CHAPTER XXVIIFARTHEST SOUTH
Bythe evening of New Year's Day we were within 172½ miles of the Pole, so we had managed to beat all records North and South, and we also had hopes of a better surface—which were, unfortunately, not fulfilled. Again we had to battle over very soft snow, and the cold wind seemed to go right through us, weakened as we were from want of food.
Impossible as it was to think of failure yet, I compelled myself to look at the matter sensibly and to consider the lives of those who were with me. I felt indeed that if we went on too far it would be impossible to get back over such a surface, and then all the results of our efforts would be lost to the world.
We had now definitely located the South Pole on the highest plateau in the world, and our geological and meteorological work would be of the greatest use to science. But all this was not the Pole. And how sadly I realised that I need not say.
Still, man could only do his best, and after ten hours' struggle against the strongest forces of nature, one pannikin of food with two biscuits and a cup of cocoa did but little to warm and comfort and satisfy him.
I resolved to make a depot on the 4th and then to dash for the Pole, and on that day we left a depot on the great wide plateau, a risk which nothing but the circumstances could justify, but to which my companions agreed with the regardlessness of self which they had always shown.
Pathetically small did the bamboo look which we left to mark the little stock of provisions—indeed, we lostsight of it in half an hour, and had to trust that our footprints in the snow would guide us back again to the depot.
By night, however, I knew—and had to acknowledge—that our limit was almost reached. We had only been carrying 70 lb. per man since we had made our last depot, but it was harder work than the 100 odd lb. we had been pulling the day before, and far harder than 250 lb. had seemed some three weeks previously.
Nothing could more clearly have convinced me of our failing strength, even if I could have shut my eyes to the facts that our faces were cut, our feet and hands always on the verge of frost-bite, our boots nearly worn out, and that when we got up in the morning out of the wet bag, our Burberries became immediately like a coat of mail, and also that our heads and beards got iced up with the moisture when breathing on the march.
What we would have given at that time for a pair of scissors to trim our beards I should not like to say, and had we known that we were going to experience such cold weather we should certainly have kept a pair.
The main things, indeed, against us were the altitude and ice-cold wind. Nature had declared against us, and at the best I had to abandon all hopes of getting nearer than 100 geographical miles to the Pole.
During the next day we were absolutely obliged to increase our food if we were to get on at all, for our temperatures were far below normal, and I had such a headache that I should be sorry for any living man who had to endure such pain.
Never once had the thermometer been above zero since we had been on to the plateau, though this was the height of summer, and on January 6 we had to endure 57° of frost with a strong blizzard and high drift.
Still, helped by the bigger rations—which did not amount to anything approaching full rations—we marched thirteen and a quarter geographical miles and reached 88° 7′ south. But at night I had to admit that this must be our last outward march, though I determined that we would make one more rush south with the flag. With what feelings of sadness I came to this decision I cannot even try to describe. Only one thing softened our grievous disappointment, and that was the conviction that we had striven to the very limit of our strength, and had not given in until the forces of nature combined with our scanty supply of food had conquered us.
Two days, however, had to be passed in our bags before we could make the final dash with the flag, days of shrieking blizzard and piercing cold, days in which our valuable food was going without our marching, and in which we had a gloomy foreboding that our tracks, to which we were trusting mainly to find our depot, might drift up.
Truly we realised that we had taken a most serious risk, and that we were in a most critical situation, but we were partly sustained by the fact that, at any rate, we had played the game to the last and utmost.
With 72° of frost the wind cut searchingly into our thin tent, and even the drift found its way on to our bags, which were wet enough already. Cramp kept on attacking us, and every now and then a frozen foot had to be nursed into life again by placing it inside the shirt and next to the skin of the sufferer's almost as suffering neighbour. To add to our dreariness we had nothing to read, as we had depoted our little books so that we might save weight.
The Farthest South Camp after sixty hours' Blizzard.(See page 144)
The Farthest South Camp after sixty hours' Blizzard.(See page 144)
We had honestly and truly shot our bolt at last, and when the wind dropped about midnight we were soon up and ready to struggle forward a little further and hoist the flag as near to the South Pole as we could possibly bear it.
At 9A.M.on January 9 we were in latitude 88° 23' south, longitude 162° east, half running and half walking over a surface much hardened by the recent blizzard, and it was indeed strange to us to go along without the nightmare of that heavy sledge dragging behind us.
Soon the time came when we had to hoist Her Majesty's flag and afterwards the other Union Jack, and then we took possession of the plateau in the name of His Majesty. And while the Union Jack blew out stiff in the icy gale which was still cutting us to the bone, we looked south with our powerful glasses, but could see nothing but the dead white snow plain.
No break in the plateau was to be seen as it extended toward the Pole, and we felt absolutely sure that the goal which we had struggled for—and failed to reach—lay on this plain.
We stayed only for a few minutes, and then, taking the Queen's flag with us, we turned our backs upon the Pole and began to retrace our steps. Regretfully it is true, but conscious that, though failure was ours, we had done our best to avoid it.