Our sledge just bridged the chasm with very little to spare each end, and poor Lashly was suspended below, spinning round at the full length of his harness, with 80 feet of clear space beneath him. We had great difficulty in hauling him upon account of his being directly under the sledge. We got him to the surface by using the Alpine rope. Lashly was none the worse for his fall, and one of my party wished him a "Happy Christmas," and another "Many Happy Returns of the Day," when he had regained safety. Lashly's reply was unprintable.
Soon after this accident we topped the ice fall or ridge, and halted for lunch—we had risen over 250 feet, according to aneroid; it seemed funny enough to find the barometer standing at 21 inches instead of 30.
Lunch camp, what a change. The primus stove fiercely roaring, the men light up their pipes and talk Christmas—dear, cheery souls, how proud Scott must have been of them; no reference to the discomforts of the forenoon march, just brightness and the nicest thoughts for one another, and for "those," as poor Wilson unconsciously describes them, by humming: "Keep our loved ones, now far absent, 'neath Thy care." After a mug of warming tea and two biscuits we strike camp, and are soon slogging on. But the crevasses and icefalls have been overcome, the travelling is better, and with nothing but the hard, white horizon before us, thoughts wander away to the homeland—sweet little houses with well-kept gardens, glowing fires on bright hearths, clean, snowy tablecloths and polished silver, and then the dimpled, smiling faces of those we are winning our spurs for. Next Christmas may we hope for it? Yes, it must be.
But with the exception of Lashly and Crean that daydream never came true, for alas, those whose dearest lived for that Christmas never came home, and the one other spared lost his wife, besides his five companions.
The two teams struggled on until after 8 p.m., when at last Scott signalled to camp. How tired we were—almost cross. But no sooner were the tents up than eyes looked out gladly from our dirty, bearded faces. Once again the cooker boiled, and for that night we had a really good square meal—more than enough of everything—pemmican with pieces of pony meat in it, a chocolate biscuit, "ragout" raisins, caramels, ginger, cocoa, butter, and a double ration of biscuits. How we watched Bowers cook that extra thick pemmican. Had he put too much pepper in? Would he upset it? How many pieces of pony meat would we get each? But the careful little Bowers neither burnt nor upset the hoosh: it was up to our wildest expectations. No one could have eaten more.
After the meal we gasped, we felt so comfortable.
But we had such yarns of home, such plans were made for next Christmas, and after all we got down our fur sleeping-bags, and for a change we were quite warm owing to the full amount of food which we so sorely needed.
After the others in my tent were asleep, little Birdie Bowers, bidding me "Good-night," said, "Teddy, if all is well next Christmas we will get hold of all the poor children we can and just stuff them full of nice things, won't we?"
It was unthinkable then that five out of the eight of us would soon be lying frozen on the Great Ice Barrier, their lives forfeited by a series of crushing defeats brought about by Nature, who alone metes out success or failure to win back for those who venture into the heart of that ice-bound continent.
Our Latitude was now 85 degrees 50 minutes S., we were 8000 feet above the Barrier. Temperature -8 degrees, with a fresh southerly wind, but we didn't care that night how hard it blew or whether it was Christmas or Easter. We had done 17 miles distance and success lay within our grasp apparently.