South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
appearing in considerable numbers. We secured nine of them on May 6, an
important addition to our supply of fresh food.
The sun, which had made “positively his last appearance” seven days
earlier, surprised us by lifting more than half its disk above the
horizon on May 8. A glow on the northern horizon resolved itself into
the sun at 11 a.m. that day. A quarter of an hour later the
unseasonable visitor disappeared again, only to rise again at 11.40
a.m., set at 1 p.m., rise at 1.10 p.m., and set lingeringly at 1.20
p.m. These curious phenomena were due to refraction, which amounted to
2° 37´ at 1.20 p.m. The temperature was 15° below zero Fahr. and we
calculated that the refraction was 2° above normal. In other words, the
sun was visible 120 miles farther south than the refraction tables gave
it any right to be. The navigating officer naturally was aggrieved. He
had informed all hands on May 1 that they would not see the sun again
for seventy days, and now had to endure the jeers of friends who
affected to believe that his observations were inaccurate by a few
degrees.
The _Endurance_ was drifting north-north-east under the influence of a
succession of westerly and south-westerly breezes. The ship’s head, at
the same time, swung gradually to the left, indicating that the floe in
which she was held was turning. During the night of the 14th a very
pronounced swing occurred, and when daylight came at noon on the 15th
we observed a large lead running from the north-west horizon towards
the ship till it struck the western lead, circling ahead of the ship,
then continuing to the south-south-east. A lead astern connected with
this new lead on either side of the _Endurance_, thus separating our
floe completely from the main body of the pack. A blizzard from the
south-east swept down during the 16th. At 1 p.m. the blizzard lulled
for five minutes; then the wind jumped round to the opposite quarter
and the barometer rose suddenly. The centre of a cyclonic movement had
passed over us, and the compass recorded an extraordinarily rapid swing
of the floe. I could see nothing through the mist and snow, and I
thought it possible that a magnetic storm or a patch of local magnetic
attraction had caused the compass, and not the floe, to swing, Our floe
was now about 2½ miles long north and south and 3 miles wide east and
west.
The month of May passed with few incidents of importance. Hurley, our
handy man, installed our small electric-lighting plant and placed
lights for occasional use in the observatory, the meteorological
station, and various other points. We could not afford to use the
electric lamps freely. Hurley also rigged two powerful lights on poles
projecting from the ship to port and starboard. These lamps would
illuminate the “dogloos” brilliantly on the darkest winter’s day and
would be invaluable in the event of the floe breaking during the dark
days of winter. We could imagine what it would mean to get fifty dogs
aboard without lights while the floe was breaking and rafting under our
feet. May 24, Empire Day, was celebrated with the singing of patriotic
songs in the Ritz, where all hands joined in wishing a speedy victory
for the British arms. We could not know how the war was progressing,
but we hoped that the Germans had already been driven from France and
that the Russian armies had put the seal on the Allies’ success. The
war was a constant subject of discussion aboard the _Endurance_, and
many campaigns were fought on the map during the long months of
drifting. The moon in the latter part of May was sweeping continuously
through our starlit sky in great high circles. The weather generally
was good, with constant minus temperatures. The log on May 27 recorded:
“Brilliantly fine clear weather with bright moonlight throughout. The
moon’s rays are wonderfully strong, making midnight seem as light as an
ordinary overcast midday in temperate climes. The great clearness of
the atmosphere probably accounts for our having eight hours of twilight
with a beautiful soft golden glow to the northward. A little rime and
glazed frost are found aloft. The temperature is –20° Fahr. A few wisps
of cirrus-cloud are seen and a little frost-smoke shows in one or two
directions, but the cracks and leads near the ship appear to have
frozen over again.”
Crean had started to take the pups out for runs, and it was very
amusing to see them with their rolling canter just managing to keep
abreast by the sledge and occasionally cocking an eye with an appealing
look in the hope of being taken aboard for a ride. As an addition to
their foster-father, Crean, the pups had adopted Amundsen. They
tyrannized over him most unmercifully. It was a common sight to see
him, the biggest dog in the pack, sitting out in the cold with an air
of philosophic resignation while a corpulent pup occupied the entrance
to his “dogloo.” The intruder was generally the pup Nelson, who just
showed his forepaws and face, and one was fairly sure to find Nelly,
Roger, and Toby coiled up comfortably behind him. At hoosh-time Crean
had to stand by Amundsen’s food, since otherwise the pups would eat the
big dog’s ration while he stood back to give them fair play. Sometimes
their consciences would smite them and they would drag round a seal’s
head, half a penguin, or a large lump of frozen meat or blubber to
Amundsen’s kennel for rent. It was interesting to watch the big dog
play with them, seizing them by throat or neck in what appeared to be a
fierce fashion, while really quite gentle with them, and all the time
teaching them how to hold their own in the world and putting them up to
all the tricks of dog life.
The drift of the _Endurance_ in the grip of the pack continued without
incident of importance through June. Pressure was reported
occasionally, but the ice in the immediate vicinity of the ship
remained firm. The light was now very bad except in the period when the
friendly moon was above the horizon. A faint twilight round about noon
of each day reminded us of the sun, and assisted us in the important
work of exercising the dogs. The care of the teams was our heaviest
responsibility in those days. The movement of the floes was beyond all
human control, and there was nothing to be gained by allowing one’s
mind to struggle with the problems of the future, though it was hard to
avoid anxiety at times. The conditioning and training of the dogs
seemed essential, whatever fate might be in store for us, and the teams
were taken out by their drivers whenever the weather permitted.
Rivalries arose, as might have been expected, and on the 15th of the
month a great race, the “Antarctic Derby,” took place. It was a notable
event. The betting had been heavy, and every man aboard the ship stood
to win or lose on the result of the contest. Some money had been
staked, but the wagers that thrilled were those involving stores of
chocolate and cigarettes. The course had been laid off from Khyber
Pass, at the eastern end of the old lead ahead of the ship, to a point
clear of the jib-boom, a distance of about 700 yds. Five teams went out
in the dim noon twilight, with a zero temperature and an aurora
flickering faintly to the southward. The starting signal was to be
given by the flashing of a light on the meteorological station. I was
appointed starter, Worsley was judge, and James was timekeeper. The
bos’n, with a straw hat added to his usual Antarctic attire, stood on a
box near the winning-post, and was assisted by a couple of shady
characters to shout the odds, which were displayed on a board hung
around his neck—6 to 4 on Wild, “evens” on Crean, 2 to 1 against
Hurley, 6 to 1 against Macklin, and 8 to 1 against McIlroy. Canvas
handkerchiefs fluttered from an improvised grand stand, and the pups,
which had never seen such strange happenings before, sat round and
howled with excitement. The spectators could not see far in the dim
light, but they heard the shouts of the drivers as the teams approached
and greeted the victory of the favourite with a roar of cheering that
must have sounded strange indeed to any seals or penguins that happened
to be in our neighbourhood. Wild’s time was 2 min. 16 sec., or at the
rate of 10½ miles per hour for the course.
We celebrated Midwinter’s Day on the 22nd. The twilight extended over a
period of about six hours that day, and there was a good light at noon
from the moon, and also a northern glow with wisps of beautiful pink
cloud along the horizon. A sounding gave 262 fathoms with a mud bottom.
No land was in sight from the mast-head, although our range of vision
extended probably a full degree to the westward. The day was observed
as a holiday, necessary work only being undertaken, and, after the best
dinner the cook could provide, all hands gathered in the Ritz, where
speeches, songs, and toasts occupied the evening. After supper at
midnight we sang “God Save the King” and wished each other all success
in the days of sunshine and effort that lay ahead. At this time the
_Endurance_ was making an unusually rapid drift to the north under the
influence of a fresh southerly to south-westerly breeze. We travelled
39 miles to the north in five days before a breeze that only once
attained the force of a gale and then for no more than an hour. The
absence of strong winds, in comparison with the almost unceasing winter
blizzards of the Ross Sea, was a feature of the Weddell Sea that
impressed itself upon me during the winter months.
Another race took place a few days after the “Derby.” The two crack
teams, driven by Hurley and Wild, met in a race from Khyber Pass.
Wild’s team, pulling 910 lbs., or 130 lbs. per dog, covered the 700
yds. in 2 min. 9 sec., or at the rate of 11.1 miles per hour. Hurley’s
team, with the same load, did the run in 2 min. 16 sec. The race was
awarded by the judge to Hurley owing to Wild failing to “weigh in”
correctly. I happened to be a part of the load on his sledge, and a
skid over some new drift within fifty yards of the winning post
resulted in my being left on the snow. It should be said in justice to
the dogs that this accident, while justifying the disqualification,
could not have made any material difference in the time.
The approach of the returning sun was indicated by beautiful sunrise
glows on the horizon in the early days of July. We had nine hours’
twilight on the 10th, and the northern sky, low to the horizon, was
tinted with gold for about seven hours. Numerous cracks and leads
extended in all directions to within 300 yds. of the ship. Thin
wavering black lines close to the northern horizon were probably
distant leads refracted into the sky. Sounds of moderate pressure came
to our ears occasionally, but the ship was not involved. At midnight on
the 11th a crack in the lead ahead of the _Endurance_ opened out
rapidly, and by 2 a.m. was over 200 yds. wide in places with an area of
open water to the south-west. Sounds of pressure were heard along this
lead, which soon closed to a width of about 30 yds. and then froze
over. The temperature at that time was –23° Fahr.
The most severe blizzard we had experienced in the Weddell Sea swept
down upon the _Endurance_ on the evening of the 13th, and by
breakfast-time on the following morning the kennels to the windward, or
southern side of the ship were buried under 5 ft. of drift. I gave
orders that no man should venture beyond the kennels. The ship was
invisible at a distance of fifty yards, and it was impossible to
preserve one’s sense of direction in the raging wind and suffocating
drift. To walk against the gale was out of the question. Face and eyes
became snowed up within two minutes, and serious frost-bites would have