8 P. M.—The ice shows signs of strong pressure from the north. Along the crevasses, running easterly and westerly there are great lines of hummocks from four to eight feet in height. The colours of the pack are now far from the despairing monotone of yesterday. The yellow sea algæ have already fixed themselves in the new ice and make it appear ocherous. The twilight on clear nights is extended by the latent luminosity of the snow. The blueness of the pack in this twilight, separated by the ebony lanes of open water and decorated by the algæ-strewn yellow and green lines in the hummocks, make the scenes curiously attractive. Added to this we have the bergs, tall, sharp, and imposing, standing out against the soft blue of the sky and the hard blue of the pack as if cut from huge masses of alabaster. The whole scene is one of lively contrasts, pleasing to the eye and stimulating to the mind, having quite the reverse of the effect of the days of darkness and depressing storms which have preceded.
At about ten o’clock we saw a second aurora. It began as a ragged arc, spread easterly and westerly across the southern sky with a straight line running under it close to the horizon. The space under the arc was noticeably darker than the surrounding sky, and in this space, also in a straight line, were four luminous spots. The colour of the aurora was a bright cream with an occasional suggestion of pink. There was no noticeable reflection of light on the snow. There was a quick and constant transformation in the form of the phenomenon. A wave of light ran through the luminous bands and spots from east to west. Some parts brightened and enlarged, others darkened and faded away. The arcs were generally of a steady rayless brightness; the apparent movement and wavy effect of light was in a series of sharp rays on a film-like display before the arc. I found it difficult in the low temperature to remain outside for periods sufficiently prolonged to catch the minute changes in force and character, but I made a series of eight sketches at intervals of about twenty minutes apart, which illustrate the most striking changes. The second form was a homogeneous arc with a fragment of a second arc under it. This hung for some time with a steady nebulous glow between it and the one previous, as well as between the intervening periods of all. The following typical forms then were rapid and almost imperceptible gradations. The third sketch represents the same primary arc always of the same size and in the same position on the heavens: but under it are portions of two other arcs and a suggestion of a luminous horizontal line. At times a wave of rays, converging to the pole of the circle described, ran over the main arc. In the fourth sketch there are two arcs and a portion of a third which were seen persistently in all the exhibits to the present. In the fifth there is a second arc crossing the first. This was suggested in the third and it reappeared in the seventh. The sixth form was an arc with three ribbons of luminous beams waving from side to side. The exhibit ended with a plain arc aglow with a steady light.
CHAPTER XVII
THE FADING DAYS OF THE AUTUMN
March 20.—Although the wind which has swept the pack for the past few days has entirely subsided, the temperature has not fallen as low as we had expected. The thermometer has registered to -15° C. (5° F.) during the night, and is about -9° C. (15.8° F.) to-day. After these storms we usually have a few days of calm weather with a low temperature, and after each successive blow we find that the mercury settles closer and closer to the bulb. We are expecting every morning to find the quicksilver frozen. This is a cloudless day with a sharp sun and a blinding glitter. The topography about has changed much under the influence of the drift-snow during the last storm. About the ship there are huge drifts of snow which make it difficult to disembark. The old hummocks are reduced to little rounded hills, the small crevasses are filled with new ice and snow, and the entire pack of restless floes near the bark seems more like one homogeneous mass. Everything is restful and motionless, and covered with the white silence of death. We, of the scientific staff, have taken advantage of this promise of ice stability to make short excursions over the ice to the neighbouring bergs, and to interesting spots in the surrounding regions that we might better study the life and the upbuilding of the sea of ice in which we are fated to be kicked about, until the thaw of another year may set us free. The snow is sheeted with a hard crust, as it usually is after a storm, but we find it unsafe to travel even short distances without snowshoes. The depth of snow is such, and the crevasses are so numerous, that the small bearing surface of the foot is likely to permit us to sink down out of sight.
For these journeys, when a quick unencumbered march is intended, we all prefer the Norwegian ski, but when it is necessary to ascend slopes, to cross rough ice, or to pull sledges, the ski is decidedly inferior to Indian or to Alpine snowshoes. Our skis are mostly nine feet long; with these on our feet we skate leisurely over the rough uneven surface at the rate of about three miles per hour. Over the snow-covered old ice the work is not difficult, but when we come to new ice recently formed, we find the surface as difficult for gliding purposes as rubber. To cross these it is generally necessary to remove the ski and walk. It was a matter of some surprise to see the large number and the great width of these strips of new ice which indicate the expansion of the pack. At a distance of five miles we found ten leads with an average width of a thousand feet. This gives an expansion of two miles as a result of the last storm. Ten days ago we went over this same path to a favourite iceberg which has been named “Sweetheart.” We then found the distance less than three miles; to-day the journey was nearly twice as long. If the pack increases at this rate what will be its limit at the end of the coming winter night? We saw only one small and two royal penguins, one giant petrel, and a few white petrels. There were no open spaces of water, hence seals and whales and penguins have departed for more open regions in the pack farther north. The penguins we saw were stragglers who failed to go to more congenial regions before the new ice formed; they remain near icebergs where they are sure to find new crevasses in the next few days, and to be deprived of food and water for a few days does not seem to seriously disturb a penguin. About the bergs we found some small holes through the new ice, out of which there came a puff of vapour with a hiss at regular intervals. These were the breathing holes of the crab-eating seals who, like the stranded penguins, await a change in the movement of the ice when new crevasses with open spaces of water will again appear.
The icebergs seem to be the great disturbing element in the movement of the sea-ice. We have several times thought that they were propelled by some contrary under-current, but the extended observations we have made to the present prove quite another fact. We know that the pack, as a whole, is extremely sensitive to the force of the wind; it easily and quickly takes the direction of winds of even mild force. When this wind is long continued there is a line of pressure ridges at right angles to the direction of the wind, and lanes of open water in line with the wind, indicating a tendency of the ice to separate in the way of least resistance, which is always north. The bergs always have an apparent movement diametrically opposite to the movement of the pack. This is indicated by a number of hummocks and pressure ridges to the windward, and the usual open lakes to the leeward of each iceberg. While it is thus proven that the berg passes through the sea-ice in a direction opposite to the force of the wind, the nautical observations prove that the entire mass, icebergs and sea-ice, move with the wind with a speed depending upon the resistance, the force, and the direction of the wind. Under ordinary conditions an iceberg sinks seven-eighths of its mass under water. A berg two hundred feet above water therefore has a base fourteen hundred feet under water. The force of the wind expended upon the two hundred feet above is extremely small compared to the enormous resistance offered by the fourteen hundred feet under water. The conclusion must be that the berg seems to move against the wind because of its greater resistance; but in reality it, like the sea-ice, is also carried along by the wind and forced on by the greater speed floe-ice.
March 21.—It is a dull, gray day. The sky is low, with a high fog, but along the south and east there are breaks in the clouds permitting a few rays to steal a passage to the cold, white world below. The night was bright early in the evening with a few auroras, cloud-like fissures, or luminous patches in the south-west, but they were of short duration. After midnight the heavens assumed the dullness which now makes the scene one of deep gloom. It is on such days that we assume a disgusted and fault-finding mood. To-day we are dissatisfied with the food. We have complained intermittently for a long time, but now everybody seems bent on having his say as to the badness of our provisions. We have tried penguins and cormorants, but the majority have voted them unpalatable. The excitement, heretofore, of new discoveries and new sights to infuse fresh life has been too frequent and too long continued to permit us to think of dainty foods and tempting relishes. Now it is different. We are held by the increasing grip of the too affectionate pack. We are imprisoned in an endless sea of ice, and find our horizon monotonous. We have told all the tales, real and imaginative, to which we are equal. Time weighs heavily upon us as the darkness slowly advances. The despairing storms and the increasing cold call for some new fuel to keep the lowering fires of our bodies ablaze.
I have taken the trouble to make a personal canvass of every man of the Belgica to-day to find out the greatest complaints and the greatest longings of each. The result of this inquiry was certainly a lesson in curious human fancies. In the cabin the foremost wants are for home news and feminine society. We are hungry for letters from mothers, sisters, and other men’s sisters, and what would we not give for a peep at a pretty woman? Racovitza reminds us daily that he will write a book describing life in the “Ladyless south,” and we have all agreed to contribute articles to a forthcoming paper in which we shall advertise our wants. This paper will take the generic name given us by the naturalist, “The Pack Loafers’ World.” In the forecastle the men are less sentimental and less inclined to poetry. They desire first some substantiate for the stomach. Fresh food, such as beefsteaks, vegetables, and fruits are their foremost wants. Two or three, in lone dark corners and in tears, slyly admit that a few moments with the girls of their hearts would be more to their liking. They would like fresh foods, but they long for freedom from the lonely pack, and the congeniality of a land of feminine charms. Our hatred is all heaped upon one class of men. They are the inventors and manufacturers of the various kinds of canned and preserved meats. Our general name for “embalmed beef” is “Kydbolla.” If these meat-packers could be found anywhere within reach they would become food for the giant petrels very quickly. In this one sentiment we are all of one accord. Down with “embalmed beef” and everybody associated with it!
Belgica Mittens.