Lecointe Making Observations. The Nautical Observatory.
Dobrowolski Measuring the Depth of the Snowfall.
February 22, 8 A.M.—During the night we have rested easily in a triangular space of water, which was surrounded by large pans of ice. At about midnight a half gale of wind came out of the south-south-east and rushed through the masts with a bitter howl, but the sea remained quiet, and in our position we rested as peacefully as if in a sheltered harbour. This changed direction and augmented force of the wind separated the pack and sent it drifting northerly over the boundless sea. Taking advantage of this favourable loosening of the grip upon us, we got up steam at six A. M. and started in a renewed effort to push southward. The navigation, at best, is extremely difficult. We go ahead squeezing through breaks in the ice until our headway is barred by a floe, then we go astern to give the ship time for a new onslaught. In this way we batter and ram the ice until it seems as though every timber must break; but excepting the bruising, scraping, and polishing of her sides, the Belgica receives no hurts. She complains and groans and cracks and shivers, but she goes on cutting great pans of ice five feet thick, and pushing aside floes two hundred feet in diameter. She is ploughing the ice-littered sea like something animate.
To the south there is a water-sky coaxing us on to the frozen mystery beyond. Perhaps this is a temptation of the manless antarctic to ensnare and keep us for the winter; perhaps it is to reveal to us new lands and new glories in the unknown white expanse. But whatever our reward, or our punishment, for this forced intrusion, the task is difficult. There are about us to-day many signs of land, and this also urges us on in our hopeless effort to navigate the seemingly endless sea of ice.
Toward the south-east there are yellow land clouds, which slide over each other as though their mission was to hide the outline of some heaven-guarded coast from human gaze. Above these low-hanging clouds there are black bands of sky, indicating open lanes of water near what promises to be land. The ice, too, is what is usually termed bay-ice, with freshly broken edges, with icicles hanging from some points, and having upon the surface only small hummocks. There are no signs of pressure and the whole scene is weighted down with about twenty inches of soft snow. The animal life also indicates an approach to land. We have about us large numbers of ossifrages and magalestris, which are supposed to keep land within easy reach. The penguins and seals seen to-day are indicative of a near land mass; while the meteorologist vows that the cold dry wind coming from the south-south-east rolls off from some continental ice-capped country. Even the engineer comes forward with a sign. He has a keen nose, and says he smells the mossy rocks. But where is this mysterious land? We are not within a thousand miles of any known land. Shall we discover this land, or is it an illusion? (We afterwards saw many similar signs of land, but all proved deceptive. We saw no real land, except what came from the sea-bottom, from the time we got the last glimpse of Alexander Islands until we returned to Tierra del Fuego thirteen months later.)
Hauling Snow to Augment the Water Supply.
Making Soundings.