This morning, the thirteenth, opened with a brilliant rosy sunburst over the icy alabaster walls of Grahamland: but this charm soon gave way to a black mist which quickly suppressed the glory in which we had rested during the few hours of midnight twilight. We are steaming slowly westward, but the obscurity and the threatening character of the weather prevents material progress. There is a light breeze from the north-east, and a heavy swell from the north-west. The temperature remains steadily at .08°C.(33.44°F.). We encounter small ice loosely strewn in the waters in considerable quantities as we advance, but owing to its diminutive size it does not offer any difficulties to our progress. This ice differs greatly from any which I have seen floating upon the sea either before or since. There is no ice of the same character in the arctic. It is a form seen only along the outer edges of the antarctic lands. There are three varieties of ice which are held here close to the land by the huge swell of the South Pacific. The kind in greatest abundance, giving the entire collection an appearance different from all other packs of ice, is mostly from two to five feet in diameter, with irregular glassy angles. It consists of fragments of fresh-water ice from the glacial wall which everywhere fronts the antarctic lands. Some, too, are the product of iceberg disruption. Mixed with these hard, blue crystalline masses, are some spongy pieces of salt-water ice, which are the product of pan-ice disruption. Everywhere the white spires and table-tops of the colossal icebergs are seen to rise over the restless icy water. At about three o’clock the sun burst through the dark curtain of mist which hung over us, and the dull, ice-strewn sea, which had been dreary and cheerless and full of hidden dangers, became a most charming array of glittering brightness.
This is our first view of any considerable quantity of the sea-ice of the antarctic, and as it rises and falls on the breast of the new polar ocean it offers a dazzling glow, and a life which fill us with a healthful enthusiasm. Steam is now quickly increased, the sails are set, and the officers take their positions to push the Belgica southward, farther into the unknown. The scientific men are scattered about, some in the masts, some on the bridge, and others on the poop; all looking anxiously for surprises in the new life and scenes about us. Even the sailors cannot resist the temptation to stand still and drink, with awe-inspiring amazement, the strange wine of action which hangs over the mysterious whiteness of the new world of ice.
Although we feel that we are on the threshold of more great discoveries, and although, for some unexplained reason, we are all in a fever-heat of excitement, quite like a prize-fighter on the eve of a great battle, calmly and coolly considered there is nothing very wonderful in our immediate surroundings. The weather is quiet but unsettled. A heavy sea rolls in under the pack-ice through which we plough. To the west there is a black sky and under it, just on the horizon, is the dark line of an open sea with the marbled peaks of bergs silhouetted against the black sheen of the heavens. Far to the eastward, about seventy miles off, is the rough outline of the great white land which we have followed for the past three weeks. From the crow’s-nest at the masthead we can see fifty miles of this strange country. It begins in the north-east and fades away in the airy distance of the south-west. Over the port-bow there is a fjordlike break through the land which seems to extend eastward as far as our eyes can reach. This may be another canal like Belgica Strait. If so, its position corresponds fairly well with Bismark Strait, which was vaguely seen by the German sealer, Dallman. The opening, however, of this prospective strait is choked with heavy ice and, though we are eager to push landward and examine the coast carefully, the drift-ice forces us farther and farther away from the shore-line. In our over-anxious efforts to keep the coast in sight we have pushed into an area of ice which, for a time, shatters our new hopes.
Cape Renard, Dancoland.
This area is covered by ice such as we have passed through all day. As the sea rolls under, it seems a quivering mass of small fragments. There is nothing about it to suggest its ensnaring powers. We steam into a tongue which spreads out seaward. Over this there is a smoky sky indicating that behind this ice, and immediately before us, there is an open sea. Soon after we enter the ice, an on-shore wind and swell force the fragments together and bring a number of icebergs against the pack edge. We try with steam and sails to gain our release from the sudden embrace, but our efforts will be of no avail until the wind changes and the icy grip loosens. Our surroundings are wildly picturesque. To the east of us are the high peaks and limitless glaciers of Grahamland. The country is visible for only short periods and in patches, for a high fog hangs constantly over the land, leaving only an opening here and there. To the west the sky is fairly clear. A dark smoky zone near the horizon indicates the limits of the ice and the open sea beyond. Hundreds of icebergs are on the horizon. These are of a size and type quite similar to those of the arctic sea. The entire mass—icebergs, sea-ice, and the ship—rises and falls with the gigantic heave of this South Pacific, and for a time it seems as though we are to be carried with the moving drift against one of a number of small islands. But a change in the direction of the wind promises to so separate the ice that we shall soon be able to force our way out into the open sea westward.
February 14.—We are again showered by a cold drizzling fog. We have reached clear water and are pushing slowly southward. During the day the fog rose occasionally, giving us a peep of the black peaks and the snowy, glacial plains and slopes of Grahamland; but everywhere the drift-ice is packed against the land in such a manner as to offer no hope for a safe approach. Late in the day we came to a point where the drift-ice suddenly terminated, and left the land accessible. The officers and men worked hard all through last night, in their efforts to extricate the bark, and everybody is now thoroughly exhausted. We sought the land to find some sort of a haven where the vessel might rest during the night, while the men try to gain a few hours’ sleep. But our experiences in this venture were not such as to be conducive to slumber; indeed, it proved one of the most anxious and restless nights which had fallen to our lot while in this region. During the early part of the evening we felt particularly pleased at the prospect of a quiet night. Everything seems to promise this. The weather is clearing; the temperature has fallen a degree or two; the sky exhibits a bit of blue here and there; and even the ever stormy sea eases its merciless pitches. The Belgica glides along easily and restfully as though she expected the needed period of rest, while the petrels and gulls hover over us as if to pilot us to a safe retreat. At six o’clock we are within a few miles of a chain of low islands. They are small masses, mostly about a quarter of a mile in their greatest diameter. Some are completely buried by a cap of ice sixty feet thick, but others are bare. The rocks are mostly granite, smoothly polished by the combined action of the sea and the ice. With our glasses we can see small patches of green and brown moss in sheltered nooks; the snows along the shore are tinged red from penguin habitation, and green with sea algæ. Scattered all about these islands are a great number of large icebergs. The chain of islands and the berg certainly offer us a safe and promising shelter.
After steaming into a canal beyond which we expected to lay-to we found ourselves suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded by white crests, under which appeared a circle of submerged rocks. So complete was this hidden circle of danger about us that we could not, for a long time, find a spot where the distance between two rocks was sufficient to permit an escape. We dropped a lead fifty fathoms, several times, but found no bottom. A current rushed over the reefs and with our full force we could barely make headway against it. In this position, with the swash of the breaking waters coming to us out of the darkness, with the penguins and the gulls screaming premonitions of danger, we struggled against a current which seemed set to effect our destruction on one of the reefs behind us. The firemen forced the steam, and the engineer urged on the engines as he had never done before. Little by little we gained on the force of the current and headed for an iceberg which was about one hundred feet high. We argued that if there was sufficient water to strand this berg it would be enough for us; but the passage to the berg was not more than one hundred feet wide, and if there were or were not dangerous shallows there we had no means of determining. The sea was too heavy to send a boat in advance to make a sounding; and because of the rocky and uneven character of the sea bottom, soundings from on board gave us little warning. We must steam on and take our chances.
These were anxious moments. We expected momentarily to feel a sudden jar and a sudden arrest of our progress. We had had such an experience twice before, and now expected a third. Amundsen was in the foremast; Gerlache and Lecointe were on the bridge; Arctowski and I were on the bowsprit. We were all looking for and expecting trouble, but we passed beyond the angry crests of the reefs and out into deeper waters safely. The sense of relief and rest which came over us at this time was indeed a godsend.
