June 12.—The barometer still continues very high, but we are momentarily expecting a reaction. Already the temperature has fallen from -2° to -25° C., and it promises to fall still more. The west is black, and out of its gloom comes a half-gale with wet snow. The Belgica, feeling the effect of the sudden change in the temperature, is alive with weird noises. The masts, the spars, the ropes, and every projecting object have long been covered by a thick encasement of accumulating hoar-frost. Heavy pieces of this ice-plating are loosened by the warm draught of the winds and they fall to the decks below with thunderous bolts. The bark changes its position in its bed of ice somewhat like its occupants in their bunks, and this is followed by a long series of jars and groans. Altogether, the noise outside and in is maddening. We hope for a speedy return of cold weather to our favourite temperature somewhat below -20° C.
June 16.—No wind; a few cirrus and stratus clouds; the stars at zenith are visible at noon. The Southern Cross over the mizzenmast is arrayed in all its glory. The sun has only five minutes more to recede before it reaches the equinox, and then it will come back slowly and perceptibly, with its life-giving rays. We are drifting eastward, but there is no sign of movement in the ice,—no cracks, no leads, no lakes.
June 17.—We are still drifting eastward, slowly but steadily, which fact suggests several questions: Is there land to the eastward or southward? If so, what is its character? If not, why are the easterly and southerly winds cold and dry, and why are we checked in our drift, after passing far eastward or southward? There are but two explanations. First: It is possible that we are far off a continuous coast line, or nearly so, in which case the ice near the land, with a westerly wind, would be forced toward the point of least resistance, which would generally be north. This would explain what we have often noticed, a northerly drift with a westerly wind. But even with our checked progress we seem to move eastward too quickly for such a condition of things. The next probability seems to explain better our actual experience. The second explanation is, that the easterly drift of the ice is only checked by a few widely separated islands through which the pack is forced into the Weddell sea by the prevailing wind. When the sun returns, and the ice loosens its grasp on our bark, we hope to clear up this mystery.
We are having considerable trouble in keeping our stoves burning. With the use of soft coal it is necessary to disturb the fire often, which makes the air unendurable because of the escape of poisonous gases, while it also fills the room with smoke and soot and ashes. The moisture which leaves the room through the stove draughts is condensed in the pipes and mixed with soot; the whole mass freezes, which occludes the opening of the pipe. To remove this obstruction it is necessary to take out the pipes once weekly and clean them, an operation of no little consequence in polar regions. This is the second expedition with which I have been connected where we have had the same trouble. It would be entirely overcome by the use of anthracite coal for the winter fires, instead of the bituminous, with its unnecessary filth.
Mr. Peary has tried to overcome this by a substitution of oil stoves, but such a procedure, in my judgment, is not only accompanied by a polluted atmosphere causing headaches, insomnia, and difficulty of respiration, but it is quite dangerous to life. A coal fire removes from a room most of its poisonous gases and keeps up a free circulation of air, but an oil stove does just the reverse. An oil or a gas stove consumes air in a somewhat similar manner to man. It burns oxygen and gives off carbon dioxide and other gases. An ordinary oil stove will consume as much oxygen as fifteen men, and it does not replace the polluted air, as does a coal or wood fire. There is another point, which has been too little regarded in polar ventures. During the long months of winter darkness the life-giving rays of the sun are withdrawn, leaving the summer whiteness of the earth in cold and despondent blackness. Bright artificial lights relieve this to some extent, but all the animal organism is in a condition similar to that of a planet deprived of the direct sunlight. The skin is pale, the muscles are weak, and the organs refuse to perform their functions with usual vigour. This effect is most noticeable in the action of the heart which, during the long night, is deprived of its regulating force; now quick, now slow; then strong, again feeble, but never normal. The best substitute for this absence of the sun is the direct rays of heat from an open fire. From an ordinary coal or wood fire the effect is wonderful. I have stripped and placed men, before the direct rays of heat, whose pulse was almost imperceptible, and in the course of less than an hour had a heart action nearly normal. From an oil stove it is quite impossible to get this effect, hence its use in polar regions should be confined to camp life.
The selection of proper means for obtaining artificial light is quite as important as that of heat. Electric light is ideal, but the means for obtaining electricity are not easily transported. Candles are said to be the safest and best for general use; but the illumination of a single candle is so feeble that each man must have one or more in general use. From this it results that candles are posted in all parts of the rooms,—in the bunks and other nooks where a conflagration might easily originate. Hence the danger of a fire by candles is quite as great as that of petroleum lamps, while the light is far inferior to it. A good petroleum lamp is undoubtedly the most practical. But even a petroleum lamp has its drawbacks in polar regions. On the Belgica we had several, and about fifty glass chimneys, all of which were broken during the past few weeks of the antarctic night. We were then bound to utilise the ingenuity of the mechanics on board to make substitutes. The geologist, who is a chemist by profession, made the first trial with glass tubes; this was better than nothing, but the assistant engineer next took the matter in hand, and after a time became quite a lamp specialist. He altered the construction of the lamp and of the burner; made chimneys of glass jelly jars, removing the bottom and placing over all a zinc funnel. On the whole it was a very happy contrivance, and while it was not quite perfect it served the purpose for which it was intended, during the balance of the black night.
June 19.—A midwinter and a midnight thaw, with the ice breaking and pressing upon the vessel, is the most dreadful thing which could happen to us now. But it is just this most despairing condition of ice and weather which is threatening us in these darkest days of the midnight. The temperature and the wind for three days have suddenly risen. It is now blowing a gale from the west. The temperature is -2°; the ice is breaking and separating, leaving wide endless leads running northward and southward. Between the gloomy clouds northward there is a faint suggestion of brightness, but this only seems to increase our longing for light. It is dark! dark! Dark at noon, dark at midnight, dark every hour of the day. And thus we jog along day after day, through the unbroken sameness. There is plenty of work close at hand. The weather should be carefully studied; the sky and the frozen sea contain problems for solution. We are in a world unknown, but just at present we care little about our novel position or our future rewards.
The darkness grows daily a little deeper, and the night soaks hourly a little more colour from our blood. Our gait is now careless, the step non-elastic, the foothold uncertain. The hair grows quickly, like plants in a hot-house, but there is a great change in the colour. Most of us in the cabin have grown decidedly gray within two months, though few are over thirty. Our faces are drawn, and there is an absence of jest and cheer and hope in our make-up which, in itself, is one of the saddest incidents in our existence. There is no one willing to openly confess the force of the night upon himself, but the novelty of life has been worn out and the cold, dark outside world is incapable of introducing anything new. The moonlight comes and goes alike, during the hours of midday as at midnight. The stars glisten over the gloomy snows. We miss the usual poetry and adventure of home winter nights. We miss the flushed maidens, the jingling bells, the spirited horses, the inns, the crackling blaze of the country fire. We miss much of life which makes it worth the trouble of existence.
At noon some of us went on a ski journey, and about a mile south-east of the ship we were stopped by a wide lead of inky water, extending north and south as far as the sight could reach. The darkness was such that we dared not approach closely to the open sea. We were anxious to search the fringe of ice bordering on the gloomy water for animal life, and discussed the possibilities for some time, but the thickening veil of darkness drew over us tighter and tighter as we waited. Looking toward the Belgica we saw that she was already nearly obscured by the sooty blackness, which was falling from the noonday heavens. Looking over the silent and endless sea of ice, however, the aspect was not one of night. A subdued glow seemed to rise from the white snows and illuminate the lower stratas of air; but this was only apparent. Nearly all irregularities were obscured or distorted. Huge hummocks, ten to twenty feet high, were not observed until we stumbled against them. Small elevations, with sharp angles, sometimes produced a mirage like that of an iceberg at a great distance. We would glide along leisurely on ski and suddenly find that we had crossed this huge obstacle,—in reality only a few inches in height.
For the past month we have not felt like writing. Our humour and our ambition are not such as to make us transfer ideas to paper easily. If I could write poetry I should like to select the topics of conversation as subjects for gloomy moods,—for we certainly painted the skies darker, and made the snow blacker, than they ever appeared in reality. We made a feeble attempt to lift the gloomy seal, now and then, by a superficial humour,—a sort of frothy effervescence of the soul, but the efforts were as feeble as our anaemic muscular fibres. The long polar night lies heavily upon us. Our health has suffered considerably. We have not been so fortunate as Nansen’s party, if we may accept Nansen’s account of the health of his crew at the dawn of the arctic day. With a few boastful remarks he passes over the physical effects of the arctic night, and concludes to his own elation that they felt none of the usual complaints; but since it is reported that one of the best men has returned mentally deranged, of which Nansen leaves us in ignorance, we may infer that other matters have also slipped his memory. It is not possible for an expedition, with twelve men, to live three years in the arctic or any other region without some bodily ailments. These are as certain as human sins, and quite as interesting, but we look for them in vain in Nansen’s narrative. Perhaps Dr. Blessing or some other member of the expedition will give us a more serious account.