June 4.—The ice is again breaking and the pressure of the floes, as they ride over each other, makes a noise converting the otherwise dark quietude into a howling scene of groans. It is again snowing and the wind keeps veering from the north-west to north-east.
Whenever we have advanced on our mysterious drift with the restless pack, either far east or far south, or both, we are arrested in our progress and the temperature falls. In the east there is also great pressure, and it is only in the far east or south that we get easterly or southerly winds. These winds have the character of land breezes—extremely dry, with a low temperature—followed by delightful, clear weather. From these facts we must conclude that the east and south are lined with land of large proportions or islands united by ice. An easy wind south or west drives us quickly; indeed, at times we drift northward without wind. The bergs now seem to press north and east.
June 5.—To-day we have to record the darkest page in our log—the death of our beloved comrade, Danco. It has not been unexpected, for we have known that he could not recover, but the awful blank left by his demise is keenly felt, and the sudden gloom of despair, thus thrown over the entire party, is impossible of description. Poor fellow! in the past forty-eight hours he had been steadily improving, and, although we were not encouraged by this, he felt so much better that he was cheerful and altogether more like his former self, but it was the calm before the storm. Without any premonition of his coming death Danco passed away easily to-night; his last words to me were, “I can breathe lighter and will soon get strength.” A companion with noble traits has left us. The event is too sad to note in detail. His life has steadily and persistently sunk with the northerly setting of the sun. In ordinary health, his circulation was so nicely balanced that it needed but the unbalancing element of the prolonged darkness to disturb the equilibrium, and send him to a premature grave.
June 7.—We have made a bag of sail-cloth, and into it the remains of Danco have been sewn. This morning we searched the crevasses for an opening which might serve as a grave. We found no place sufficiently open, but with axes and chisels we cut an aperture through the young ice in a recent lead, about one hundred yards from the bark. Owing to the depressing effect upon the party, we found it necessary to place the body outside on the ice upon a sledge the day after the death. At a few minutes before noon to-day the commandant, followed by the officers and scientific staff, came to this sledge. The crew, dressed in an outer suit of duck, then marched out and, taking the drag rope, they proceeded over the rough drifts southerly to the lead. The day was bitterly cold, with a wind coming out of the south-west. Much snow in fine crystals was driven through the air, and it pierced the skin like needles. The surface of the ice was gray, but the sky had here and there a touch of brightness. In the north there was a feeble metallic glow, and directly overhead there were a few stratus of rose-coloured clouds. The moon, fiery, with a ragged edge, hung low on the southern sky. There was light enough to read ordinary print, but it was a weird light. Danco was a favourite among the sailors, and his departure was as keenly felt in the forecastle as among us. The men expressed this in the funeral procession. Slowly but steadily they marched over the rough surface of the ice with an air of inexpressible sadness. The sledge was brought to the freezing water. Here the commandant made a few fitting remarks, and then two heavy weights were attached to the feet, and the body was entrusted to the frosted bosom of the antarctic ocean.
June 8.—The melancholy death, and the incidents of the melancholy burial of Danco, have brought over us a spell of despondency which we seem unable to conquer. I fear that this feeling will remain with us for some time, and we can ill afford it. Though there are none among us sick at this time, we may at any moment have small complaints which will become serious under this death-dealing spell of despair. We are constantly picturing to ourselves the form of our late companion floating about in a standing position, with the weights to his feet, under the frozen surface and perhaps under the Belgica.
June 10.—The temperature remains low. Yesterday it fell to -32° C. (-25.6° F.), and it seems to linger about the twenties. The weather is more and more settled and steady, as the night advances and the cold increases. The wind is moderate, and it intermits with calm periods, but the barometer is very high. There is little movement in the ice; all the crevasses and leads are closed by new ice, and the Belgica’s berth is now positively secure for a long time to come. The small floes, into which the ice was broken ten days ago, have been pushed over and under each other in such a manner, that the bark has been raised out of the water with an uncomfortable list. We have seen no life for a long time, but there is no open water near. We are inclined to believe that when there is a space of open sea there will be found some life, even at this time.
Head and Foot of the Royal Penguin.
(Aptenodytes Forsteri.)
