CHAPTER VIII.

THE WANE OF THE LONG POLAR NIGHT.

1. Although the sun was mounting higher, there was no essential change in the gloom and darkness which surrounded us. In fact we were drifting during the whole of January towards the north, and were wintering nearer the Pole than any who had ever preceded us.[20] On gloomy days, noon was not distinguishable. We were now four hundred miles within the Frozen Ocean, and had been for five months the sport and play of winds and currents, and nothing indicated any change in our situation. Yet, in spite of our desperate position, the first, ever so faint, indications of the return of light filled us with joy. With a clear atmosphere, January 10, we observed for the first time at noon a decided brightness, and on the 19th a brilliant carmine was seen in the sky, an hour before noon on the southern horizon. After a long obscuration from cloudy weather, the morning twilight increased gradually, and by the end of the month it was discernible in the forenoon. As the light increased, the signs of the convulsions were more distinctly seen. Round us there rose piles of craggy ice, which, hurled up, as from a crater, by the ice-pressure of the 22nd, kept us in a state of constant fear, lest the ice-walls would break up and fall in upon us. At a little distance off, nothing was to be seen of the ship but the tops of its masts: the rest of it was hidden behind a lofty wall of ice. The ship itself, raised seven feet above the level of the sea, rested on a protuberance of ice, and, removed from its natural element, looked a truly miserable object. This ice protuberance had been formed from a floe which had been often rent asunder and frozen again, and had been rounded in a singular manner from the under-driving of the ice and the lateral pressure in its recent movements. In other respects, also, our environment had been completely changed. Before the movement in the ice on the 22nd, a narrow strip of level ice wound like a river through a maze of hummocks, and throughout the winter this had been diligently used for exercising the dogs. Of this nothing was now to be seen: walls of ice rose, where a fortnight before our coal-house had stood: fissures gaped on every side. In every respect the weather during this month was capricious and unaccountable. In the first two weeks, the temperature fell several times below -35° F., and on January 8, 13 and 14, quicksilver, exposed to the cold, froze to a solid mass; gin also froze, and alcohol only maintained its fluid state. Yet, notwithstanding this low temperature, the snow was always soft; and it continued to be so, amid all the variations of temperature and the high winds of this month. January 22 and 23, the temperature rose for a short time to 26° F.; everything in the ship then began to thaw, and a disagreeable moisture penetrated both our clothes and our quarters. The mean temperature of this month, in consequence of these abnormal variations, did not exceed -8° F., and was therefore about ten degrees higher than might have been expected.

2. The bears had in these last weeks kept at a regrettable distance from us. On the 12th, however, a very large fellow ventured to come within ten paces of the rope-ladder on the starboard side. We fired at him with explosive balls and he fell; but his strength was so great, that even after these terrible wounds he was able to get up and run. Explosive bullets, however, are to be recommended for encounters with bears, though their flight is rather uncertain. A bear-hunt, on the 29th and 30th, had a somewhat tragical result. About ten o’clock at night, when it was quite dark, a bear approached the ship, and with the agility of a tiger fell on Sumbu, who got away very cleverly, and by his loud barking summoned Krisch, who was then on watch, to his aid. When he was not more than ten feet from the deck Krisch fired at him and wounded him. The noise brought some of us at once, and though it was exceedingly dark and the snow very deep, a useless chase, in which I joined, forthwith began. The pursuit through the midst of driving snow became weaker; until at last I found myself alone with Palmich. We could see nothing; and heard only an occasional howl of pain. We hastened our steps through the whirling snow, till we saw, by the dim light of our lantern, Matoschkin lying howling on the ground, and the bear a few steps from him, vigorously assailed by Sumbu, who seized him by the foot whenever he began to retreat. As Matoschkin incautiously approached too near, the bear turned, seized him, and carried him off. To fire with effect was impossible; we were too far off to take aim with our rifles. The bear continued to drag the dog along, and at last a puff of wind put out our lantern, and we soon discovered our inability to keep up with our enemy. Bitterly as we lamented the fate of the poor dog, whose howls were brought to our ears by the wind, we had nothing for it but to return to the ship. About noon next day when it was sufficiently clear, Brosch, the two Tyrolese, and I set out to ascertain the fate of the dog. The snow was drifting heavily, and we constantly sank into it as we advanced. After a toilsome walk we came on traces of blood, which Sumbu followed up, while Gillis timidly stuck to us. At last, after we had gone on for the third of a mile, Sumbu came back in a great state of excitement, and then ran on before us till he stopped at an ice-hummock, where he renewed his angry barks. We advanced with quickened steps and with our rifles cocked, and when we were about twenty paces from it the bear came out from behind, apparently in great astonishment. After several shots the bear fell, but again gathering himself up he dragged himself along like a walrus, in spite of his broken spine, with extraordinary activity towards an “ice-hole” covered with young ice. Two other shots with explosive bullets terminated his career, and Matoschkin, whose body we afterwards found behind the ice-hillock, was avenged.

3. The cold set in with great intensity with the month of February and maintained itself throughout it: the mean monthly temperature being -31° F. Repeatedly the quicksilver froze, and in the last eight days it remained solid. Even the petroleum was frozen on the 17th at -49° F. in the globe of the lamp, though it was throwing out a considerable heat. The lowest temperature we experienced was on the last day of the month, -51° F. Notwithstanding the extreme cold, the light had increased so much that a thermometer, in which the degrees were strongly marked, could be read off, even on the 3rd of the month, at ten o’clock in the forenoon without the aid of lamplight; and on the 20th we were able to carry on our meteorological observations, without any artificial light at six o’clock in the evening. The ruddiness we observed at noon in the south grew more and more decided. On clear days we could discern, about seven o’clock in the morning, a faint twilight, and at noon of February 14 the near approach of the sun was distinctly to be traced by a bright cloud that was resting over it, though it was still below the horizon. About the middle of the month there was light enough to cause the different forms and groups of ice to cast shadows. In spite of the low temperature, we remained for hours in the open air, though previously to this period we had ventured on deck for a few minutes only at a time—the watch of course excepted. But as the daylight increased, we saw also what a dark, gloomy grave had been our abode for so long a period. All our thoughts and conversations were concentrated on the returning light of the sun. The movements of the ice ceased to be a source of dread, though for several days during the month they had been exceedingly formidable. In the course of our drifting we had penetrated into a region where never ship had been before. The following table exhibits the course of the _Tegetthoff_, as she drifted from August 21, 1872, to February 27, 1873:—

+--------------------+-------+-------+ | Time. | N. | E. | | | Lat. | Lon. | +--------------------+-------+-------+ | | | | | Aug. 21 1872, day | | | | when the ship was | ° ′ | ° ′ | | beset | 76·22 | 62·3 | | Sept. 1 1872 | 76·25 | 62·50 | | ” 4 ” | 76·23 | 62·49 | | ” 11 ” | 76·35 | 60·18 | | ” 14 ” | 76·37 | 60·50 | | ” 21 ” | 76·28 | 63·9 | | ” 26 ” | 76·36 | 64·8 | | ” 27 ” | 76·38 | 64·4 | | ” 28 ” | 76·37 | 64·10 | | Oct. 1 ” | 76·50 | 65·22 | | ” 2 ” | 76·59 | 65·48 | | ” 3 ” | 77·4 | 66·1 | | ” 17 ” | 77·50 | 69·22 | | ” 18 ” | 77·48 | 69·8 | | ” 22 ” | 77·46 | 69·26 | | ” 31 ” | 77·53 | 69·12 | | Nov. 5 ” | 77·53 | 69·30 | | ” 9 ” | 78·15 | 69·42 | | ” 14 ” | 78·8 | 71·16 | | ” 18 ” | 78·10 | 70·31 | | ” 28 ” | 78·13 | 69·48 | | Dec. 4 ” | 78·19 | 69·1 | | ” 8 ” | 78·21 | 69·2 | | ” 12 ” | 78·25 | 68·57 | | ” 16 ” | 78·22 | 67·42 | | ” 19 ” | 78·13 | 67·11 | | ” 26 ” | 78·10 | 68·19 | | Jan. 2 1873 | 78·37 | 66·56 | | ” 19 ” | 78·43 | 69·32 | | ” 26 ” | 78·50 | 71·47 | | Feb. 2 ” | 78·45 | 73·7 | | ” 14 ” | 78·12 | 72·20 | | ” 19 ” | 78·15 | 71·38 | | ” 23 ” | 79·11 | | | ” 27 ” | 79·12 | | +--------------------+-------+-------+

4. The inspection of this table shows that the movement of the ship was retarded as the increasing cold closed the open places of the sea, and when we fell under the influence of the Siberian ice-drift from east to west. It may be remarked, too, that we drifted generally straight before the wind, and that we and our floe during the first four months turned only one degree in azimuth. By the end of January all the open places of the sea were closed; and the masses of ice were thus driven one over the other from their mutual pressure, and pile thus rose upon pile. It seems probable, also, that wind was the main cause of our drifting, while sea currents were only of secondary moment. From the beginning of the month of February we drifted constantly toward the north-west, and from this deviation in our course we indulged in the hope that we were approaching the mysterious Gillis’ Land. But at this time the liberation of the ship in the summer was the sum of our expectations and desires. In fact, there was not one of us who doubted this eventuality. Fully convinced, as we were, that our floes, firmly attached to each other, would ultimately break up and drift southwards, we determined to make them the bearers of the record of what had befallen us. Hence we threw out, February 14th, round the ship a number of bottles, inclosing a narrative of the main events of the expedition from the departure of Count Wilczek up to that date.