CHAPTER VI.End of Twilight—Moonlight—Daily Life in Winter Quarters—Condensation—Breakfast—Morning Prayers—Outdoor Work—Exercise—The Ladies’ Mile—A Walk to Flagstaff Point—Sounds from the Pack—Optical Phenomenon—Dinner—Our Cat “Pops”—Occupation during Winter—Mock Moons—“Sally”—The Darkness.Illustrated capital letterTWILIGHT at mid-day ceased on 9th November; that is to say, the sun never afterwards came within twenty-eight degrees of the southern horizon. Such a definition of twilight is as convenient as any other, and has the advantage of being familiar to some people at least, as it is that which usually regulates the firing of the morning gun in garrison towns. After this date nothing but a faint violet glow towards the south, not bright enough to hide the stars, and that too lessening every day, marked the whereabouts of the mid-day sun. We were not at once left in darkness, however, for the moon rose, and for ten periods of twenty-four hours—one cannot call them days—climbed, and then declined spirally through the heavens. She again visited us three times before twilight returned, each time giving us the benefit of full moon; indeed, without her cheerful visits winter darkness would have been almost unendurable. During the intervening periods of darkness, “next moonlight” was looked forward to in much the same way that schoolboys look forward to holidays. A diagram made by Captain Nares, and hung up on the lower deck, representing the daily position of the moon during the absence of the sun, was constantly consulted. In this far northern region man is as much influenced by the moon as his celebrated Ascidian ancestor on the tidal beach. Her advent inaugurates a period of intermittent vitality. Then was the time to build snow-houses, to collect fresh ice for culinary purposes, and to repair the banking up of the ship. It was only then that it was possible to leave the beaten track marked out for daily exercise, and wade towards Cairn Hill or Flagstaff Point, or toboggin down Thermometer Hill or Guy Fawkes Hummock. When the moon left us, exercise collapsed into a monotonous two hours’ routine up and down, up and down the measured line of preserved meat tins, relieved here and there by an empty barrel, by way of milestone. A tread-mill would have been a pleasing exchange, especially if it was made the means of supplying an electric light during exercise hours.Anyone acquainted with Arctic literature does not need to be told that a polar winter cannot be safely passed without strict discipline. Routine must extend even to the smallest domestic affairs. Some people would never go to bed, and others would never get up if there was nothing special to make them; and constant darkness is so enervating that few, if any, would keep up a steady healthful amount of exercise without routine.Plate VI.—THE DECK: MORNING INSPECTION AND PRAYERS.—p.41.Decorative breakDrop Cap mMORNING muster and prayers on deck formed part of the daily routine, and, while the long darkness lasted, every day began with this scene. The men are clad in sealskin and cork-soled carpet boots. The deck is covered in with a deep layer of snow, and snow-houses are built over each hatchway.Let us take a single day as an example of life in winter quarters. On waking in the morning one’s first sensation is that there is a chilly spot somewhere amongst the blankets. A drip of condensation from the cold deck overhead has found its way through the waterproof or rugspread like a canopy to intercept it. This condensation is one of the greatest nuisances we have to contend with. Its chief sources are our breath, evaporation from damp clothes, and culinary operations, but there are many others. All the oil used in our lamps, and every candle we burn, is converted into nearly its own weight of water, and must condense somewhere. It either falls in large drops, well coloured with candle and lamp smoke, or reserves itself for warmer weather by freezing in all the nooks and crannies overhead and at our side. A little press close to the bed holds our summer boots, a number of glass instruments for chemical experiments, and some spare candles; but we have just discovered that the whole set of articles are imbedded in a solid block of ice formed by repeated condensation. An odour of kindling coal floats into the cabin as the wardroom stove is lit, and warns us that it is time to get up. Some minutes elapse before the chilled flue will draw, hence the odour. Toilet is not a lengthy operation. A tub is a weekly luxury, for water means fuel. The men have already breakfasted, and are clearing up the decks. The plates, cups, and saucers are cheerfully rattling on our mess table, and our next-door neighbour kindly warns us not to be late, as curried sardine day has come round again. A large mess-tin of cocoa is simmering on top of the stove, and the baker has treated us to the unusual luxury of hot rolls. At ten o’clock the men muster round the tub of lime-juice, mixed with warm water, and each man’s name is marked off as he drinks his allowance. Then all hands parade on deck for inspection. Everyone is dressed alike, in yellow sealskin cap and coat, sealskin or duffle trousers; long carpet boots with thick cork soles keep the feet well off the snow, and are especially comfortable over two pair of lambs’-wool socks and a pair of fur slippers. When the officers have inspected their detachments and reported all mustered, the chaplain reads the collect for the day and a brief prayer by the light of an engine-room oil-lamp hung from overhead. All join in the familiar responses, and the beautiful words of the prayer for the navy sound more than ever applicable to our special circumstances. The scene is a striking one. The dim yellow light, the composed fur-clad men, the awning draped in feathery pendants of ice, and the trampled snow on deck, make a picture not easily forgotten (Plate No. 6). Immediately after prayers, all hands are told off to the work of the day. The declinometer house is closed up with a snow-drift, and has to be dug out. Ice has to be dug out with picks from the top of a floeberg, and drawn on a sledge on board to be melted for drinking, cooking, and washing. The water thus obtained is only too pure. Frozen sea water, in spite of theory, remains salt, but the upper strata of the floebergs are pure snow condensed into ice. Then there are some stores to be drawn on the strong working sledge from Markham Hall; and the blacksmith and his assistants have a number of shovels to repair, for, strong as they are, they wont stand levering out blocks for snow-houses. At one o’clock the men go to their dinner, and before ours there is yet an hour and a quarter. We cannot stay on board, for the wardroom is occupied by an energetic party rehearsing for theatricals. We have just time for a good smart walk. In a few minutes we are equipped, with long mitts—some people call them elbow-bags—slung round the neck, and a substantial muffler tied sash-wise over one shoulder as a reserve in case of necessity. On first going into the open air, there is a faint odour like that of green walnuts. It is difficult to say what is the cause of it; it is not always noticeable, and does not coincide with the darkest staining of the ozone tests. The measured half-mile is already full of figures tramping along, some singly, some in pairs, some fast, others slowly, but all keeping to the beaten track, for elsewhere the snow is soft and the ice is hillocky.Let us, for sake of variety, take advantage of the waning December moon, and visit Flagstaff Point. It is only a mile and a-half northwards, but the deep snow will keep us beyond our time unlesswe wear snow-shoes. The sloping shore hills are barred with “sastrugi”—wind-made ridges of snow—but the abrupt scooped-out rifts between them are smoothed over with fleecy powder in gentle undulations like the swell of a sea. The crests of the snow waves are often marked with long sinuous lines of black dust blown from uncovered spots. A short alpenstock is useful to feel the way. We carry no arms, for we are beyond the region of the sea bear. The fierce creature depicted on our crockery (p. 83) is altogether out of place; but then every one supposed when we left England that the far north was chiefly characterised by abundance of bears, brilliant auroræ, icebergs, and Eskimo. The point is marked by four barrels supporting a flagstaff. Beyond it lies a seemingly level plain, between a wall of pack-ice and the mouth of our north ravine. The temperature is 67° below freezing; but it is perfectly calm, and not too cold to rest for a moment or two.RETURN FROM A WINTER WALK.In this icy wilderness there is an overpowering sense of solitude, which adds greatly to the weird effect of moonlight on the floebergs, fantastically-shaped and vague. There is complete silence, but it is broken every now and then by sudden unearthly yells and shrieks from the still moving pack, harsh and loud as a steam siren, but unlike anything else in art or nature. As we return to the ship our attention is caught by a brilliant star, so close to the rough and indistinct horizon that it looks as if some one was carrying a lantern on the floes. As we watch it, it moves, at first but a little, but afterwards in long curves like the sweep of a goshawk. It took us some time to find out that the motion was an optical delusion, most distinct when no other stars were near.The cheery sound of the first dinner gong has brought every one in off the ice; and as weenter the ship, we find a group of our messmates brushing each other down with a housemaid’s brush, for one must be careful not to carry any snow into the warmth below. A lantern lights the way into a snow-hall built over the hatchway. We open the inner door, a rush of cold air precedes us down the ladder, and we descend in a cloud of vapour like an Olympian deity. For a moment the changed atmosphere and a suspicion of tobacco smoke makes us cough, and the glare of lanterns and lamps dazzles. There must be no delay in taking off our sealskins; they are already moist with condensation, and a cold steam streams from them to the floor. Little lumps of ice on the eyelashes and brows soon melt, but a solid mass cementing beard and moustache together resists even warm water for a time. Hair about the mouth is a nuisance in the Arctic regions, and everyone keeps close cropped. Our vice-president’s two sharp taps on the table announce grace; he will wait for no one when the soup is cooling, and quite right too. Our dinner is the same as the men’s: a piece of salt meat left from yesterdayrechauffé, preserved meat—there is a discussion whether the pie is mutton or beef—preserved potatoes, and preserved onions; we shall have carrots to-morrow. Lime juice replaces beer, for the latter has become a rare luxury, reserved for birthdays and other state occasions. Presently some one throws a good conversational fly; if it is very successful, a brisk controversy follows. The subject is immaterial, all are more or less exhausted, and none is proscribed except theology. It is wonderful how many subjects became theological before the end of the winter. We have laid in a small stock of wine, which allows us to have two glasses of sherry or Madeira with dinner. When that is disposed of, conversation flags, and the table is soon cleared. As soon as the cloth, which looks as if it had been used before, is removed, our white cat springs upon the table, and seats herself in the centre with all the assurance of a spoiled pet. It is not a little strange that both she and “Ginger,” her sister, forward in the men’s quarters, as well as the Eskimo dogs, and even “Nellie,” the black retriever, suffered from epileptiform fits. Before winter was over, Pops got so strangely feeble that she could not spring upon a chair without several efforts; but when summer came, and we got her a little fresh meat, she recovered perfectly, and returned with us in safety to England. After dinner was a quiet time to write up journal, to read, or to work at some experiment or observation. Certain instruments had to be registered every hour, and sometimes even every ten minutes, day and night, and fair registers of such observations occupy not a little time. One or two who have work to do at night put in a couple of hours’ comfortable sleep before tea is announced at six o’clock. Then follows school on the lower deck. When it is over, and the officers have dismissed their pupils, the musician of our mess, whose good fellowship is equal to his skill, treats us to a little of his exhaustless fund of music. Strange to say, our piano still keeps excellent tune in spite of the heavy seas that swept the wardroom crossing the Atlantic, and many a severe freezing since. A game of chess, or a rubber in the captain’s cabin, concludes the evening.Plate VII.—WINTER QUARTERSINSIDEH.M.S. “ALERT”—THE WARDROOM—p.43.Decorative breakDrop Cap tTHE warmth and comfort inside the ship were a strong contrast to the chill loneliness outside. In the snug lamplight of the wardroom, with a journal to be written up, or a book from the well-stocked shelves behind the door, it was easy to forget that only a few planks and a bank of snow shut out a thousand miles of darkness and deadly cold.We were all prepared for a long and monotonous winter, and each one, according to his proclivities, had drawn out for himself a lengthy programme of improving study. One would read through Alison’s “History of Europe,” another would master Italian, a third preferred German; others chose music, and would learn the banjo, or, if the mess preferred it, the tambourine. But the historic programme only was carried out. Most of us found that our time was more than occupied with notes and observations of Arctic Nature that we might never have another opportunity of making. There was the electric, magnetic, microscopic, thermal, and chemical states of earth, air, ice, and water, and a hundred other pressing questions, that made us regret we had not spent our whole lives in preparation for our unlimited opportunities. Then there was other work that could not be postponed.It was above all things necessary to ascertain the exact position of our winter quarters, so that the geographical discoveries of the Expedition—the coast-lines passed by the ship as well as those traversed by sledges—might be fastened down to at least one fixed point. For this purpose, many careful observations of moon and stars were required, and the officer who had accepted the duties of astronomer had no easy time of it. He and his assistant spent many a chill hour watching the occultation or transit of some star or planet. The observatory is necessarily open to the air; snow-wreaths festoon its walls and corners. Every breath freezes on the metal and glasses of the telescope; even the vapour from the observer’s eye quickly clouds the lens. His assistant, utterly unrecognisable under a pile of furs and mufflers, stands shivering beside him, carefully keeping a chronometer from the cold, for neither watch nor chronometer will work in the temperature of Arctic night.The weather during winter was, as a rule, so calm and clear that observations on the stars could be made almost at any time; but it was not a little remarkable that, even at the clearest times, some icy dust, too fine to be called snow, was always falling. On the 27th December, for example, it was so clear that a star of the third magnitude less than three degrees from the northern horizon could be satisfactorily observed. And yet, in twelve hours, a glass plate exposed on top of a neighbouring hill collected a quantity of little crystals equal to nine tons per square mile. These crystals, not to be confounded with icy dew formed on the plate itself, were altogether too small to be seen with the naked eye; but there was no difficulty in using a microscope, even in the lowest temperatures, except that the mercurial reflector was soon destroyed by the cold. It was when these crystals assumed their simpler shapes, and were abundant in the air, that the moon appeared decked in those halos and crosses known asparaselena, or mock moons. Twice in December we had good examples of them. Upon each occasion the moon appeared in the centre of a large and luminous cross, surrounded by two circles plainly distinguishable between us and the snow-clad land. The cross swayed and trembled with every breath of air, and vanished altogether when wind disturbed the tissue of falling crystals; but the halos were more permanent. (Plate No. 7) gives a better idea of them than any verbal description. It is a reproduction of a sketch made early in the morning of the 11th of December. Our long-lost wanderer, Sally, absent since 15th October, when she was left by a sledging party near Sickle Point, had just put in an appearance, and may be seen in the foreground intensely watching the proceedings of two officers engaged in measuring the holes with a sextant.Plate VIII.—LUNAR HALOES.—p.44.Decorative breakDrop Cap tTHIS is a sketch, from the floes alongside the ship, of an unusually distinct Paraselena that appeared on 11th December, 1875. The haloes and cross round the moon are caused by the passage of her light through a tissue of impalpably minute needle-like crystals of ice slowly falling through the atmosphere. The snow-covered hills of Floeberg Beach are in the background, and in the foreground two officers are measuring the arc with a sextant, while the long-lost Sally looks on. In summer the sun was often surrounded by a similar meteor, but intensely dazzling, and tinted with colours like an outside rainbow.A proposof Sally, her adventures might make a canine romance. She was a young, rather unsociable, grey-coloured Eskimo dog, that formed one of Lieutenant Aldrich’s team in his autumn sledge-journey into the “untrodden north” and past Cape Joseph Henry. Like several others, the cold and hard work were too much for her, and she broke down utterly. The more “fits” she had, and the feebler she got, the more she was set upon and bitten by the stronger ones. It was impossible to delay the sledge, and there was nothing to be done but either shoot the poor beast, like a canine comrade a few days before, or adopt a less merciful course and leave her on the floes, with a faint hope that she might revive and limp home after the sledge. It was late in September that Sall was thus cast adrift. On 22nd of October the men of Captain Markham’s party fell in with her, still lingering about the spot where she had been abandoned, very lean and hungry, but too wild or too feeble to follow them back to the ship. From that time she was written down in the roll call as “expended.”Week after week of cold and storm and darkness passed, and everyone felt quite certain that poor Sall had gone to the happy hunting-grounds. It is accordingly easy to imagine thather reappearance on 11th December caused a decided sensation. Even her old comrades could not believe their eyes, but growled and stared at the gaunt prodigal that sat wolf-like on a snow hillock, and howled dismally in the moonlight. Ever afterwards she was a changed dog. She grew large and strong, and her character became ambitious and overbearing. When she set her mind upon anything, she got it, whether it was an empty box to sleep in, or a neighbour’s pup for supper. She became the favourite of the “king dog” of the pack (dogs soon learn, and never forget which is master), and would feed between his paws. But after a while she learnt to beat her lord, and finally usurped his throne, and led the pack in work or play, though Salic law is generally observed amongst Eskimo dogs. When the Expedition returned, she was given to our trusty Eskimo Fred, who knew how to value her. Some of us would have liked to have shown her in England, but it would have gone hard with the first cab horse she caught sight of.The “Alert” in her winter quarters at Floeberg Beach was 142 days without the sun—a week longer than the “Polaris,” and a month longer than any previous English expedition. Throughout the whole time the difference between noon and midnight was hardly appreciable, but a long period of slowly lessening twilight preceded actual night. Our darkest time occurred between moon-set on 18th December, 1875, and moon-rise on 4th January, 1876, though indeed the periods preceding and following it were scarcely lighter. Many a time, as we stumbled blindly along at daily exercise, we discussed the question whether our noon was really as dark as an English moonless night. The general impression was that it was not so dark. The universal snow husbanded what little light there was, and sometimes looked almost as if it was self-luminous. Although the sun was further off on the 23rd December, that was not the darkest day, for the moon was not far below the horizon. That day at noon it was just possible to count lines 3 millimetres wide when not more than 4 millimetres apart.The 28th was perhaps our darkest day. In order to retain some idea of what the darkness was, we took a rough “Letts’s Diary” out on the floe at noon, and tried to read the advertisements printed in large type at the end. It was necessary to remain out some ten or fifteen minutes in order to get accustomed to the darkness; and of course, if one had any idea of what the advertisements were beforehand, the test did not apply. The words “Epps’s Cocoa,” in type nearly half-an-inch long, were easily read, but the “breakfast” in small type between them was utterly illegible. It was just possible to spell out “Oetzmann” in clear Roman type five-sixteenths of an inch long; and after much staring at the page, held close before the eyes, we managed to make out “great novelty” in type one-fourth of an inch long. Of course the test depended as much upon the eyes as upon the darkness; but it was at any rate a comparative one which would enable those who tried it to recall the darkness of their winter noon.The line below will give an idea of the size of typeLEGIBLE AT MID-DAY.We have since found that such type is legible on clear moonless nights in England.
CHAPTER VI.
End of Twilight—Moonlight—Daily Life in Winter Quarters—Condensation—Breakfast—Morning Prayers—Outdoor Work—Exercise—The Ladies’ Mile—A Walk to Flagstaff Point—Sounds from the Pack—Optical Phenomenon—Dinner—Our Cat “Pops”—Occupation during Winter—Mock Moons—“Sally”—The Darkness.
Illustrated capital letter
TWILIGHT at mid-day ceased on 9th November; that is to say, the sun never afterwards came within twenty-eight degrees of the southern horizon. Such a definition of twilight is as convenient as any other, and has the advantage of being familiar to some people at least, as it is that which usually regulates the firing of the morning gun in garrison towns. After this date nothing but a faint violet glow towards the south, not bright enough to hide the stars, and that too lessening every day, marked the whereabouts of the mid-day sun. We were not at once left in darkness, however, for the moon rose, and for ten periods of twenty-four hours—one cannot call them days—climbed, and then declined spirally through the heavens. She again visited us three times before twilight returned, each time giving us the benefit of full moon; indeed, without her cheerful visits winter darkness would have been almost unendurable. During the intervening periods of darkness, “next moonlight” was looked forward to in much the same way that schoolboys look forward to holidays. A diagram made by Captain Nares, and hung up on the lower deck, representing the daily position of the moon during the absence of the sun, was constantly consulted. In this far northern region man is as much influenced by the moon as his celebrated Ascidian ancestor on the tidal beach. Her advent inaugurates a period of intermittent vitality. Then was the time to build snow-houses, to collect fresh ice for culinary purposes, and to repair the banking up of the ship. It was only then that it was possible to leave the beaten track marked out for daily exercise, and wade towards Cairn Hill or Flagstaff Point, or toboggin down Thermometer Hill or Guy Fawkes Hummock. When the moon left us, exercise collapsed into a monotonous two hours’ routine up and down, up and down the measured line of preserved meat tins, relieved here and there by an empty barrel, by way of milestone. A tread-mill would have been a pleasing exchange, especially if it was made the means of supplying an electric light during exercise hours.
Anyone acquainted with Arctic literature does not need to be told that a polar winter cannot be safely passed without strict discipline. Routine must extend even to the smallest domestic affairs. Some people would never go to bed, and others would never get up if there was nothing special to make them; and constant darkness is so enervating that few, if any, would keep up a steady healthful amount of exercise without routine.
Plate VI.—THE DECK: MORNING INSPECTION AND PRAYERS.—p.41.
Plate VI.—THE DECK: MORNING INSPECTION AND PRAYERS.—p.41.
Decorative break
Drop Cap mMORNING muster and prayers on deck formed part of the daily routine, and, while the long darkness lasted, every day began with this scene. The men are clad in sealskin and cork-soled carpet boots. The deck is covered in with a deep layer of snow, and snow-houses are built over each hatchway.
Drop Cap m
MORNING muster and prayers on deck formed part of the daily routine, and, while the long darkness lasted, every day began with this scene. The men are clad in sealskin and cork-soled carpet boots. The deck is covered in with a deep layer of snow, and snow-houses are built over each hatchway.
Let us take a single day as an example of life in winter quarters. On waking in the morning one’s first sensation is that there is a chilly spot somewhere amongst the blankets. A drip of condensation from the cold deck overhead has found its way through the waterproof or rugspread like a canopy to intercept it. This condensation is one of the greatest nuisances we have to contend with. Its chief sources are our breath, evaporation from damp clothes, and culinary operations, but there are many others. All the oil used in our lamps, and every candle we burn, is converted into nearly its own weight of water, and must condense somewhere. It either falls in large drops, well coloured with candle and lamp smoke, or reserves itself for warmer weather by freezing in all the nooks and crannies overhead and at our side. A little press close to the bed holds our summer boots, a number of glass instruments for chemical experiments, and some spare candles; but we have just discovered that the whole set of articles are imbedded in a solid block of ice formed by repeated condensation. An odour of kindling coal floats into the cabin as the wardroom stove is lit, and warns us that it is time to get up. Some minutes elapse before the chilled flue will draw, hence the odour. Toilet is not a lengthy operation. A tub is a weekly luxury, for water means fuel. The men have already breakfasted, and are clearing up the decks. The plates, cups, and saucers are cheerfully rattling on our mess table, and our next-door neighbour kindly warns us not to be late, as curried sardine day has come round again. A large mess-tin of cocoa is simmering on top of the stove, and the baker has treated us to the unusual luxury of hot rolls. At ten o’clock the men muster round the tub of lime-juice, mixed with warm water, and each man’s name is marked off as he drinks his allowance. Then all hands parade on deck for inspection. Everyone is dressed alike, in yellow sealskin cap and coat, sealskin or duffle trousers; long carpet boots with thick cork soles keep the feet well off the snow, and are especially comfortable over two pair of lambs’-wool socks and a pair of fur slippers. When the officers have inspected their detachments and reported all mustered, the chaplain reads the collect for the day and a brief prayer by the light of an engine-room oil-lamp hung from overhead. All join in the familiar responses, and the beautiful words of the prayer for the navy sound more than ever applicable to our special circumstances. The scene is a striking one. The dim yellow light, the composed fur-clad men, the awning draped in feathery pendants of ice, and the trampled snow on deck, make a picture not easily forgotten (Plate No. 6). Immediately after prayers, all hands are told off to the work of the day. The declinometer house is closed up with a snow-drift, and has to be dug out. Ice has to be dug out with picks from the top of a floeberg, and drawn on a sledge on board to be melted for drinking, cooking, and washing. The water thus obtained is only too pure. Frozen sea water, in spite of theory, remains salt, but the upper strata of the floebergs are pure snow condensed into ice. Then there are some stores to be drawn on the strong working sledge from Markham Hall; and the blacksmith and his assistants have a number of shovels to repair, for, strong as they are, they wont stand levering out blocks for snow-houses. At one o’clock the men go to their dinner, and before ours there is yet an hour and a quarter. We cannot stay on board, for the wardroom is occupied by an energetic party rehearsing for theatricals. We have just time for a good smart walk. In a few minutes we are equipped, with long mitts—some people call them elbow-bags—slung round the neck, and a substantial muffler tied sash-wise over one shoulder as a reserve in case of necessity. On first going into the open air, there is a faint odour like that of green walnuts. It is difficult to say what is the cause of it; it is not always noticeable, and does not coincide with the darkest staining of the ozone tests. The measured half-mile is already full of figures tramping along, some singly, some in pairs, some fast, others slowly, but all keeping to the beaten track, for elsewhere the snow is soft and the ice is hillocky.
Let us, for sake of variety, take advantage of the waning December moon, and visit Flagstaff Point. It is only a mile and a-half northwards, but the deep snow will keep us beyond our time unlesswe wear snow-shoes. The sloping shore hills are barred with “sastrugi”—wind-made ridges of snow—but the abrupt scooped-out rifts between them are smoothed over with fleecy powder in gentle undulations like the swell of a sea. The crests of the snow waves are often marked with long sinuous lines of black dust blown from uncovered spots. A short alpenstock is useful to feel the way. We carry no arms, for we are beyond the region of the sea bear. The fierce creature depicted on our crockery (p. 83) is altogether out of place; but then every one supposed when we left England that the far north was chiefly characterised by abundance of bears, brilliant auroræ, icebergs, and Eskimo. The point is marked by four barrels supporting a flagstaff. Beyond it lies a seemingly level plain, between a wall of pack-ice and the mouth of our north ravine. The temperature is 67° below freezing; but it is perfectly calm, and not too cold to rest for a moment or two.
RETURN FROM A WINTER WALK.
RETURN FROM A WINTER WALK.
In this icy wilderness there is an overpowering sense of solitude, which adds greatly to the weird effect of moonlight on the floebergs, fantastically-shaped and vague. There is complete silence, but it is broken every now and then by sudden unearthly yells and shrieks from the still moving pack, harsh and loud as a steam siren, but unlike anything else in art or nature. As we return to the ship our attention is caught by a brilliant star, so close to the rough and indistinct horizon that it looks as if some one was carrying a lantern on the floes. As we watch it, it moves, at first but a little, but afterwards in long curves like the sweep of a goshawk. It took us some time to find out that the motion was an optical delusion, most distinct when no other stars were near.
The cheery sound of the first dinner gong has brought every one in off the ice; and as weenter the ship, we find a group of our messmates brushing each other down with a housemaid’s brush, for one must be careful not to carry any snow into the warmth below. A lantern lights the way into a snow-hall built over the hatchway. We open the inner door, a rush of cold air precedes us down the ladder, and we descend in a cloud of vapour like an Olympian deity. For a moment the changed atmosphere and a suspicion of tobacco smoke makes us cough, and the glare of lanterns and lamps dazzles. There must be no delay in taking off our sealskins; they are already moist with condensation, and a cold steam streams from them to the floor. Little lumps of ice on the eyelashes and brows soon melt, but a solid mass cementing beard and moustache together resists even warm water for a time. Hair about the mouth is a nuisance in the Arctic regions, and everyone keeps close cropped. Our vice-president’s two sharp taps on the table announce grace; he will wait for no one when the soup is cooling, and quite right too. Our dinner is the same as the men’s: a piece of salt meat left from yesterdayrechauffé, preserved meat—there is a discussion whether the pie is mutton or beef—preserved potatoes, and preserved onions; we shall have carrots to-morrow. Lime juice replaces beer, for the latter has become a rare luxury, reserved for birthdays and other state occasions. Presently some one throws a good conversational fly; if it is very successful, a brisk controversy follows. The subject is immaterial, all are more or less exhausted, and none is proscribed except theology. It is wonderful how many subjects became theological before the end of the winter. We have laid in a small stock of wine, which allows us to have two glasses of sherry or Madeira with dinner. When that is disposed of, conversation flags, and the table is soon cleared. As soon as the cloth, which looks as if it had been used before, is removed, our white cat springs upon the table, and seats herself in the centre with all the assurance of a spoiled pet. It is not a little strange that both she and “Ginger,” her sister, forward in the men’s quarters, as well as the Eskimo dogs, and even “Nellie,” the black retriever, suffered from epileptiform fits. Before winter was over, Pops got so strangely feeble that she could not spring upon a chair without several efforts; but when summer came, and we got her a little fresh meat, she recovered perfectly, and returned with us in safety to England. After dinner was a quiet time to write up journal, to read, or to work at some experiment or observation. Certain instruments had to be registered every hour, and sometimes even every ten minutes, day and night, and fair registers of such observations occupy not a little time. One or two who have work to do at night put in a couple of hours’ comfortable sleep before tea is announced at six o’clock. Then follows school on the lower deck. When it is over, and the officers have dismissed their pupils, the musician of our mess, whose good fellowship is equal to his skill, treats us to a little of his exhaustless fund of music. Strange to say, our piano still keeps excellent tune in spite of the heavy seas that swept the wardroom crossing the Atlantic, and many a severe freezing since. A game of chess, or a rubber in the captain’s cabin, concludes the evening.
Plate VII.—WINTER QUARTERSINSIDEH.M.S. “ALERT”—THE WARDROOM—p.43.
Plate VII.—WINTER QUARTERSINSIDEH.M.S. “ALERT”—THE WARDROOM—p.43.
Decorative break
Drop Cap tTHE warmth and comfort inside the ship were a strong contrast to the chill loneliness outside. In the snug lamplight of the wardroom, with a journal to be written up, or a book from the well-stocked shelves behind the door, it was easy to forget that only a few planks and a bank of snow shut out a thousand miles of darkness and deadly cold.
Drop Cap t
THE warmth and comfort inside the ship were a strong contrast to the chill loneliness outside. In the snug lamplight of the wardroom, with a journal to be written up, or a book from the well-stocked shelves behind the door, it was easy to forget that only a few planks and a bank of snow shut out a thousand miles of darkness and deadly cold.
We were all prepared for a long and monotonous winter, and each one, according to his proclivities, had drawn out for himself a lengthy programme of improving study. One would read through Alison’s “History of Europe,” another would master Italian, a third preferred German; others chose music, and would learn the banjo, or, if the mess preferred it, the tambourine. But the historic programme only was carried out. Most of us found that our time was more than occupied with notes and observations of Arctic Nature that we might never have another opportunity of making. There was the electric, magnetic, microscopic, thermal, and chemical states of earth, air, ice, and water, and a hundred other pressing questions, that made us regret we had not spent our whole lives in preparation for our unlimited opportunities. Then there was other work that could not be postponed.It was above all things necessary to ascertain the exact position of our winter quarters, so that the geographical discoveries of the Expedition—the coast-lines passed by the ship as well as those traversed by sledges—might be fastened down to at least one fixed point. For this purpose, many careful observations of moon and stars were required, and the officer who had accepted the duties of astronomer had no easy time of it. He and his assistant spent many a chill hour watching the occultation or transit of some star or planet. The observatory is necessarily open to the air; snow-wreaths festoon its walls and corners. Every breath freezes on the metal and glasses of the telescope; even the vapour from the observer’s eye quickly clouds the lens. His assistant, utterly unrecognisable under a pile of furs and mufflers, stands shivering beside him, carefully keeping a chronometer from the cold, for neither watch nor chronometer will work in the temperature of Arctic night.
The weather during winter was, as a rule, so calm and clear that observations on the stars could be made almost at any time; but it was not a little remarkable that, even at the clearest times, some icy dust, too fine to be called snow, was always falling. On the 27th December, for example, it was so clear that a star of the third magnitude less than three degrees from the northern horizon could be satisfactorily observed. And yet, in twelve hours, a glass plate exposed on top of a neighbouring hill collected a quantity of little crystals equal to nine tons per square mile. These crystals, not to be confounded with icy dew formed on the plate itself, were altogether too small to be seen with the naked eye; but there was no difficulty in using a microscope, even in the lowest temperatures, except that the mercurial reflector was soon destroyed by the cold. It was when these crystals assumed their simpler shapes, and were abundant in the air, that the moon appeared decked in those halos and crosses known asparaselena, or mock moons. Twice in December we had good examples of them. Upon each occasion the moon appeared in the centre of a large and luminous cross, surrounded by two circles plainly distinguishable between us and the snow-clad land. The cross swayed and trembled with every breath of air, and vanished altogether when wind disturbed the tissue of falling crystals; but the halos were more permanent. (Plate No. 7) gives a better idea of them than any verbal description. It is a reproduction of a sketch made early in the morning of the 11th of December. Our long-lost wanderer, Sally, absent since 15th October, when she was left by a sledging party near Sickle Point, had just put in an appearance, and may be seen in the foreground intensely watching the proceedings of two officers engaged in measuring the holes with a sextant.
Plate VIII.—LUNAR HALOES.—p.44.
Plate VIII.—LUNAR HALOES.—p.44.
Decorative break
Drop Cap tTHIS is a sketch, from the floes alongside the ship, of an unusually distinct Paraselena that appeared on 11th December, 1875. The haloes and cross round the moon are caused by the passage of her light through a tissue of impalpably minute needle-like crystals of ice slowly falling through the atmosphere. The snow-covered hills of Floeberg Beach are in the background, and in the foreground two officers are measuring the arc with a sextant, while the long-lost Sally looks on. In summer the sun was often surrounded by a similar meteor, but intensely dazzling, and tinted with colours like an outside rainbow.
Drop Cap t
THIS is a sketch, from the floes alongside the ship, of an unusually distinct Paraselena that appeared on 11th December, 1875. The haloes and cross round the moon are caused by the passage of her light through a tissue of impalpably minute needle-like crystals of ice slowly falling through the atmosphere. The snow-covered hills of Floeberg Beach are in the background, and in the foreground two officers are measuring the arc with a sextant, while the long-lost Sally looks on. In summer the sun was often surrounded by a similar meteor, but intensely dazzling, and tinted with colours like an outside rainbow.
A proposof Sally, her adventures might make a canine romance. She was a young, rather unsociable, grey-coloured Eskimo dog, that formed one of Lieutenant Aldrich’s team in his autumn sledge-journey into the “untrodden north” and past Cape Joseph Henry. Like several others, the cold and hard work were too much for her, and she broke down utterly. The more “fits” she had, and the feebler she got, the more she was set upon and bitten by the stronger ones. It was impossible to delay the sledge, and there was nothing to be done but either shoot the poor beast, like a canine comrade a few days before, or adopt a less merciful course and leave her on the floes, with a faint hope that she might revive and limp home after the sledge. It was late in September that Sall was thus cast adrift. On 22nd of October the men of Captain Markham’s party fell in with her, still lingering about the spot where she had been abandoned, very lean and hungry, but too wild or too feeble to follow them back to the ship. From that time she was written down in the roll call as “expended.”
Week after week of cold and storm and darkness passed, and everyone felt quite certain that poor Sall had gone to the happy hunting-grounds. It is accordingly easy to imagine thather reappearance on 11th December caused a decided sensation. Even her old comrades could not believe their eyes, but growled and stared at the gaunt prodigal that sat wolf-like on a snow hillock, and howled dismally in the moonlight. Ever afterwards she was a changed dog. She grew large and strong, and her character became ambitious and overbearing. When she set her mind upon anything, she got it, whether it was an empty box to sleep in, or a neighbour’s pup for supper. She became the favourite of the “king dog” of the pack (dogs soon learn, and never forget which is master), and would feed between his paws. But after a while she learnt to beat her lord, and finally usurped his throne, and led the pack in work or play, though Salic law is generally observed amongst Eskimo dogs. When the Expedition returned, she was given to our trusty Eskimo Fred, who knew how to value her. Some of us would have liked to have shown her in England, but it would have gone hard with the first cab horse she caught sight of.
The “Alert” in her winter quarters at Floeberg Beach was 142 days without the sun—a week longer than the “Polaris,” and a month longer than any previous English expedition. Throughout the whole time the difference between noon and midnight was hardly appreciable, but a long period of slowly lessening twilight preceded actual night. Our darkest time occurred between moon-set on 18th December, 1875, and moon-rise on 4th January, 1876, though indeed the periods preceding and following it were scarcely lighter. Many a time, as we stumbled blindly along at daily exercise, we discussed the question whether our noon was really as dark as an English moonless night. The general impression was that it was not so dark. The universal snow husbanded what little light there was, and sometimes looked almost as if it was self-luminous. Although the sun was further off on the 23rd December, that was not the darkest day, for the moon was not far below the horizon. That day at noon it was just possible to count lines 3 millimetres wide when not more than 4 millimetres apart.
The 28th was perhaps our darkest day. In order to retain some idea of what the darkness was, we took a rough “Letts’s Diary” out on the floe at noon, and tried to read the advertisements printed in large type at the end. It was necessary to remain out some ten or fifteen minutes in order to get accustomed to the darkness; and of course, if one had any idea of what the advertisements were beforehand, the test did not apply. The words “Epps’s Cocoa,” in type nearly half-an-inch long, were easily read, but the “breakfast” in small type between them was utterly illegible. It was just possible to spell out “Oetzmann” in clear Roman type five-sixteenths of an inch long; and after much staring at the page, held close before the eyes, we managed to make out “great novelty” in type one-fourth of an inch long. Of course the test depended as much upon the eyes as upon the darkness; but it was at any rate a comparative one which would enable those who tried it to recall the darkness of their winter noon.
The line below will give an idea of the size of type
LEGIBLE AT MID-DAY.
We have since found that such type is legible on clear moonless nights in England.