Part 17 (1/2)

We repacked the sledges after breakfast. This place was called the Upper Glacier Depot--and it marked the commencement of the third and final stage of the Poleward Journey. We said good-bye to Atkinson's party, and they started down the Glacier after depositing the foodstuffs they had sledged up the Beardmore for the Polar Party and the last supporting party. Atkinson and his tent-mates now had to face a homeward march of 584 miles. They spent Christmas Day collecting geological specimens, and reached Cape Evans on January 28. They had some sickness in the shape of enteritis and slight scurvy, but Dr. Atkinson's care and medical knowledge brought them through safely. Captain Scott with his two sledge teams now pushed forward, keeping an average speed of 15 miles per day, with full loads of 190 lb. a man.

When we started off we were:

Scott. Self.

Wilson. Bowers.

Oates. Crean.

Seaman Evans Lashly.

We steered S.W. to begin with to avoid the great pressure ridges and ice falls which barred our way to the South. We began to rise very perceptibly, and, looking back after our march, realised what enormous frozen falls stretch across the top of the Beardmore. I noted that these, with Scott's consent should be called ”The Shackleton Ice Falls,”

according to _his_ track he went _up_ them. When we looked back on starting our march we could see the depot cairn with a black flag tied to a pair of 10 foot sledge runners for quite three miles--it promised well for picking up. Next day we were away early, marching 8 1/2 miles to lunch camp, and getting amongst creva.s.ses as big as Regent Street, all snow bridged.

We rushed these and had no serious falls; the dangerous part is at the edge of the snow bridge, and we frequently fell through up to our armpits just stepping on to or leaving the bridge. We began now to experience the same tingling wind that Shackleton speaks of, and men's noses were frequently frost-bitten. On Christmas Eve we were 8000 feet above the Barrier, and we imagined we were clear of creva.s.ses and pressure ridges.

We now felt the cold far more when marching than we had done on the Beardmore.

The wind all the time turned our breath into cakes of ice on our beards.

Taking sights when we stopped was a bitterly cold job: fingers had to be bared to work the little theodolite screws, and in the biting wind one's finger-tips soon went. Over 16 miles were laid behind us on Christmas Eve when we reached Lat.i.tude 85 degrees 35 minutes S., Longitude 159 degrees 8 minutes E. I obtained the variation of the compa.s.s here--179 degrees 35 minutes E., so that we were between the Magnetic and Geographical Poles.

The temperature down to 10 degrees below zero made observing unpleasant, when one had cooled down and lost vitality at the end of the day's march.

Christmas Day, 1911, found our two tiny green tents pitched on the King Edward VII. Plateau--the only objects that broke the monotony of the great white glittering waste that stretches from the Beardmore Glacier Head to the South Pole. A light wind was blowing from the South, and little whirls of fine snow, as fine as dust, would occasionally sweep round the tents and along the sides of the sledge runners, streaming away almost like smoke to the Northward. Inside the tents breathing heavily were our eight sleeping figures--in these little canvas shelters soon after 4 a.m. the sleepers became restless and occasionally one would wake, glance at one's watch, and doze again. Exactly at 5 a.m. our leader shouted ”Evans,” and both of us of that name replied, ”Right-o, sir.”

Immediately all was bustle, we scrambled out of our sleeping-bags, only the cook remaining in each tent. The others with frantic haste filled the aluminium cookers with the gritty snow that here lay hard and windswept.

The cookers filled and pa.s.sed in, we, gathered socks, finnesko, and putties off the clothes lines which we had rigged between the ski which struck upright in the snow to save them from being drifted over in the night. The indefatigable Bowers swung his thermometer in the shade until it refused to register any lower, glanced at the clouds, made a note or two in his miniature meteorological log book, and then blew on his tingling fingers, noted the direction of the wind, and ran to our tent.

Inside all had lashed up their bags and converted them into seats, the primus stove burnt with a curious low roar, and peculiar smell of paraffin permeated the tent. By the time we had changed our footgear the savoury smell of the pemmican proclaimed that breakfast was ready. The meal was eaten with the same haste that had already made itself apparent.

A very short smoke sufficed, and Captain Scott gave the signal to strike camp. Out went everything through the little round door, down came both tents, all was packed in a jiffy on the two 12-foot sledges, each team endeavouring to be first, and in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time both teams swung Southward, keeping step, and with every appearance of perfect health. But a close observer, a man trained to watch over men's health, over athletes training, perhaps, would have seem something amiss.

The two teams, in spite of the Christmas spirit, and the ”Happy Christmas” greetings, they exchanged to begin with, soon lost their springy step, the sledges dragged more slowly, and we gazed ahead almost wistfully.

Yes, the strain was beginning to tell, though none of us would have confessed it. Lashly and I had already pulled a sledge of varying weight--but mostly a loaded one--over 600 miles, and all had marched this distance.

During the forenoon something was seen ahead like the tide race over a rocky ledge--it was another ice fall stretching from East to West, and it had to be crossed, there could be no more deviation, for since Atkinson's party turned we had been five points West of our course at times. Alas, more wear for the runners of the sledge, which meant more labour to the eight of us, so keen to succeed in our enterprise--soon we are in the thick of it; first one slips and is thrown violently down, then a sledge runs over the slope of a great ice wave.

The man trying to hold it back is relentlessly thrown, and the bow of the sledge crashes on to the heel of the hindermost of those hauling ahead with a thud that means ”pain.” But the victim utters no sound, just smiles in answer to the anxious questioning gaze of his comrades.

Something happened in the last half of that Christmas forenoon. Lashly, whose 44th birthday it was, celebrated the occasion by falling into a creva.s.se 8 feet wide.

Our sledge just bridged the chasm with very little to spare each end, and poor Lashly was suspended below, spinning round at the full length of his harness, with 80 feet of clear s.p.a.ce beneath him. We had great difficulty in hauling him upon account of his being directly under the sledge. We got him to the surface by using the Alpine rope. Lashly was none the worse for his fall, and one of my party wished him a ”Happy Christmas,”

and another ”Many Happy Returns of the Day,” when he had regained safety.

Lashly's reply was unprintable.

Soon after this accident we topped the ice fall or ridge, and halted for lunch--we had risen over 250 feet, according to aneroid; it seemed funny enough to find the barometer standing at 21 inches instead of 30.

Lunch camp, what a change. The primus stove fiercely roaring, the men light up their pipes and talk Christmas--dear, cheery souls, how proud Scott must have been of them; no reference to the discomforts of the forenoon march, just brightness and the nicest thoughts for one another, and for ”those,” as poor Wilson unconsciously describes them, by humming: ”Keep our loved ones, now far absent, 'neath Thy care.” After a mug of warming tea and two biscuits we strike camp, and are soon slogging on.

But the creva.s.ses and icefalls have been overcome, the travelling is better, and with nothing but the hard, white horizon before us, thoughts wander away to the homeland--sweet little houses with well-kept gardens, glowing fires on bright hearths, clean, snowy tablecloths and polished silver, and then the dimpled, smiling faces of those we are winning our spurs for. Next Christmas may we hope for it? Yes, it must be.