The South Pole, Volume 2 by Roald Amundsen

R >> Roald Amundsen >> The South Pole, Volume 2

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

It must be remarked that the author composed his production in the
supposition that we should be able to meet by Christmas, and he
therefore proposed that for the moment we should imagine ourselves
to be celebrating that festival. We made no difficulty about acceding
to his request:

Well, here we are assembled to jollity once more,
Some from off the ocean and the rest from off the shore.
A year has passed since last we met and all are safe and sound,
Then let us banish all our cares and join our hands all round.
Christmas, happy Christmas! let us pass the flowing bowl,
Fill your glasses all, and let's make "Sails" a wee bit full.
For all I'll say is this -- that it's in his country's cause;
If he staggers just a little, it is in his country's cause.

Now you sailor boys shall hear about the time we have gone through:
The winter -- well, it wasn't long, we had so much to do.
There was digging snow, and sleeping -- you can bet we're good at
that -- And eating, too -- no wonder that we're all a little fat.
We had hot cakes for our breakfast and "hermetik" each day,
Mutton pies, ragouts and curries, for that is Lindstrom's way.
But all I'll say is this -- that 'twas in our country's cause,
If we stuffed ourselves with dainties, it was in our country's cause.

September came and off we went -- that trip was pretty tough;
Our compasses all went on strike, they thought it cold enough.
The brandy in the Captain's flask froze to a lump of ice;
We all agreed, both men and dogs, such weather wasn't nice.
So back we went to Framheim to thaw our heels and toes;
It could not be quite healthy when our feet and fingers froze.
But all I say is this -- that 'twas in our country's cause,
And we did not mind a frost-bite when 'twas in our country's cause.

The sun came up and warmed us then a little day by day;
Five men went out again and toiled along the southern way.
This time they conquered snow and ice, and all the world may hear
That Norway's flag flies at the Pole. Now, boys, a ringing cheer
For him who led them forward through the mountains and the plain,
Up to the goal they aimed at, and safely back again.
But all I'll say is this -- that 'twas in his country's cause;
If he went through and won the Pole, 'twas in his country's cause.

It could soon be noticed, in one way and another, that we had reached
latitudes where existence took a very different aspect from what
we had been accustomed to south of the 66th parallel. One welcome
change was the rise in temperature; the mercury now climbed well above
freezing-point, and those individuals on board who were still more or
less clad in skins, shed the last remnants of their Polar garb for a
lighter and more convenient costume. Those who waited longest before
making the change were the ones who belonged to the shore party. The
numerous people who imagine that a long stay in the Polar regions
makes a man less susceptible of cold than other mortals are completely
mistaken. The direct opposite is more likely to be the case. A man
who stays some time in a place where the everyday temperature is
down in the fifties below zero, or more than that, will not trouble
himself greatly about the cold, so long as he has good and serviceable
skin clothing. Let the same man, rigged out in civilized clothes,
be suddenly put down in the streets of Christiania on a winter day,
with thirty or thirty-five degrees of frost, and the poor fellow's
teeth will chatter till they fall out of his mouth. The fact is, that
on a Polar trip one defends oneself effectively against the cold; when
one comes back, and has to go about with the protection afforded by
an overcoat, a stiff collar, and a hard hat -- well, then one feels it.

A less welcome consequence of the difference in latitude was the
darkening of the nights. It may be admitted that continual daylight
would be unpleasant in the long run ashore, but aboard ship an
everlasting day would certainly be preferred, if such a thing could be
had. Even if we might now consider that we had done with the principal
mass of Antarctic ice, we still had to reckon with its disagreeable
outposts -- the icebergs. It has already been remarked that a practised
look-out man can see the blink of one of the larger bergs a long way
off in the dark, but when it is a question of one of the smaller masses
of ice, of which only an inconsiderable part rises above the surface,
there is no such brightness, and therefore no warning. A little lump
like this is just as dangerous as a big berg; you run the same risks in
a possible collision of knocking a hole in the bows or carrying away
the rigging. In these transitional regions, where the temperature of
the water is always very low, the thermometer is a very doubtful guide.

The waters in which we were sailing are not yet so well known as to
exclude the possibility of meeting with land. Captain Colbeck, who
commanded one of the relief ships sent south during Scott's first
expedition, came quite unexpectedly upon a little island to the
east of Cape Adare; this island was afterwards named after Captain
Scott. When Captain Colbeck made his discovery, he was about on the
course that has usually been taken by ships whose destination was
within the limits of Ross Sea. There is still a possibility that in
going out of one's course, voluntarily or involuntarily, one may find
more groups of islands in that part.

On the current charts of the South Pacific there are marked several
archipelagoes and islands, the position of which is not a little
doubtful. One of these -- Emerald Island -- is charted as lying almost
directly in the course we had to follow to reach Hobart. Captain Davis,
who took Shackleton's ship, the Nimrod, home to England in 1909,
sailed, however, right over the point where Emerald Island should
be found according to the chart without seeing anything of it. If it
exists at all, it is, at any rate, incorrectly charted. In order to
avoid its vicinity, and still more in order to get as far as possible
to the west before we came into the westerly belt proper, we pressed
on as much as we could for one hard week, or perhaps nearer two; but
a continual north-west wind seemed for a long time to leave us only
two disagreeable possibilities, either of drifting to the eastward, or
of finding ourselves down in the drift-ice to the north of Wilkes Land.

Those weeks were a very severe trial of patience to the many on
board who were burning with eagerness to get ashore with our news,
and perhaps to hear some in return. When the first three weeks of
February were past, we were not much more than half-way; with anything
like favourable conditions we ought to have arrived by that time. The
optimists always consoled us by saying that sooner or later there
would be a change for the better, and at last it came. A good spell
of favourable wind took us at a bound well to the windward both of
the doubtful Emerald Island and of the authentic Macquarie group to
the north of it. It may be mentioned in passing, that at the time we
went by, the most southerly wireless telegraphy station in the world
was located on one of the Macquarie Islands. The installation belonged
to Dr. Mawson's Antarctic expedition. Dr. Mawson also took with him
apparatus for installing a station on the Antarctic Continent itself,
but, so far as is known, no connection was accomplished the first year.

During this fortunate run we had come so far to the west that our
course to Hobart was rapidly approaching true north. On the other hand,
we should have liked to be able to take advantage of the prevailing
winds, -- the westerlies. These vary little from one year to another,
and we found them much the same as we had been accustomed to before:
frequent, stiff breezes from the north-west, which generally held for
about twelve hours, and then veered to west or south-west. So long
as the north-wester was blowing, there was nothing to do but to lie
to with shortened sail; when the change of wind came, we made a few
hours' progress in the right direction. In this way we crept step by
step northward to our destination. It was slow enough, no doubt; but
every day the line of our course on the chart grew a little longer,
and towards the end of February the distance between us and the
southern point of Tasmania had shrunk to very modest dimensions.

With the constant heavy westerly swell, the Fram, light as she now
was, surpassed herself in rolling, and that is indeed saying a great
deal. This rolling brought us a little damage to the rigging, the
gaff of the mainsail breaking; however, that affair did not stop us
long. The broken spar was quickly replaced by a spare gaff.

Our hopes of arriving before the end of February came to naught,
and a quarter of March went by before our voyage was at an end.

On the afternoon of March 4, we had our first glimpse of land; but,
as the weather was by no means clear and we had not been able to
determine our longitude with certainty for two days, we were uncertain
which point of Tasmania we had before us. To explain the situation,
a short description of the coast-line is necessary. The southern
angle of Tasmania runs out in three promontories; off the easternmost
of these, and only divided from it by a very narrow channel, lies a
steep and apparently inaccessible island, called Tasman Island. It is,
however, accessible, for on the top of it -- 900 feet above the sea
-- stands a lighthouse. The middle promontory is called Tasman Head,
and between this and the eastern one we have Storm Bay, which forms
the approach to Hobart; there, then, lay our course. The question was,
which of the three heads we had sighted. This was difficult, or rather
impossible, to decide, so indistinct was the outline of the land in
the misty air; it was also entirely unknown to us, as not one of us
had ever before been in this corner of the world. When darkness came
on, a heavy rain set in, and without being able to see anything at
all, we lay there feeling our way all night. With the appearance of
daylight a fresh south-west wind came and swept away most of the rain,
so that we could again make out the land. We decided that what we saw
was the middle promontory, Tasman Head, and gaily set our course into
Storm Bay -- as we thought. With the rapidly strengthening breeze we
went spinningly, and the possibility of reaching Hobart in a few hours
began to appear as a dead certainty. With this comfortable feeling
we had just sat down to the breakfast table in the fore-saloon, when
the door was pulled open with what seemed unnecessary violence, and
the face of the officer of the watch appeared in the doorway. "We're
on the wrong side of the head," was the sinister message, and the
face disappeared. Good-bye to our pleasant plans, good-bye to our
breakfast! All hands went on deck at once, and it was seen only too
well that the melancholy information was correct. We had made a mistake
in the thick rain. The wind, that had now increased to a stiff breeze,
had chased the rain-clouds from the tops of the hills, and on the
point we had taken for Tasman Head, we now saw the lighthouse. It
was therefore Tasman Island, and instead of being in Storm Bay, we
were out in the open Pacific, far to leeward of the infamous headland.

There was nothing to be done but to beat and attempt to work our way
back to windward, although we knew it would be practically labour in
vain. The breeze increased to a gale, and instead of making any headway
we had every prospect of drifting well to leeward; that was the usual
result of trying to beat with the Fram. Rather annoyed though we were,
we set to work to do what could be done, and with every square foot of
canvas set the Fram pitched on her way close-hauled. To begin with,
it looked as if we held our own more or less, but as the distance
from land increased and the wind got more force, our bearings soon
showed us that we were going the way the hen kicks. About midday we
went about and stood in towards land again; immediately after came a
violent squall which tore the outer jib to ribbons; with that we were
also obliged to take in the mainsail, otherwise it would pretty soon
have been caught aback, and there would have been further damage to
the rigging. With the remaining sails any further attempt was useless;
there was nothing left but to get as close under the lee of the land
as we could and try with the help of the engine to hold our own till
the weather moderated. How it blew that afternoon! One gust after
another came dancing down the slopes of the hills, and tore at the
rigging till the whole vessel shook. The feeling on board was, as
might be expected, somewhat sultry, and found an outlet in various
expressions the reverse of gentle. Wind, weather, fate, and life in
general were inveighed against, but this availed little. The peninsula
that separated us from Storm Bay still lay there firm and immovable,
and the gale went on as if it was in no hurry to let us get round. The
whole day went by, and the greater part of the night, without any
change taking place. Not till the morning of the 6th did our prospects
begin to improve. The wind became lighter and went more to the south;
that was, of course, the way we had to go, but by hugging the shore,
where we had perfectly smooth water, we succeeded in working our
way down to Tasman Island before darkness fell. The night brought
a calm, and that gave us our chance. The engine worked furiously,
and a slight favourable current contributed to set us on our way. By
dawn on the 7th we were far up Storm Bay and could at last consider
ourselves masters of the situation.

It was a sunny day, and our faces shone in rivalry with the sun;
all trace of the last two days' annoyances had vanished. And soon
the Fram, too, began to shine. The white paint on deck had a thorough
overhauling with soap and water in strong solution. The Ripolin was
again as fresh as when new. When this had been seen to, the outward
appearance of the men also began to undergo a striking change. The
Iceland jackets and "blanket costumes" from Horten gave way to "shore
clothes" of the most varied cut, hauled out after a two years' rest;
razors and scissors had made a rich harvest, and sailmaker Ronne's
fashionable Burberry caps figured on most heads. Even Lindstrom,
who up to date had held the position among the land party of being
its heaviest, fattest, and blackest member, showed unmistakable signs
of having been in close contact with water.

Meanwhile we were nearing a pilot station, and a bustling little motor
launch swung alongside. "Want a pilot, captain?" One positively started
at the sound of the first new human voice. Communication with the outer
world was again established. The pilot -- a brisk, good-humoured old
man -- looked about him in surprise when he came up on to our deck. "I
should never have imagined things were so clean and bright on board a
Polar ship," he said; "nor should I have thought from the look of you
that you had come from Antarctica. You look as if you had had nothing
but a good time." We could assure him of that, but as to the rest, it
was not our intention just yet to allow ourselves to be pumped, and
the old man could see that. He had no objection to our pumping him,
though he had no very great store of news to give us. He had heard
nothing of the Terra Nova; on the other hand, he was able to tell
us that Dr. Mawson's ship, the Aurora, commanded by Captain Davis,
might be expected at Hobart any day. They had been looking out for
the Fram since the beginning of February, and had given us up long
ago. That was a surprise, anyhow.

Our guest evidently had no desire to make the acquaintance of our
cuisine; at any rate, he very energetically declined our invitation
to breakfast. Presumably he was afraid of being treated to dog's
flesh or similar original dishes. On the other hand, he showed great
appreciation of our Norwegian tobacco. He had his handbag pretty
nearly full when he left us.

Hobart Town lies on the bank of the Derwent River, which runs into
Storm Bay. The surroundings are beautiful, and the soil evidently
extremely fertile; but woods and fields were almost burnt up on our
arrival; a prolonged drought had prevailed, and made an end of all
green things. To our eyes it was, however, an unmixed delight to look
upon meadows and woods, even if their colours were not absolutely
fresh. We were not very difficult to please on that score.

The harbour of Hobart is an almost ideal one, large and remarkably
well protected. As we approached the town, the usual procession of
harbour-master, doctor, and Custom-house officers came aboard. The
doctor soon saw that there was no work for his department, and the
Custom-house officers were easily convinced that we had no contraband
goods. The anchor was dropped, and we were free to land. I took my
cablegrams, and accompanied the harbour-master ashore.

CHAPTER XV

The Eastern Sledge Journey

By Lieutenant K. Prestrud

On October 20, 1911, the southern party started on their long
journey. The departure took place without much ceremony, and with the
smallest possible expenditure of words. A hearty grasp of the hand
serves the purpose quite as well on such occasions. I accompanied them
to the place we called the starting-point, on the south side of the
bay. After a final "Good luck" to our Chief and comrades -- as sincere
a wish as I have ever bestowed upon anyone -- I cinematographed the
caravan, and very soon after it was out of sight. Those fellows went
southward at a great pace, Helmer Hanssen's quick-footed team leading
as usual.

There I stood, utterly alone, and I cannot deny that I was a prey
to somewhat mixed feelings. When should we see those five again,
who had just disappeared from view on the boundless plain, and in
what conditions? What sort of a report would they bring of the
result? There was plenty of room for guesses here, and abundant
opportunity for weighing every possibility, good and bad; but there
was very little to be gained by indulging in speculations of that
sort. The immediate facts first claimed attention. One fact, amongst
others, was that Framheim was a good three miles away; another was
that the cinematograph apparatus weighed a good many pounds; and a
third that Lindstrom would be mightily put out if I arrived too late
for dinner. Our chef insisted on a high standard of punctuality in the
matter of meal-times. Homeward, then, at the best speed possible. The
speed, however, was not particularly good, and I began to prepare for
the consequences of a long delay. On the other side of the bay I could
just make out a little black speck, that seemed to be in motion towards
me. I thought at first it was a seal, but, fortunately, it turned
out to be Jorgen Stubberud with six dogs and a sledge. This was quite
encouraging: in the first place, I should get rid of my unmanageable
burden, and in the second I might expect to get on faster. Stubberud's
team consisted, however, of four intractable puppies, besides Puss and
another courser of similar breed; the result was that our pace was a
modest one and our course anything but straight, so that we arrived
at Framheim two hours after the time appointed for dinner. Those who
know anything of Master Lindstrom and his disposition will easily be
able from this explanation to form an idea of his state of mind at
the moment when we entered the door. Yes, he was undoubtedly angry,
but we were at least equally hungry; and if anything can soften the
heart of a Norwegian caterer, it is a ravenous appetite in those he
has to feed, provided, of course, that he have enough to offer them,
and Lindstrom's supplies were practically unlimited.

I remember that dinner well: at the same table where eight of us had
sat for so many months, there were now only three left -- Johansen,
Stubberud, and I. We had more room, it is true, but that gain was a
poor satisfaction. We missed those who had gone very badly, and our
thoughts were always following them. The first thing we discussed on
this occasion was how many miles they might be expected to do that
day: nor was this the last dispute we had on the same theme. During
the weeks and months that followed, it was constantly to the fore,
and gave plenty of material for conversation when we had exhausted
our own concerns. As regards these latter, my instructions were

1. To go to King Edward VII. Land, and there carry out what exploration
time and circumstances might permit.

2. To survey and map the Bay of Whales and its immediate surroundings.

3. As far as possible to keep the station at Framheim in order,
in case we might have to spend another winter there.

As regards time, my orders were to be back at Framheim before we
could reasonably expect the arrival of the Fram. This was, and would
necessarily remain, somewhat uncertain. No doubt we all had a great
idea of the Fram's capacity for keeping time, and Lieutenant Nilsen
had announced his intention of being back by Christmas or the New
Year; but nevertheless a year is a long time, and there are many
miles in a trip round the world. If we assumed that no mishap had
occurred to the Fram, and that she had left Buenos Aires at the time
fixed in the plan -- October 1, 1911 -- she would in all probability
be able to arrive at the Bay of Whales about the middle of January,
1912. On the basis of this calculation we decided, if possible, to
get the sledge journey to King Edward Land done before Christmas,
while the surveying work around the bay would have to be postponed
to the first half of January, 1912. I thought, however, seeing the
advantages of working while the bay was still frozen over, that it
would pay to devote a few days -- immediately following the departure
of the southern party -- to the preparatory work of measuring. But
this did not pay at all. We had reckoned without the weather, and in
consequence were well taken in. When one thinks over it afterwards,
it seems reasonable enough that the final victory of mild weather over
the remains of the Antarctic winter cannot be accomplished without
serious disturbances of the atmospheric conditions. The expulsion of
one evil has to be effected by the help of another; and the weather
was bad with a vengeance. During the two weeks that followed October 20
there were only three or four days that offered any chance of working
with the theodolite and plane-table. We managed to get a base-line
measured, 1,000 metres long, and to lay out the greater part of the
east side of the bay, as well as the most prominent points round the
camp; but one had positively to snatch one's opportunities by stealth,
and every excursion ended regularly in bringing the instruments home
well covered with snow.

If the bad weather thus put hindrances in the way of the work we
were anxious to do, it made up for it by providing us with a lot of
extra work which we could very well have done without. There was
incessant shovelling of snow to keep any sort of passage open to
the four dog-tents that were left standing, as well as to our own
underground dwelling, over which the snow covering had been growing
constantly higher. The fairly high wall that we had originally built
on the east side of the entrance door was now entirely buried in
the snow-drift. It had given us good protection; now the drift had
unimpeded access, and the opening, like the descent into a cellar,
that led down to the door, was filled up in the course of a few hours
when the wind was in the right quarter. Lindstrom shook his head when
we sometimes asked him how he would get on by himself if the weather
continued in this way. "So long as there's nothing but snow in the
way, I'll manage to get out," said he. One day he came and told us
that he could no longer get at the coal, and on further investigation
it looked rather difficult. The roof of the place where the coal was
stored had yielded to the pressure of the mass of snow, and the whole
edifice had collapsed. There was nothing to be done but to set to work
at once, and after a great deal of hard labour we got the remainder
of the precious fuel moved into the long snow tunnel that led from
the house to the coal-store. With that our "black diamonds" were in
safety for the time being. This job made us about as black as the
"diamonds." When we came in the cook, as it happened, had just been
doing a big wash on his own account -- a comparatively rare event --
and there was surprise on both sides. The cook was as much taken
aback at seeing us so black as we were at seeing him so clean.

All the snow-shovelling that resulted from the continued bad weather,
in conjunction with the necessary preparations for the sledge journey,
gave us plenty of occupation, but I will venture to say that none of
us would care to go through those days again. We were delayed in our
real work, and delay, which is unpleasant enough in any circumstances,
was all the more unwelcome down here, where time is so precious. As
we only had two sledges on which to transport supplies for three
men and sixteen dogs, besides all our outfit, and as on our trip we
should have no depots to fall back on, the duration of the journey
could not be extended much beyond six weeks. In order to be back
again by Christmas, we had, therefore, to leave before the middle of
November. It would do no harm, however, to be off before this, and as
soon as November arrived we took the first opportunity of disappearing.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25