CHAPTER XIII
THE BARRIER STAGE
Depots were made every 65 miles: they were marked by big black flags flying from bamboos, and we saw one of them, Mount Hooper, nine miles away. Each depot contained one week's rations for every returning unit.
That outward Barrier march will long be remembered, it was so full of life, health, and hope—our only sad days came when the ponies were killed, one by one. But hunger soon defeated sentiment, and we grew to relish our pony-meat cooked in the pemmican "hoosh."
On November 24 Oates slew poor old "Jehu" by a pistol shot in Latitude 81 degrees 15 minutes—this being the first pony to go. The dogs had a fine feed from the poor animal's carcass, and Meares was very glad, likewise Dimitri.
Incidentally, the dogs were not the only ones who feasted on "Jehu's" flesh. Pony-meat cooks very well, and it was a rare delicacy to us, the man-haulers.
As will be gathered, Scott proposed to kill pony after pony as a readjustment to full load became possible with the food and fodder consumption. The travelling now was a vastly different matter to the work of the autumn. The weather was fine and the going easy. Every day made sledging more pleasant, for the ponies had got into their swing, and the sun's rays shed appreciable warmth. Although we spoke of day and night still, it must be remembered that there was really no longer night, for the sun merely travelled round our heavens throughout the twenty-four hours. Its altitude at midnight would be about 12 or 13 degrees, whilst at noon it would have risen to 28 or 29.
Some of the days of travel were without incident almost, the men leading their ponies in monotonous file across the great white waste. The ponies gave little trouble; Meares's dogs, with more dash, contained their drivers' attention always.
Day and Hooper turned back in Latitude 81 degrees 15 minutes at "Jehu's" grave, and Atkinson, his erstwhile leader, joined the man-haulers. The two who now made their way homeward found considerable difficulty in hauling the sledge, so they bisected it and packed all their gear on a half sledge. They were accompanied by two invalid dogs, Cigane and Stareek, and their adventures homeward bound were more amusing than dangerous—the dogs were rogues and did their best to rob the sledge during the sleeping hours. In due course Day and Hooper reached Cape Evans none the worse for their Barrier trudge.
Wright's pony, Chinaman, was shot on November 28, and the Canadian joined the man-haulers. We were glad of his company and his extra weight.
On November 29 we passed Scott's farthest South, (82 degrees 17 minutes), and near this date had light snow and thick weather.
On November 30 we had a very hard pull, the Barrier surface being covered with prismatic crystals—without any glide we felt we might as well be hauling the sledges over ground glass, but diversion in the shape of Land-oh: I think I sighted Mount Hope refracted up, and pointed it out to Captain Scott.
On December 1 we began to converge the coast rapidly, and we were only thirty miles from the nearest land. The view magnificent, though lonely and awful in its silence. One would very soon go mad without company down here.
December 1 saw the end of "Christopher," but as the soldier fired his pistol at him the pony threw up his head and the bullet failed to kill, although passing through the beast's forehead. Christopher ran to the lines bleeding profusely, but Keohane and I kept him from the other ponies, and Oates shortly after put another bullet into the wretched animal, which dropped him. Christopher was no loss, as he gave endless trouble on the Barrier march. However, he was tender enough, as we found when Meares cut him up for the dogs and brought our tent a fine piece of undercut.
On December 2 we had a trying time, starting off in a perfectly poisonous light, which strained our eyes and made them very painful. It snowed almost incessantly throughout the day. Nevertheless we had a dim, sickly sun visible which helped the steering. As the pony food was running short the pony "Victor" was shot on camping.
I visited Meares and Dimitri in the dog-tent, and they gave me some "overs" in the shape of cocoa and biscuit, for which I was truly grateful, as I had been hungry for a month.
A blizzard started on December 4, which delayed us for some hours. Our party found it had a surplus of 27 whole biscuits—no one could account for this; we told Bowers, however, and he did not seem surprised, so I think he shoved in a few biscuits here and there. He told me that some tins carried 2 lb. more than was marked on them. We covered about 13 miles despite the bad weather beginning the day.
On December 4 we arrived within 12 miles of Shackleton's gap or Southern Gateway: we could see the outflow of the Beardmore Glacier stretching away to our left like a series of huge tumbling waves. As we advanced southwards hopes ran high, for we still had the dogs and five ponies to help us. Scott expected to camp on the Beardmore itself after the next march, but bad luck, alas, was against us. The land visible extended from S.S.W. through S. to N.W. More wonderful peaks or wedge-shaped spines of snow-capped rock. The first and least exciting stage of our journey was practically complete. A fifth pony was sacrificed to the hungry dogs—"Michael," of whom Cherry Garrard had only good words to say—but then the altruistic Cherry only spoke good words. We did over 17 miles on December 4, heading for the little tributary glacier which Shackleton named the Gap; it bore S. 9 degrees E. fifteen miles distant when we put up our tent.
Whilst marching well ahead of the pony party we unconsciously dropped into a hollow of an undulation, and foolishly did not spot it when we paused to build a cairn. Continuing our march we looked back to find no cairn. This first indicated to us the existence of undulations in the neighbourhood, and we frequently lost the ponies to view.
We appreciated that we were outdistancing them, however, and camped at 8 p.m.
It being my cooking week, and, as we fondly imagined, our penultimate day on the Great Ice Barrier, combined with a very good march and a very bright outlook, we had an extra fine hoosh; it contained the full allowance of pemmican, a pannikin full of pony flesh cut in little slices, about 1 1/2 pints of crushed biscuit from our surplus, and some four ounces of cornflour with pepper and salt.
I also had the pleasure of issuing four biscuits each, or twice the ration, Meares and Dimitri having given us eight whole biscuits which they spared from their supply.
The dog drivers were not so ravenous as the man-hauling party, which was natural, but still it was uncommonly generous of them to give us part of their ration for nothing.
I made an extra strong whack of cocoa, as we still had some of my private tea left, so could save cocoa. I brought tea in lieu of tobacco in my personal bag. At least that night the man-hauling party turned in on full stomachs.
We were all tired out and asleep in no time, confident and expectant, but before enjoying the comfort and warmth of our sleeping-bags had an admiring look at the land stretched out before us, and particular application of the eye to the Gap or Southern Gateway, which seemed to say "Come on."
So far on the journey I have not mentioned the word "blizzard" seriously, for we had not hitherto been hampered severely. The 5th December was in truth a Black Day for all. Once more the demon of bad luck held the trump cards against us. Another blizzard started, which tore our chances of any great success to ribbons—it was the biggest knock-down blow that Scott sustained in the whole history of his expedition to date. Here he was, a day's march from the Beardmore Glacier, with fourteen men, in health and high fettle, with dogs, ponies, food, and everything requisite for a great advance, but it was not to be, our progress was barred for four whole days, and during that period we had essentially to be kept on full ration, for it would have availed us nothing to lose strength in view of what we must yet face in the way of physical effort and hardship—we were but one day's march from Mount Hope, our ponies had to be fed, the dogs had to be fed, but they could do no work for their food. There was nothing for it but cheerful resignation. Our tent breakfasted at the aristocratic hour of 10.15 a.m., and Atkinson and I went out to fill the cooker afterwards—the drift was terrible and the snow not fine as usual, but in big flakes driving in a hard wind from S.S.E. It was not very cold, perhaps it would have helped things later if it had been. Our tents quickly snowed up for nearly three feet to leeward. In the camp we could only sleep and eat, the tent space became more and more congested, and those lying closest to the walls of the tents were cramped by the weight of snow which bore down on the canvas. The blizzard on the second day pursued its course with unabated violence, the temperature increased, however, and we experienced driving sleet. The tent floor cloths had pools of water on them, and water dripped on our faces as we lay in our sleeping-bags. Outside the scene was miserable enough, the poor ponies cowering behind their snow walls the picture of misery. Their more fortunate companions, the dogs, lay curled in snug balls covered in snow and apparently oblivious to the inclemency of the weather. Our lunch at 5.30 broke the monotony of the day.
We had supper somewhere near 9 p.m. and then slept again.
December 6 found still greater discomfort, for we had sleet and actually rain alternating. The wind continued and ploughed and furrowed the surface into a mash. Our tents became so drifted up that we had hardly room to lie down in our bags. I fancied the man-haulers were better off than the other tents through having made a better spread, but no doubt each tent company was sorrier for the others than for itself. We occasionally got out of our bags to clear up as far as we were able, but we couldn't sit around and look foolish, so when not cooking and eating we spent our time in the now saturated bags. The temperature rose above freezing point, and the Barrier surface was 18 inches deep in slush. Water percolated everywhere, trickling down the tent poles and dripping constantly at the tent door.
We caught this water in the aluminium tray of our cooker.
The ponies arrived at the state of having to be dug out every now and again. They were wretchedness itself, standing heads down, feet together, knees bent, the picture of despair. Hard and cruel as it may seem, it was planned that we should keep them alive, ekeing out their fodder until December 9, when it was proposed that we should use them to drag our loads for 12 miles and shoot them, the last pound of work extracted from the wretched little creatures.
I am ashamed to say I was guilty of an unuttered complaint after visiting the ponies, for I wrote in my diary for December 6 concerning the five remaining Siberian ponies:
"I think it would be fairer to shoot them now, far what is a possible 12 miles' help? We could now, pulling 200 lb. per man, start off with the proper man-hauling parties and our total weights, so why keep these wretched animals starving and shivering in the blizzard on a mere chance of their being able to give us a little drag? Why, our party have never been out of harness for nearly 400 miles, so why should not the other eight men buckle to and do some dragging instead of saving work in halfpenny numbers?"
Still, it is worthy of mention that on the day the ponies did their last march every man amongst their leaders gave half his biscuit ration to his little animal.
This dreadful blizzard was a terrific blow to Oates. He of all men set himself to better the ponies' state during the bad weather. The animals lost condition with a rapidity that was horrible to observe. The cutting wind whirling the sleet round the ponies gave them a very sorry time, but whenever one peeped out of the tent door there was Oates, wet to the skin, trying to keep life in his charges. I think the poor soldier suffered as much as the ponies. He had felt that every time he re-entered his tent (which was also Captain Scott's) that he took in more wet snow and helped to increase the general discomfort. This being the case when he went out to the ponies, he stopped out, and kept his vigil crouching behind a drifted up pony-wall. We others could not help laughing at him, after the blizzard, when he wrung the icy water out of his clothing. His personal bag was in a fearful state, his sodden tobacco had discoloured everything, and as he squeezed his spare socks and gloves a stream of nicotine-stained water flowed out. I am unable to reproduce his observations on the subject—they were dry, picturesque, and to the point, and even our bluejackets, who were none too particular about language, looked at Oates with undisguised astonishment at the length and variety of his emergency vocabulary.
December 7 showed no change: the blizzard was continuous, food our only comfort. Personally I read Atkinson's copy of "Little Dorrit," for it sufficed nothing to despair; we could not move, and one had to be patient.
Next day we had less wind, but it snowed most of the day. We did, all the same, get glimpses of the sun and one of the land. Dug out all sledges and hauled them clear, then tried the surface, and to Scott's and our own surprise my party hauling on ski dragged the sledge with four big men sitting on it over the surface as much as we chose.
I had thought it beyond our power, it is true. We then returned to camp. Without ski one sank more than knee deep in the snow. The horses were quite unable to progress, sinking to their bellies, so no start was made. We shifted our tent and re-spread it on new snow well trampled down. This brief respite from our sleeping-bags freed our cramped limbs. Weather improved and we did not find it necessary after all to get back into our bags, for it was still warm and quite pleasant sitting in the tent.
What a sight the camp had presented before we started digging out. The ponies like drowned rats, their manes and tails dank and dripping, a saturated blotting-paper look about their green horse cloths, eyes half closed, mouths flabby and wet, each animal half buried in this Antarctic morass, the old snow walls like sand dunes after a storm.
The green tents just peeping through the snow, mottled and beaten in, as it were, all sledges well under, except for here and there a red paraffin oil tin and the corner of an instrument box peeping out. Our ski-sticks and ski alone stood up above it all, and those sleeping-bags, ugh—rightly the place was christened "Shambles Camp."
On December 9 the blizzard was really over; we completed the digging out of sledges and stores and wallowed sometimes thigh-deep whilst getting the ponies out of their snow-drifted shelters. Then we faced probably the hardest physical test we had had since the bailing out in the great gale a year ago. We had breakfast and got away somewhere about 8 a.m. My party helped the pony sledges to get away for a mile or two; the poor brutes had a fearful struggle, and so did we in the man-hauling team. We panted and sweated alongside the sledges, and when at last Captain Scott sent us back to bring up our own sledge and tent we were quite done. Arrived at the Shambles Camp we cooked a little tea, and then wearily hauled our sledge for hour after hour until we came up with the Boss, dead cooked—we had struggled and wallowed for nearly 15 hours. The others had certainly an easier time but a far sadder time, for, they had to coax the exhausted ponies along and watch their sufferings, knowing that they must kill the little creatures on halting.
Oh, Lord—what a day we had of it. Fortunately we man-haulers missed the "slaughter of the innocents," as some one termed the pony killing. When we got to the stopping place all five ponies had been shot and cut up for dog and man food.
This concluded our Barrier march: the last was tragic enough in its disappointment, but one felt proud to be included in such a party, and none, of us survivors can forget the splendid efforts of the last five ponies.
Meantime Roald Amundsen had a gale in Lat. 87-88 degrees on December 5, with falling and drifting snow, yet not too bad to stop his party travelling: he was 11,000 feet above our level at this time and covering 25 miles a day. He also experienced thick weather but light wind on the 7th December and on the day of our sorrowful march he was scuttling along beyond Shackleton's farthest South, indeed close upon the 89th Parallel. It is just as well we did not know it too.