Arctowski in the Laboratory.
Soon after we entered the main body of the pack a fortnight ago, it was discovered that we drifted with the ice in a south-westerly direction. We concluded, at that time, that we were in a current. The shallow sea and the speed with which we moved were in favour of this theory; but now we are drifting north-westerly, and we begin to doubt the existence of a current. The ease with which the entire horizon, with its numerous mountains and fields of ice, sails over the invisible sea makes us anxious as to our destiny. If we remain here, on this blank space of the globe, where will we find ourselves a year hence? Will it be north, south, east or west? In this drift it is possible that the ship may be dragged over a submerged reef, and it is also possible that we may be carried onto a rocky shore, or against the formidable land-ice. In each case destruction of our vessel and a miserable death for all must be the inevitable result.
To forestall such a future we now ascend to the crow’s-nest daily and with the telescope search the horizon. New bergs come over one part of the circle, old ones disappear in other directions. Appearances of land are often noted, but such appearances are no longer credited. New crevasses form, old ones close, but on the whole it is, day after day, the same heaving sea of frozen whiteness. Nevertheless the views are encouraging, and they now and then revive the dying hope of release from the icy prison. There is promise in the movement of the bergs, the continued swell of the sea, and the slow mysterious turning of the floes, together with the present northerly drift. The fact that each floe persistently remains as a single individual, and refuses to unite with its neighbours to form a conglomerate mass, which would effectually and finally cut off all hope of a retreat this year, is a pleasant thought. A brisk storm would easily separate these floes, and the open water, but ninety miles north, would carry us on its stormy bosom to a more congenial climate for the winter.
Last night was clear and blue. We knew from the stillness of the air and crackle of the ice that it would be very cold, and so it proved. At six o’clock it was -14.6° C. (5.72° F.), at midnight, -20° C. (-4° F.). A number of royal and small penguins and some seals were led by curiosity to visit us. They called, and cried, and talked, and grunted, as they walked over the ice about the ship, and were finally captured by the naturalist and the cook, who had an equal interest in the entertainment of our animal friends and in their future destiny. A few nights past a sea leopard interviewed the meteorologist, Arctowski. The animal sprang suddenly from a new break in the ice onto the floe, upon which Arctowski had a number of delicate meteorological instruments, and without an introduction, or any signs of friendship, the animal crept rapidly over the snow and examined Arctowski and his paraphernalia with characteristic seal inquisitiveness. The meteorologist had nothing with which to defend himself, and he didn’t appear to relish the teeth of the leopard as it advanced and separated its massive jaws with a bear-like snort. He walked around the floe, the leopard after him. The seal examined the instruments, but they were not to its liking, and as to Arctowski, it evidently did not regard him of sufficient interest to follow long, for after it had made two rounds the seal plunged into the waters, swam under the ice and around the floe, and then raised its head far out to get another glimpse of the meteorologist. Thinking that the creature contemplated another attack, Arctowski made warlike gestures, and uttered a volley of sulphureous Polish words, but the seal didn’t mind that. It raised its head higher and higher out of the water, and displayed its teeth in the best possible manner. Now and then its lips moved, and there was audible a weird noise, with signs which we took to be the animal’s manner of inviting its new acquaintance to a journey under the icy surface, where they might talk over the matter out of the cold blast of the wind, in the blue depths below.
March 15.—The weather is remarkably clear. There is no wind, no noise, and no motion in the ice. During the night we saw the first aurora australis. I saw it first at eight o’clock, but it was so faint then that I could not be positively certain whether it was a cloud with an unusual ice-blink upon it or an aurora; but at ten o’clock we all saw it in a manner which was unmistakable. The first phenomenon was like a series of wavy fragments of cirrus clouds, blown by strong, high winds across the zenith. This entirely disappeared a few minutes after eight o’clock. What we saw later was a trembling lacework, draped like a curtain, on the southern sky. Various parts were now dark, and now light, as if a stream of electric sparks illuminated the fabric. The curtain seemed to move in response to these waves of light, as if driven by the wind which shook out old folds and created new ones, all of which made the scene one of new interest and rare glory.
That I might better see the new attraction and also experiment with my sleeping-bag, I resolved to try a sleep outside upon one of the floes. For several days I had promised myself the pleasure of this experience, but for one reason or another I had deferred it. At midnight I took my bag and, leaving the warmth and comfort of the cabin, I struggled out over the icy walls of the bark’s embankment, and upon a floe three hundred yards east I spread out the bag. The temperature of the cabin was the ordinary temperature of a comfortable room; the temperature of the outside air was -20° C. (-4° F.) After undressing quickly, as one is apt to do in such temperatures, I slid into the fur bag and rolled over the ice until I found a depression suitable to my ideas of comfort. At first my teeth chattered and every muscle of my body quivered, but in a few minutes this passed off and there came a reaction similar to that after a cold bath. With this warm glow I turned from side to side and peeped past the fringe of accumulating frost, around my blow-hole through the bag, at the cold glitter of the stars. As I lay there alone, away from the noise of the ship, the silence and the solitude were curiously oppressive. There was not a breath of air stirring the glassy atmosphere, and not a sound from the ice-decked sea or its life to indicate movement or commotion. Only a day ago this same ice was a mass of small detached floes, moving and grinding off edges with a complaining squeak. How different it was now! Every fragment was cemented together into one heterogeneous mass and carpeted by a hard, ivory-like sheet of snow. Every move which I made in my bag was followed by a crackling complaint from the snow crust.
At about three o’clock in the morning a little wind came from the east. My blow-hole was turned in this direction, but the slow blast of air which struck my face kept my moustache and my whiskers, and every bit of fur near the opening, covered with ice. As I rolled over to face the leeward there seemed to be a misfit somewhere. The hood portion of the bag was as hard as if coated with sheet-iron, and my head was firmly encased. My hair, my face, and the under garments about my neck were frozen to the hood. With every turn I endured an agony of hair pulling. If I remained still my head became more and more fixed by the increasing condensation. In the morning my head was boxed like that of a deep sea-diver. But aside from this little discomfort I was perfectly at ease, and might have slept if the glory of the heavens and the charm of the scene about had not been too fascinating to permit restful repose.
The aurora, as the blue twilight announced the dawn, had settled into an arc of steady brilliancy which hung low on the southern sky, while directly under the zenith there quivered a few streamers; overhead was the southern cross, and all around the blue dome there were sparkling spots which stood out like huge gems. Along the horizon from south to east there was the glow of the sun, probably reflected from the unknown southern lands. This was a band of ochre tapering to gold and ending in orange red. At four o’clock the aurora was still visible but faint. The heavens were violet and the stars were now fading behind the increasing twilight. A zone of yellow extended from west around south to east, while the other half of the circle was a vivid purple. The ice was a dark blue. An hour later the highest icebergs began to glitter as if tipped with gold, and then the hummocks brightened. Finally, as the sun rose from her snowy bed, the whole frigid sea was coloured as if flooded with liquid gold. I turned over and had dropped into another slumber when I felt a peculiar tapping on the encasement of my face. I remained quiet, and presently I heard a loud chatter. It was uttered by a group of penguins who had come to interview their new companion. I hastened to respond to the call, and, after pounding my head and pulling out some bunches of hair, I jumped into my furs, bid the surprised penguins good morning, and went aboard. Here I learned that Lecointe, not knowing of my presence on the ice, had taken me for a seal, and was only waiting for better light to try his luck with the rifle.
CHAPTER XVI
BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF THE PACK—AUTUMNAL TEMPESTS
On the morning of the 16th several of us went to the crow’s-nest to get a bird’s-eye view of the pack. Only two could rest in the nest at one time, and at best it is a shivery roost, but Arctowski and I resolved to enter it this morning and there spend an hour in study and philosophy. We climbed up over a series of rope ladders which were coated with an inch of hoar-frost in large crystals. The metallic jingle of these crystals made a music full of curious interest, and the gem-like glitter of the masts fired by the silvery beams, as the sun rose over the white splendour of the pack, was a sight which made us hesitate to tread on the bejewelled ropes. Arctowski entered the bottom of the barrel first and quickly kicked and pushed out the frost, sending down a cloud of ice which covered my face and sent streams of sharp crystals down my back. We had been in the crow’s-nest some minutes surveying the splendour of the widened horizon before we began to talk and discuss the situation. On deck there had been no wind, but here there is a little air coming from all directions; now from the south, now from the north, and again from the east or the west. This we regard as a certain sign of an immediate change in the weather. There is also a restlessness in the pack which is an equally certain indication of a change. The water-sky, which we saw yesterday, has extended considerably. The ice is spreading out in some directions, leaving large open lanes of bright blue sea with a metallic lustre. The width of these lanes is from ten to fifty feet, and they extend northerly as far as the eye can reach. Many of these expanses of water offer us a free highway out of our present dilemma. Over the beam, within three hundred yards, there is a river-like stream, but we cannot get to it. In a direction at right angles to these lanes there is considerable pressure. This is shown by the many lines of hummocks raised on the edges of the floes.