The trawls and dredges are made after the last American Sigsbee system as improved by Professor Agassiz. There are four large frames, fifteen nets, and three thousand fathoms of galvanised steel rope with a tensile strength of five tons to haul the catch by steam. And then there is the tangle-bar, and much other fishing apparatus, all of which would make an old-time fisherman stare with envy. In short, the equipment is such that not only the life of the air and land will be accessible, but also a systematic study of the marine life inhabiting the unmeasured depths of the southern ocean will be for the first time possible.
The new science of oceanography, or as Lieutenant Maury, its father, called it, “the geography of the sea,” has been constantly in mind in the organisation and equipment of the Belgica. The outfit for fishing partly belongs to this department; unique devices for sounding the ocean in all depths by the Monacho machine (with pianoforte wire and steel rope as a line, sinkers which detach automatically, and a complicated system of special steam machinery) is now adjusted, ready for use. We expect to study the submarine currents, temperature, and the composition of the water. For all of this, we have special apparatus, perhaps not interesting to the average reader in a description, but the results are sure to add a new and startling chapter to the growing annals of ocean science.
The laboratory is in a small, specially constructed deckhouse behind the foremast. Its dimensions are small, perhaps fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, but its capacity for storing instruments, and its convenience for work is phenomenal. It is intended as the centre for all scientific work, a sort of “union den” for the working staff, as the motto painted in large letters over the window “L’Union Fait L’Force,” indicates. It will, however, be principally used for meteorologic, oceanographic, and zoölogical investigations. When one first steps into the laboratory, there creeps over one a fear to move, for everything seems a frail meshwork of glass; straight and spiral tubes, glass cylinders, thermometers, barometers, test tubes, bottles, and glass articles, too numerous to mention, are attached to all the available surface on the walls, the shelves and even the ceiling. At first appearance one would pronounce the frail fixtures short-lived, and it certainly seems as if a single sharp toss or sudden pitch of the ship would send the whole glassy splendour in fragments to the floor. The vessel, however, has rolled for three months on the destructive swell of the Atlantic, and, thanks to the carefully planned attachments, very few instruments have been broken; so we have reason to hope from this experience that the ice will not be more injurious.
A very complete library is on board. It is a library, like the men, of various tongues, and descriptive of a great variety of subjects. Each department has its technical bibliography. The Commandant and the writer have a general collection of all the antarctic narratives in all tongues. The Captain has a heap of charts and books on navigation; Lieutenant Danco has everything pertaining to terrestrial magnetism. The general scientific library is indeed a cosmopolitan collection. It contains books in French, English, German, Polish, Norwegian, and Rumanian print. In addition to serious literature, we have other books and magazines of lighter character. But these float about, from the laboratory to the cabin, and then to the forecastle, always in the hands of those whose spirits need elevating. Weeklies with unusually good pictures, such as half tones of beautiful women, theatric or opera scenes are reserved and served after dinner as a kind of entertainment.
The quarters for officers and men are fairly good—palatial, as comfort is measured on a sealer. The Commandant has a neat little room behind the mizzenmast, opposite to the kitchen. It is carpeted, nicely furnished, and the walls are artistically bedecked by old Dutch sketches, some paintings, and many photographs of polar scenes. We are so pressed for space, that we are told even this room will be partly filled with coal at Punta Arenas. The cabin is well aft; like the laboratory, the Commandant’s room, and the kitchen, it is on deck. As we enter, to the right of the engines are the berths of the Captain and the mates, where they have the soot, steam, and smoke of the engine-room to impress upon them the importance of their work, while the noise is such that prolonged sleep is impossible. The cabin is small, but full of comfort. It is as if eight men stood up around a small table, and a box were built around them, the corners and walls and ceiling being lined with books and instruments. It is not a very joyful place in the tropics, but when an endless sea of ice surrounds us, and the wind is blowing, and the decks are covered with snow, then, with steaming food on the table, we shall find its true value.
A door through the left of the cabin opens into an aisle, to the side of which are the four berths where the devotees of science sleep. The sides are thoughtfully lined with lockers, but every nook, the beds, the ceiling, and at times even the floor, is covered with clothing, instruments and books. After a storm it is a sad rivalry in hopeless entanglement. The forecastle occupies the space between decks from the foremast to the stem. It is large, light, and, compared with the officers’ quarters, extremely comfortable. We speak French in the cabin, German and French in the laboratory, and a mixture of English, Norwegian, French, and German in the forecastle. The life and order on board of the Belgica is that of a well-regulated family. Each man has his duties to perform, but he will also be expected to lend a brotherly hand to his companions as occasion may require. On clear evenings the music-box is often brought up on deck, and as the familiar tunes bound out into the strangely clear atmosphere, some sing, others dance; some walk about, and still others play games. The scene is truly melancholy upon reflection. We are going farther and farther away from home to the most desolate and forbidding part of the known or the unknown world. Our return is uncertain, our future is dark; but we have set out with this knowledge before us, and now it is our duty to aid in keeping up the general family cheerfulness. Whatever else may be our future success or failure, our domestic comforts are assured. When we assemble on deck after dinner, with the music to draw out a general feeling of well-being, a generous and unanimous air of joy rises with the ascending dew of the setting sun of the South Atlantic.
CHAPTER V
MONTEVIDEO TO PUNTA ARENAS
Punta Arenas, Dec. 14, 1897.
The Belgica raised her anchor and steamed out of the harbour of Montevideo Sunday, November 14, 1897. We were showered with the good wishes of the people, and loaded with the good things of the land. The entire Belgian colony followed us far out into the stream to bid us a final adieu, while the officers and men were kept closely occupied in answering the various signal salutations of the many neighbouring vessels as we passed. The deck strewn with provisions, hastily assembled at the last moment and alive with visitors, was a picture to send a thrill to the heart of a navigator about to encounter the worst sea on earth; but the happy disposition instilled by our congenial friends made us forget, for a time, all cares for the future. Soon we ploughed across the choppy waters of the River Plata under an uncomfortable series of squalls which seemed to come with a hiss and a force like bombs from a cannon. Before sunset we had left the low, blue line of hills which mark the northern banks of the river and the site of Montevideo, far under the northern horizon. We were again on our way to the snowy bottom of the globe, with intentions to stop by the wayside at the world’s jumping-off-place, Punta Arenas.
On the following morning a heavy sea was pounding our port-bow, giving a quick lift, and permitting a sudden fall, to which our stomachs seriously objected. The sky was clothed with gloomy clouds having hard, zigzag edges like the margins of torn sheets of lead. We were, to all appearances, far out in the open expanse of the broad Atlantic, but, in reality, we were still in the mouth of the River Plata,—which accounted for the warm humid winds driving over our starboard. Much of the day was spent in an examination and rearrangement of our newly acquired equipage and provisions. It was to me a matter of agreeable surprise to find among these so many of the fruits and vegetables common to the New York market; but this is explained by the fact that Uruguay is a land of perpetual summer, where winter frosts are nearly unknown. The time of our visit was the spring of the southern hemisphere, November 15th, in the south, corresponding to May 15th, in the north; and while fruit and vegetable products are plentiful through the year, they are particularly delicious at this time. We had strawberries, cherries, apples, lettuce, radishes, peas, beans, artichokes, new potatoes, cabbage, and a long list of other fresh productions. There is, however, one great anomaly in the food supply of South America; it is the difficulty of obtaining fresh milk and the impossibility of securing good butter.