera Sibbaldi, 369

Banquet, Rio Belgian, 9, 10

Barrier, 356

Barros, Trudente de Moreas, President, 9, 13;
attempt to assassinate, 28

Bay-ice, 186

Bay of Rio, parting view of, 15

Beagle Channel, eastward through, 119

Beauty contest, 250;
official record of, 251, 252;
disputes arising out of, 254

Bellinghausen, 164, 266

Belgian Consulate, visitor from, 28

Belgian national feasts, 336

Belgians, modesty of, 240

_Belgica_, expedition ship, 4–6;
on board the, 13;
leaves Rio, 16;
sleep on the, 17–19;
young bachelors of, 36;
purchase of, 41, 42;
public exhibition of, 44;
flag of, 46, 48;
crowded decks of, 46;
appearance of, 50, 51;
construction, 51–53;
equipment, 53, 55;
laboratory, 55;
library, 56;
quarters, 56, 57;
life on, 58;
leaves Montevideo, 59, 62, 63;
through the _pampero_, 64;
garb for the south pole, 65;
Chaplain’s duties on, 69, 70, 72, 76, 77, 97, 98;
strikes a reef, 119–121, 137;
anchoring to an iceberg, 140;
cruise to the south, 143, 154, 164, 170;
ploughs between heavy masses of ice, 178, 179, 183, 187;
refuses to mind the helm, 191, 192;
runs before the storm, 194–196, 205;
fear for, 220, 234, 240, 246, 249;
housing of, 256, 257;
serious drift of, 264, 274;
settling of, 268;
in icefloe, 275, 278–280;
normal air of, 290, 293, 296, 297;
in ice-walls, 298, 304, 306, 312;
alive with weird noises, 314, 318, 320, 333, 343;
only speck of human life, 352;
position of, 359, 361;
prepared for sea, 369, 371, 375;
injurious effect on, 376;
in huge drift, 380, 381, 384, 385;
liberatingthe, 393–399, 405

Belgica Strait, 135;
position and landmarks of, 146–149;
navigation of, 147, 154, 192

Belgium, Royal Society of, 406

Bird, a new, 377

Bird’s-eye view, pictures of, 217

Biscoe, Captain, 129, 147

Birds, resting places for, 141

Bismarck Inlet, 169

Bismarck Strait, 154

Blackness, effect of, 281–283

_Blake_, the, exploring ship, 43

Blessing, Dr., 321

Blow-holes, 328

_Bon voyage_, wishes for, 12, 14, 16

Borgen Bay, debarkments in, 146

Bransfield Strait, 128, 147

Brazilian Coast, 16, 18, 19

Brialmont Bay. See _Weddell Sea_

Bridges, Lucas, Mr., 120

Bridges, Thomas, Mr., 97

British explorers, custom of, 240

Brooklyn Island, 144, 148

Brussels, municipality of, 406

Brussels, Royal Geographical Society of, 40, 406

Buls Bay, 141

Bunks, 65

Butter, substitute for, 61

Calculation, careful, 281

Calm, unexpected, 224

Camping equipments, impracticability of, 274

Camp, site for a, 353

Canal, entering a, 144

Canal-making, 396–399

Canned foods, disgust with, 302, 303

Canvas suits ineffective, 325

Cape Anna, debarkment at, 140, 141, 145

Cape Castillo, 22

Cape Eivind Astrup, 146

Cape Errera, 147

Cape Horn, south of, 121–123

Cape Lancaster, 147

Cape Murray, off, 143

Cape Polonio, in harbour of, 21;
ashore at, 25–27

Cape Reclus, rounded, 144

Cape Reynard, 147

Cape von Sterneck, altitude of, 135

Castillo Island, off, 20–22

_Castine_, cruiser, 32

Cheerlessness, 319

Chenal de la Plata, 144

Christensen, Mr., 42

Christmas in midsummer, 385, 386

Chronometers regulated, 324

_Cincinnati_, cruiser, 13

Circumpolar ocean, characteristic ice of, 170

_Cleopatra_, the, wreck of, 69

Clouds, luminous, 270;
stratus and altro stratus, 193

Coaster, Brazilian, 18, 19

Coast, following the, 138

Coast-pilot, French, budget of, 72

Colchichoali, 107

Cockburn Channel, in, 94

Coldest period of the year, 362, 363

Cold metal, contact with, 262, 263

Cold not a serious cause of suffering, 257

Colony, Belgian, 59

Colours sparingly distributed, 184

Cornet, 382

Coming of the night, preparing for the, 208

Comparisons, 172, 173

Complaints, 206, 207, 231, 330

Conclusion, one, 374, 375

Constellations, new, 17, 18

Contrast, weird, 196

Cook, Captain, 223, 266

Cook, Frederick A., Dr., joins antarctic expedition, 3–5, 7, 19,
21;
volunteers services to expedition, 47, 48;
on the _Belgica_, 50;
visits sheep farm, 72–76;
efforts to return to the _Belgica_, 76, 77;
aids Wiencke, 127;
attempts to land, 132, 133, 158;
responds to call, 141, 179;
rescues Gerlache, 189;
plans of, 192;
sleeping on a floe, 212–215;
views ice-pack from crow’s-nest, 216–218, 239, 243, 248;
gives aid, 249, 272;
impressions, 287;
literary work, 300;
omits breakfast, 304, 305;
sees Danco’s illness, 309;
birthday of, 313, 314;
experience of, 321;
method of treatment, 322;
diagnosis of Lecointe’s case, 331;
treats Lecointe, 333, 378;
resolve of, 382;
plans ship’s release, 393

Crab-eating seals, 229, 242, 243

Crow’s-nest, 53;
view of pack from, 216–218

Dallman, German sealer, 129, 155

Danco, Emile, magnetician, 42, 43, 56, 136, 141, 142, 143, 149,
239;
unable to journey farther, 240;
building a hut, 241, 259, 263;
contrivance of, 273;
observatory of, 280;
illness of, 287, 292;
steadily failing, 296;
keeping up, 300;
sinking rapidly, 303;
failing, 309;
death of, 310;
burial of, 311, 312, 331

Danco land, 137, 143, 144, 149, 174

Darkness, soul-despairing, 295

Darkness, veil of, 276

Darwin, 96

Dawn, a long, 334;
shades of, 335

Day of departure, guesses at, 378

Day, the darkest, 323

Days and nights, change in length of, 221

Days of misery, 160;
rapidly getting shorter, 184, 248;
the darkest, 323;
of promise, 342, 343;
of feasting, 343

Debarkment, ready for, 29;
fourteenth, 145

December second, latitude and longitude, 378;
temperature, 379;
sixteenth, temperature, 381

Deception Island, 126, 192

Deep-sea creatures, 268, 269

De Gamboa, Pedro Sarmiento, survey’s Magellan Strait, 83

De Gerlache, Adrian, Commandant, 4, 5, 22;
projects exploring expedition, 39;
secures the _Belgica_, 41, 42;
visits Norway, 41, 43;
sinks financial support, 44;
room of, 56, 57;
attempts to land on Auguste Island, 132, 133, 141, 142, 158, 183;
inclines to winter in the pack, 191, 239, 244, 248, 287;
work on ship’s log, 300;
order of, 327, 335;
opinion of, 349, 372

Departing day, last signs of, 286

Deplorable condition, 336

Depth, increase in, 276

Despondency, 312

Destination, deceptive nearness of, 352, 353

Destiny, doubtful, 199–201

Destruction, threatened, 280

_Detroit de la Belgica_, 147

Diet, 351

Discoveries, names affixed to, 131;
on the threshold of, 154

Diurnal range, greatest, 381

Dobrowolsky, Ass. Meteorologist, 182;
assists Lecointe, 263, 336

Doyle, A. Conan, 308

Drake, Francis, Sir, 24;
through Magellan Strait, 83

Dredges, trawls and, 54

Drift, 209, 210, 262–266, 269, 271, 276, 297, 315, 337, 338;
longitudinal, 367, 378

Drift-snow, 227

_Dulce de leche_, 61

Easter Sunday 254, 255

Edges of the fields, difficulty in determining, 363

El Cerro, Mount of, 29

Electric glow, 247

Electricity, 273

Elizabeth, Queen, 24

Elizabeth Island, debarkment at, 77;
sheep-farming on, 77, 78;
discovery by Drake, 78

Embalmed meats, 208, 232

Energy decreasing, 300

Escapes, narrow, 150

Eskimo model, 336, 337

Evaporation, 351

Exact latitude, uncertainty of, 342

Excursion to iceberg, 286–288

Expedition, entire success of, 406

Extended outing, longing for, 345

Exercise, 334

Expedition, Belgian Antarctic, in Rio, 4, 6, 7;
farewell to, 12;
project of, 40–45;
feast for, 44;
leaves Antwerp, 45;
at Ostend, 46;
accepts Dr. Cook’s services, 47;
leaves Ostend, 48, 49;
prepared for scientific study, 53;
discomforts of, 93, 96

Expedition, Danish East Greenland, 43

Expedition, Vega, 45

Favourite temperature, 297

Feast, subscription, 44

February 7th, 8th, 144;
9th, 146;
12th, 150–152;
13th, 152;
14th, 156–159;
15th, 159;
16th, 162;
longitude, 164;
17th, rate of speed, 167, 168;
18th, 169;
19th, longitude, 172;
sounding, 175;
20th, temperature, 177;
21st, 180;
temperature and position, 183, 184;
22d, 184;
temperature, 187;
23d, 188–192;
latitude and longitude, 189;
24th, 192;
25th, temperature and position, 193;
27th, latitude and longitude, 193, 194;
28th, 194

Fire, excitement of a, 21, 246

First duty, 208

Fishing through a sounding-hole, 284

Fish, pelagic, 193

Fiskabolla, 233;
hatred of, 244

Fissures, large, 268

Fletcher, Rev. Mr., notes of, 24, 25

Floes, mysterious turning of, 210;
tendency of, 239;
disheartening change of, 278–280;
grown to encouraging dimensions, 305;
protecting, 306;
charged with bergs, 375;
lessening slowly, 381

Flores Island, heading for, 28

Food, dissatisfaction with, 231–233, 397, 398, 405

Force expended, 297

Fuegian life, studies of, 192

Fuegians, the unknown, 98

Fuel, necessary to economise, 256

Fur sealers, American, 129

Game, difficulty of bringing in, 243

Gaston Islands, 138

Geographical problems proven, 265

Giant petrels, 222, 223

Glaciers, 124

Gold-mining, 86, 89, 90

Government, Chilean, 100

Grahamland, 148, 151, 152, 155, 192;
questions as to coast of, 163

Grand Island, 148

Gray days, 204

Greenland, regions about, 295

Gregory Bay, landing in, 69–72

Hail storm, debarking in, 30

Halos, 363

Harry Island, landing on, 136, 137

Health, 301, 302, 307, 334, 335, 362

Heart action, 291, 292

Heated discussions, 327

Heavens, brightness of the, 247

High temperature, danger of, 296

Highway, 147, 197

Hoarfrost, fur of, 351

Home-going, 400, 401

Hope Harbour, in, 92

Horizon, cheerful glow of, 336

Horses, Patagonian, 72, 73

“Hotel,” captain’s, 280

Hotel Oriental, night’s rest in, 31

Housebuilding, 248, 249

Hovgaard, Captain, 45

Howard, Mr. Thomas W., U. S. Consul to Uruguay, 37

Hughes Inlet, in, 133, 134

Humidity, suffering caused by, 257

Hummocks, 273, 287

Ice, wall of, 128, 130, 135–139;
varieties of, 153;
new world of, 154, 155;
start out over the, 179;
rambling through, 202;
signs of pressure on the, 225;
crevassed, 239;
commotion in the, 253;
spreading of the, 255;
new, 328;
purple, 335;
experience of greenish yellow, 353;
now most continuous, 363;
studying the changes of, 386–388;
thickness of, 388

Icebergs, the first, 122, 129;
grazing on, 168, 169;
seventy-eight, 175;
different forms ascribed to, 180–182, 195–198;
disturbing element of, 229, 230;
huge tabular, 239;
changing positions of, 305;
winter effect upon, 330, 384

Ice-blink, 161, 195, 198

Ice crystals, 245, 260, 287

Ice-fields, 287

Ice-flowers, 237, 238

Ice-pack, colours of the, 225

Ice pans, size of, 197

Ice-plain, snowless, 380

Ice-ramming, two days of, 198

Ice-surface, condition of, 350, 351

Ice-haze, opaque circle of, 371

Igloo, 357, 358

Imprisoned in sight of open sea, 400

Incident, startling, 285, 286

Indian huts, sites of, 95

Individual floes, movement among, 274, 275

Insomnia, 374

Islands, 94, 95

Jackson apparatus, 354

January 1st, 386;
5th, 390;
9th, 391;
sounding, 392;
12th, 393

Johansen, 336

Journey due north, 239, 240

June 1st, 303, 304;
2d, temperature, 304;
3d, 305;
temperature, 308;
4th, 309;
5th, 310;
7th, 311;
temperature, 312;
10th, 312;
temperature, latitude and longitude, 314;
10th, temperature, 329;
12th, temperature, 214;
19th, temperature, 318;
22d, temperature, 323;
24th, temperature, latitude and longitude, 324;
26th, 325;
29th, 326

July 4th, Independence Day, 327;
8th, temperature, 328;
12th, 330;
14th, temperature, 333;
15th, 334;
17th, 334;
21st, temperature, 335;
latitude and longitude, 337;
22d, 339;
23d, 342;
temperature, 343;
24th, 343;
temperature, 344;
25th, 344;
31st, temperature, 350, 354

Jupiter, 324

_Kartenaar_, the, cruiser, 46

Keeping watch, 360, 361

Killing a seal, 222

Knudsen, 125, 336

Koren, Y., 182, 242, 243

Kydbolla, 232, 233

Labours appreciated, 406

Lamp chimneys, substitutes for, 318

Lamplight necessary, 269

Lamp specialist, 318

Land life, forms of, 18

Larder, addition to, 330

Larsen Islands, debarkment on, 138, 139

Latitude and longitude, 189, 198

Latitude, 194;
farthest south, 297

Laurys, Consul, 8

Lawrence, John, Mr., 97

Leads, large, 235;
large open, 236;
converted into lakes, 237;
breadth of, 239;
green colours of, 262;
general direction of, 353, 368, 379

Lecointe, George, captain, 4;
describes final departure, 48, 49, 56, 57;
victim of _Mal de Mer_, 66;
visits sheep farm, 72–76;
efforts to return to the _Belgica_, 76, 77;
volunteers to rescue Wiencke, 127, 128, 136;
reports discovery of islands, 143;
sees first south polar star, 162, 164, 181;
obtains an observation, 189, 215, 221;
pays a forfeit, 244;
puts up box-shaped house, 248;
first observation in new house, 249;
mending instruments, 259;
tries observations, 261;
sighting the stars, 262, 263, 276;
sees inexplicable light, 285;
deduces position, 297;
completes details, 300;
certificate presented by, 313;
experiment of, 314;
in the “baking treatment,” 321;
good humour of, 330;
bad symptoms of, 331;
recovery of, 333;
elation of, 337;
appearance of, 341, 349, 378;
observations, 391, 395

Legation, Belgian, 3

Leopold, King, 41;
visits the _Belgica_, 47;
birthday of, 249, 250, 386, 406

Leptonychotes Weddelli, 383

Le Maire, navigator, 83

Lichens, moss and, 141

Liege Island, 137, 145, 148

Life, only cheerful, 183;
on the pack, 202;
value of, 372

Livingston Island, 123, 124

Light daily increasing, 330

Loboden Carcinophaga, 368, 383

Londonderry Island, on, 95, 96

Long night, commencement of, 278;
fifth day of, 288

Low Island, 128

Machine, Monacho, 55

Magalhães, Fernão de, 67–69

Magelestris, 186

Magellan, 82, 98

Magellan Strait, fortification of, 83

Magdalene Sound, through, 93

Mail, reading the, 405

Mainland, continuation of, 162

_Mal de mer_, 65, 66

March 1st, latitude and longitude, 264;
4th, 201;
sounding, 202;
13th, 206;
15th, 211;
16th, 214;
temperature, 218;
17th, temperature, 221;
18th, 221;
19th, 223;
20th, temperature, latitude and longitude, 227;
21st, 230;
22d, temperature, 234;
23d, temperature, 234;
25th, 236;
26th, temperature, 237;
27th, 238;
28th, 241, 401;
29th, 241;
31st, temperature, 243

Maury, Lieutenant, 54

May 1, 274;
16th, latitude and longitude, 281;
17th, 283;
temperature, 284;
18th, 286;
health and spirits, 289–292;
22d, temperature, 292;
27th, temperature, 294;
29th, 296;
temperature, 297;
31st, latitude, 367;
latitude and longitude, 297;
temperature, 298

Meal, a needed, 354;
time in preparing a, 356

Medicament of little service, 331, 332

Megaptera Boops, 369

Melaerts, J., 336

Men, humorous and sorrowful sight of, 173;
kept busy, 305

Menendez, Alexander, Chilean sheep-farmer, 72, 73–75, 107

Mending, 259

Meteorological work, 300

Michotte, the cook, importance of, 182;
strength of, 331

Midnight, darkest days of, 318–321

Midnight thaw, 318

Mirage of the moon, 299

Mirages seen for the first time, 184

Mission, success of, 390, 391

Mist, opaque, 361

Monotony, effect of, 301

Mount Allo, 130, 138

Mount Brugman, 137

Mount Buena Vista, form of, 22

Mount Pierre, 130

Mount Sarmiento, glaciers of, 94

Mount William, 147

Montevideo, cable message to, 405;
in the harbour of, 28;
city of, 29, 31–33;
University of, 33;
time spent in, 35;
promenades of, 36;
charming women of, 36, 37;
general impressions of, 38

Monte-Video, San Felipe de, 31

Month of August, disappointment in, 362

Months, happiest, 270, 271

Moon, anomalous faces of the, 206;
curious attraction of the, 247;
first glimpse of, 269, 270

Monotony, 326

Mother Earth, substitute for, 306

Murray, John, “Antarctica” of, 265

Mysterious land signs of, 185, 186

Nansen, Fridtjof, Dr., 43;
wires Belgian expedition, 45;
health of crew of, 321;
pattern of, 347;
tent plans of, 348

Nansen Island, 144, 148

“Nansen,” the mascot, 325, 326

Narratives, part suppressed of, 290

Nautical observations, conditions permitting, 172

Navigation, extreme difficulty of, 185

Navigation, season for, 188

Neumayer Channel, 148

Neumayer, Dr., 45

News, happiest, 338

Newspapers, 404

Newly discovered land, formal taking possession of, 240

New Year’s Day, 386–389

Nights, character of, 176, 177

Night of special interest, 151, 152

Noises, 132, 187, 197, 198, 297

Noonatak, ascent of a, 141–143

Noonataks, 138

Nordenskiold, Professor, 39

Notable sights, 146

Northerly winds, characteristic of, 261

November 4th, 18;
7th, 19;
8th, 20;
10th, 27;
9th, 373;
16th, storm on, 61–64;
25th, latitude and longitude, 373;
26th, 274, 376;
temperature, 375;
27th, temperature, 377

Observations, 263

Occupations, 269, 382

Oceanography, 54

October 15th, 367;
29th, 30

Officers and men, work of, 397, 398

Official holidays, 336

Official weather forecasts, 350

Ogmorhynus Leptonyx, 383

Omnatoplesca Rossi, 392

Onas, notes on the, 97;
the giant, 99;
homes of, 99, 100;
trouble with, 100, 101;
population, 102, 103;
physical development, 103, 104;
mental equipment, 104;
language, 105;
food, 105, 106;
delegation to sheep farm, 106–108;
weapons, 108, 109;
chase, 109, 110;
clothing, 110;
house, 111;
family, 112;
Ona girl, 112–114;
marriage relations, 114–116;
unwritten laws, 116, 117;
morals, 117, 118

Open leads, no, 336

Open sea, heading for the, 400

Open spaces of water, special study in finding, 363, 364

Opinion, difference of, 206, 207

Ossifragea gigantea, 383

Ossifrages, 186

Osterrieth, Madame, 44

Osterrieth Mountains, 146

Outhouses, 273, 280

Outlook, melancholy, 294

Pack, expansion of, 228, 229;
appearance of, in drift snow, 235;
danger of venturing over the, 268;
movement in the, 374, 375

Pack-ice, southward through the, 163, 164;
in the, 183;
travelling over, 386;
last latitude of, 400

“Pack Loafer’s World,” 232

Pagodroma nivea, 381

Palmer archipelago, 148

Palmer, Nathaniel, Captain, 129, 148

_Pampero_, 61–64

Panorama, view of new, 163

Pans separated, 359, 360;
diminution of, 379

Paraselenas, 247, 258, 363

Parhelias, 245, 247, 258, 260, 363, 371

Patagonia, along the coast of, 64–66;
sheep farming in, 73–75

Paths, 273

_Patria_, the, 41

Peary, Arctic Expedition, 331

Peary, Lieutenant, 147, 316

Peary, Mrs., 7

Peculiar phenomena, 389

Pedersen, Captain, 41

Penguins, 78, 79;
city of, 143, 186, 187;
royal, 193, 198, 201, 202, 210;
weird response of, 224, 229;
meat use of, 234;
group of, 235;
tracks, direction of, 239;
meat, 333, 334;
hunting, new system of, 382

Peter Island, 202, 265

Petrels, 193, 198, 201, 218, 229

Phosphorescent snow, 286

Phosphorescence, tests of, 367, 368

Photographic, day, a, 145

Photographs, feeble light for, 262, 293, 373

Photograph, midnight, 144

Physical appearance, 398

Physical loss, 291

Physiognomies, curious, 404

Polar anæmia, 302, 321, 322, 331

Polar farm, 279

Polar night, attractions of, 366

Polar regions, reasons for fascination of, 218–220

Polar river, great, 356

Polar summer, passing into, 370

Polar work, Brazilian versions of, 7

Port Famine, 84

Predecessors, historical record of, 129, 130

Premonitions, 190

Presidents, methods for changing, 28, 29

Pressure, great, 298

Prismatic effects, 260

Programmes, long series of new, 192, 372

Puntas Arenas, growth of, 80;
astonishing character, 81, 82;
history of, 82–86;
street scenes, 86–88;
location, 88;
result of discoveries, 88–90;
architecture, 90;
immigrants, 90, 91;
leaving, 92;
in port at, 401–405

Questions, 315

Racovitza, Emile, zoölogist, in advance of expedition, 8, 42;
arrangements made by, 81, 132, 133, 136;
discovery of, 143;
finds sea algae, 175;
plans of, 192;
studies, 241, 242;
kills seals, 243, 244;
patches pantaloons, 259;
fishes, 267, 268;
in the laboratory, 299;
plans a book, 300;
humor of, 337;
plays whist, 344;
sees new bird, 377;
gets specimens, 391;
remark of, 395, 405

Raleigh, Walter, Sir, 83

Recreation, 239

Recuperation, backwardness in, 365, 366

Regions, disheartening series of, 351

Renewed interest, 342

Resting place for the night, 150

Results, 390, 391

_Retribution_, H. M. S., 32

Reynard, H. I., Mr., originator of first Magellanic sheep farming,
77, 78

Rhodes, 91

Ridges, 272, 273

Rio de Janeiro, city of, 10–12

Rio de la Plata, importance of the, 22, 23;
in the, 59, 60

Rio, from Madeira to, 17

Rio Grande do Sul, province of, 20

Rising, difficulty of, 303, 304

Ross seals, 392

Routine, regular, 301

Royal Geographical Society opens subscription list, 41

Sail Rock, 125, 126

Samples of sea life, 299

Sanarelli, I., Dr., Italian bacteriologist, 33–35

Sandy Point, first sight of, 79

Schollaert, Mr., Minister of the Interior, 44

Schouten, navigator, 83

Scene, a despairing, 196;
fairy-like, 352

Scientific staff, short excursions of, 227;
return home of, 405

Sea algae, 175, 217, 286

Sea-ice, 229, 230

Sea lanes, 217

Sea-leopard, 210, 211

Seals, 186, 198, 201, 202, 210, 328, 329;
examine tent, 360;
killed, 277;
means of obtaining, 382

Sealers, Norwegian, 40

Sealing, 27

“Seal, new,” 180

Seal shooting, 293

Securing game, efforts in, 364

Sensation, a strange, 199

September 8th, temperature, 363

Settlement, penal, 84, 85

Sheep farming, 73–76, 86, 89, 100, 102

Ship arranged for the winter, 271, 272

Short-lived hilarity, cause of, 372, 373

Sierra Du Fief, 147

Sight, an exciting, 204–206

Signs, constant, 203;
deceptive, 186;
of nearness to open sea, 275, 276

Silence, 343

Situation, a curious, 199

Ski, on, 235, 239, 248, 274, 306, 319, 320, 329, 353, 384

Ski-travelling, excellent, 239

Skis and sledges, difficulty of using, 242

Skis, Norwegian, 228

Sledge journeys, 349

Sledges, lesson learned regarding, 244

Sledging party, return of, 359, 362

Sledge-shoeing, 351

Sledging-party, 349

Sledge travelling, 350–353, 355, 356, 359–362

Sleep, character of, 201

Sleeping bag, 212, 214

Smith Island, 123

Snowfall, total, 379

Snow, filled with, 371, 372

Snowhouse, building the second, 356, 357;
sojourn in, 358

Snow made adhesive, 242

Snow-shoes, 222;
travel on, 228

Snow showers, 376

Social enthusiasm worn out, 385, 386

Society, Rio Geographical, 10, 12

Solid ground, longing for, 386

Solvay, Mr., promoter of science, 40

Sophie Rocks, opposite, 144

Sounding, 202;
deep-sea, 189

Soundings, 121, 122

South America, milk and butter in, 60, 61;
most noted man in, 33

South American cities, growth of, 25

Southern cross, 315

South polar exploration, season for, 43

South polar lands shielded, 203

South Shetland Islands, 121–125, 128, 129

Special feast, 313

Star, first south polar, 162

Steaming slowly westward, 152

Staten Island, final adieu at, 121

Steubenrach, Mr., 100

Storm, a melancholy, 126–128;
demons, 62–64;
effect of, 220–224;
off Patagonia, 61–64;
on edge of the pack, 194–197

Storms, temperature after, 227

Stoves, 316–318

Strait of Magellan, in the, 69–71

Suits, different styles of, 347

Summer nightless days, 373, 374

Sun, a peep at the, 224;
unreliable as a fixed point, 261;
sight of the returning, 339–342;
normal face of the, 344, 345;
highest altitude of, 387

Sun effect, 283, 284

Sunset phenomena, 187, 188, 190;
strikingly beautiful, 19, 20

Sunday jaunt, 293

Sunday, observance of, 296

Sunburst, slight suggestion of, 277, 278

Sunshine, rarity of, 376

Surroundings, new charms of, 201

Surprise, ornithological, 171

Survey, 145

System, American Sigsbee, 54

Tabular iceberg, deceptive nearness of, 352;
distance and appearance of, 355, 356;
reached, 383–385

Task, first large, 121

Temperature, 137, 209, 210, 218, 224, 333;
maximum and minimum, 363, 372, 373;
normal, 377, 383

Temperatures at various depths, 189

Tent pitched, 353, 354, 360, 361

Tents, 348

Terre de Danco, 149

Thaw coming, 222

Tierra del Fuego, 186, 390

Tollefsen, 179;
permanently deranged, 385

Top line, 287

Tonite, 53;
explosive power of, 394, 395

_Torro_, the, gunboat, 92

Tracks, 335

Transformation, rapid, 208, 209

Treatment, system of, 332

Trenches, cutting, 393, 394

Triangulation, sights made for, 138

Trophies, 385

Tropical night, approach of, 16

Twilight, bright blue, 344;
midday, 288, 299

Two days gale, 370–372

Two Hummock Islands, 136

Undercurrent, suggestion of an, 375

Uruguay, sandy beds of, 27, 28;
population, 31;
imports, 32;
fruit and vegetables of, 60

Ushuaia, small town of, 97

Van der Steen, Count, Minister of Belgian Legation, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9,
12, 16

Van Mirlo, desperate effort of, 361

Van Wyck Island, 148

Van Wyck, Mayor, 148

View, general aspect of, 272, 273

Vapour, peculiar, 287

Ventilation, best means of, 256

Vessel, desperate attempt to reach, 361, 362

View, superb, 136, 137

Volunteers called for, 141

Visit of penguins and seals, 210

Walk, awkward, 402, 403

Wandel, Commander, of Copenhagen, 43

Warm weather, constant complaints of, 277

Watches, 355

Water-sky, 171, 185, 187, 217, 305

Water supply, 139, 140

Wauwermans Islands, 147

Weather unendurable, 308

Weddell sea-leopards, 356

Weddell Sea, search for opening into, 135

Welcoming the day, 342

Westerly, a chance to push, 193

Whaleboat Sound, in, 94, 95

Whist, game of, 304

White House, 8

White rainbow, or fog-eater, 262

White Squadron, 32

Wiencke, loss of, 126–128

Wiencke Island, 147

Wild life, stirs of, 165

Wilhelmina Bay, 143

Wilhelmina, Queen, 46, 386

Wilke, 266

“Williwaws,” 93

Wind, fury of the, 20, 21;
weather depending on the, 258, 310;
service of, 388

Winter campaign of work, 241

Wintering in the pack, opposition to, 191, 192

Work, first and most important, 271

Women, first glimpse of, 403

Yacht Club, Antwerp, 46

Yahgans, 99

Yankee Harbour, 192

Yellow fever, germ of, 33–35

FOOTNOTES:

[2] G. Neumayer, “Die Erforschung des Süd-Polar Gebietes.” Berlin, 1872.

G. Neumayer, “Ueber Südpolarforschung” (Report of the Sixth
International Geographical Congress, London, 1895).

Sir John Murray, “The Renewal of Antarctic Exploration” (“Geographical
Journal,” January, 1894); and the “Narrative” of the _Challenger_
Reports.

K. Fricker, “Entstehung und Verbreitung des Antarktischen Treibeises.”
Leipzig, 1893.

K. Fricker, “Antarktis.” Berlin, 1898.

For bibliography, see T. Chavanne, “Die Literatur über die
Polar-Regionen der Erde” (Wien, 1878); and the Antarctic Number of the
“Scottish Geographical Magazine” (October, 1898).

[3] Bull. Soc. Géol. de France [3], xxiii, p. 589.

Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
corrected silently.

2. Where hyphenation is in doubt, it has been retained as in the
original.

3. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words have
been retained as in the original.

4. Italics are shown as _xxx_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Through the First Antarctic Night 1898-1899" ***

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