Plate VI.—THE DECK: MORNING INSPECTION AND PRAYERS.—p. [41].

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 rug spread 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 unless we 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.