At midday on January 18, over treacherous ice, in the face of strong winds, we were making good headway towards Junction Corner. Almost daily for a fortnight a Wilson petrel had visited us, the only form of life seen on the return journey.

On the 19th we were not able to move until 8.80 P.M., when the wind, which had been blowing with the force of a gale, subsided. During the afternoon a magnificent view of the Helen Glacier was obtained, and in the west we could see Haswell Island and Drygalski Island.

Continuing on the same course, throughout the following day, we picked up the hut with the binoculars at 5 P.M. There now came a quick descent to Junction Corner.

On the lower levels there was clear evidence of thawing having occurred. The firm surface of snow which had been present on the outward journey was now converted into rough ice, over which we walked painfully in finnesko. Neve and ice surfaces were covered with sharp spicules, and the sides and bridges of crevasses were unmistakably thawed.

Leaving Junction Corner at 6 A.M., we steered a course for the hut, running parallel to the edge of the glacier. At 3 P.M. the mast was sighted, and, later, the hut itself. When within half a mile of "The Grottoes" we saw three figures on the floe and guessed that the eastern party had returned. In a few minutes greetings were heartily exchanged and they had welcomed us home.

Instructions had been given that the Western Base should be in readiness to embark on the 'Aurora' not later than January 30, 1913.

When Wild's party had arrived, preparations for departure were immediately made. Geological and biological collections were packed, stores were sorted out and cases containing personal gear were sledged to the edge of the glacier.

Harrisson contrived a winch for sounding and fishing. Fourteen-gauge copper wire was wound on it and, through a crack in the sea-ice a quarter of a mile from the glacier, bottom was reached in two hundred and sixty fathoms. As the water was too deep for dredging, Harrisson manufactured cage-traps and secured some fish, a squid, and other specimens.

At this time there was abundant evidence of life. Skua gulls frequently flew about the hut, as well as Cape pigeons, Antarctic, snow, Wilson, giant and silver-grey petrels. Out on the sea-ice, there were Adelie and Emperor penguins; the latter moulting. Hundreds of seals were seen with glasses on the edge of the floe, ten miles to the north.

On the whole, January was a very fine month. Some of the days seemed really hot; the shade temperature on one occasion reaching 37 degrees F., and, in several instances, 33 degrees F. It was quite a common thing for a man to work outside in loose, light garments; in fact, with nothing more than a singlet on the upper part of the body.

On January 26, while Kennedy took observations, Wild and the others went for a walk towards the open water. The surface was very rough and broken by leads, along which Weddell seals lay in great numbers. Three miles of ice were found to have drifted out, reducing the northern expanse to seven miles.

In view of the possibility of the 'Aurora' not relieving them, the party went through their food-supplies, finding that these were sufficient for another year, with the exception of meat. With regard to coal, two tons of briquettes remained, which, augmented by good stock of seal-blubber, would provide sufficient fuel.

Laying in a store of seals' flesh and blubber now became the principal work, and every fine day saw a party out with a sledge. Unfortunately, the nearest crack on the sea-ice was nearly two miles away, so that the return journey, with a heavily laden sledge, was long and tedious. Two holes were dug in the glacier near the hut, one for blubber and the other for meat.

On January 31 six miles of sea-ice still remained, and, if the ship had arrived to time, a good deal of sledging would have been required to transport all the gear aboard.

In February, the weather altered for the worse, and there was not a single fine day until the 20th. A strong east-southeast wind with falling snow prevailed. As the days were shortening rapidly, all were beginning to feel anxious about the 'Aurora'.

Wild erected a flagstaff on the highest ice-pinnacle near "The Grottoes" and flew a large flag on it whenever the wind moderated. On the 16th, a lamp-screen and reflector were fitted at the mast-head and each night a hurricane lamp was placed there, which could be seen eight miles with the naked eye.

On the 20th Dovers and Wild made a large signboard, taking it out to a prominent point on the glacier, three and a half miles to the north. It was lashed to a bamboo pole with a flag flying on it. The open water was then only three miles distant.

Wild writes:

"The 22nd February was the anniversary of the day the 'Aurora' left us, but the weather was very different. A heavy blizzard was raging, the wind's velocity ranging up to eighty miles per hour. As it was Saturday, we kept the usual routine, scrubbing out and cleaning up the hut. We could not help speculating as to whether we should have to do it for another whole year. But every one had great faith in 'good old Davis,' and nobody was at all downhearted.

"When we 'turned out' on Sunday there was still a strong wind and drift, but this died away to a light breeze before breakfast was over, and the sun came out. I had a look round with the glasses and saw that the ice had broken away beyond a limit of one and a half miles. As there was a sledge, which Harrisson had been using for sounding, within a few yards of the water's edge, Jones and I went off to bring it in. We had gone less than half a mile when we saw what at first appeared to be a penguin, standing on some pack-ice in the distance, but which we soon saw was the mast-head of the 'Aurora'.

"It was evident that she could not be alongside for some time, so Jones went back to the hut to tell the others to bring down a load of gear, and I went on to meet the ship. Before the 'Aurora' had reached the fast ice, all the party were down with two sledge loads, having covered the mile and a half in record time.

"We were all anxious, of course, for news, and the first we received was the sad account of the deaths of Ninnis and Mertz; then of the wonderful march made by Dr. Mawson.

"Before closing, I should like to pay a tribute to the good-fellowship, unfailing industry, enthusiasm and unswerving loyalty which characterized my comrades. During the whole of the Expedition, whether carrying out monotonous routine work at the Base or under the trying conditions of sledging, all duties were performed with never-failing good temper and perseverance.

"Should it ever be my lot to venture on a like expedition I hope to have some, if not all, of the same party with me. But whether we meet again or not, I shall always think of every man of them with the greatest affection and respect."



CHAPTER XXIII A SECOND WINTER

During the first busy year in Adelie Land, when the Hut was full of life and work, there were few moments for reflection. Yet, over the speculative pipe at home after a successful day's labour on the wireless masts, or out on the turbulent plateau when the hour of hoosh brought the strenuous day to a close, more than one man was heard to say, "One year in this country is enough for me." Still, in the early days, no one could predict what would happen, and therefore a change in the perverse climate was always considered probable. So great was the emulation, and so keen were all to extend our geographical boundaries, that the year sped away almost before the meagre opportunity came. With the cheery support of numbers, we did not find it a difficult matter "to drive dull care away."

Now there were only seven of us; we knew what was ahead; the weather had already given ample proof of the early approach of winter; the field of work which once stretched to the west, east and south had no longer the mystery of the "unknown"; the Ship had gone and there was scant hope of relief in March.

Against all this. There remained the Hut—a proven shelter from the wind; and, most vital of all, there was abundant food for another year. Every avenue of scientific work was not yet closed. Even the routine of meteorological and magnetic work was adding in no slight degree to the sum of human knowledge. Our short mile of rocks still held some geological secrets, and there were biological discoveries yet to make. A wireless telegraphic station had at last been established, and we could confidently expect communication with the outside world at an early date. These were some of the obvious assurances which no one had the heart to think about at first; and then there was always our comradeship, most enduring of all.

February, during 1912, was a tolerable month with a fair proportion of sunny, moderately calm days. A year later, the first eight days of this month were signalized by the blizzard in which the 'Aurora' had such a perilous experience. While the winter began in 1912 with the advent of March, now in 1913 it came on definitely in early February. Autumn was a term which applied to a few brilliant days which would suddenly intervene in the dense rack of drift-snow.

We set to work to make the Hut, if anything, safer and snugger. Bage put finishing touches to the break-wind of rock and cases, and with Hodgeman and McLean nailed battens of wood over a large sheet of canvas which had been stretched across the windward side of the roof, overlapping rolls of black paper, scraps of canvas and bagging, which were also battened down to make the eastern and western faces more air-tight.

Before the Ship left us, the remaining coal briquettes had been dug out of a bed of ice and carefully piled on a high point of the rocks. Round them all the spare timber and broken cases were gathered to provide sufficient fuel for the ensuing winter. The penguins' eggs, which had been stored in boxes, were stacked together on the windward side of the Hut, and a choice selection of steaks of seal and penguin for our own use were at the storeman's disposal in the veranda.

Madigan, in addition to his meteorological duties, took charge of the new sledging-dogs which had been presented by Captain Amundsen. A good many seals had been already killed, and a big cache of meat and blubber was made alongside the Hut to last throughout the winter.

Bickerton found many odd jobs to occupy his time in connexion with the petrol-engine and the wireless installations. He was also busied with the anemometer, which had broken down and needed a strong start for its second year of usefulness.

Bage, following the parting instructions of Webb, became the owner of the Magnetograph House and the Absolute Hut, continuing to keep the magnetic records. As storeman, Bage looked after the food-supplies. The canvas coverings had made the veranda drift-tight, so the storeman could arrange his tins and cases on the shelves with some degree of comfort, and the daily task of shovelling out snow was now at an end. Further, Hodgeman and he built an annex out of spare timber to connect the entrance veranda with the store. This replaced the old snow-tunnel which had melted away, and, when completed and padded outside with old mattresses, was facetiously styled the "North-West Passage." The only thing which later arose to disturb the composure of the storeman was the admission of the dogs to a compartment in the veranda on the eastern side. His constant care then became a heap of mutton carcases which the dogs in passing or during the occasional escapades from their shelter were always eager to attack.

Hodgeman helped to change the appearance of the living-hut by cutting the table in two and, since there was now plenty of room, by putting in more shelves for a larder on which the storeman displayed his inviting wares to the cook, who could think of nothing original for the next meal.

McLean undertook the duties of ice-cutting and coal-carrying throughout the year, kept the biological log and assisted in general observations. He also sent off sealed messages in bottles, regularly, on the chance of their being picked up on the high seas, thereby giving some indication of the direction of currents.

Jeffryes was occupied regularly every night listening attentively for wireless signals and calling at intervals. The continuous winds soon caused many of the wire stays of the main wireless mast to become slack, and these Jeffryes pulled taut on his daily rounds.

Looking back and forward, we could not but feel that the sledging programme of the previous summer had been so comprehensive that the broad features of the land were ascertained over a wide radius; beyond what we, with our weakened resources of the second year, could reach. The various observations we were carrying on were adding to the value of the scientific results, but we could not help feeling disappointed that our lot was not cast in a new and more clement region.

It was to be a dreary and difficult time for the five men who had volunteered to remain behind in order to make a thorough search for myself and comrades. They were men whom I had learned to appreciate during the first year, and I now saw their sterling characters in a new light. To Jeffryes all was fresh, and we envied him the novelties of a new world, rough and inhospitable though it was. As for me, it was sufficient to feel that

...He that tossed thee down into the Field, He knows about it all—He knows, He knows.

On the night of February 15, Jeffryes suddenly surprised us with the exciting intelligence that he had heard Macquarie Island send a coded weather report to Hobart. The engine was immediately set going, but though repeated attempts were made, no answer could be elicited. Each night darkness was more pronounced and signals became more distinct, until, on the 20th, our call reached Sawyer at Macquarie Island, who immediately responded by saying "Good evening." The insulation of a Leyden jar broke down at this point, and nothing more could be done until it was remedied.

At last, on February 21, signals were exchanged, and by the 23rd a message had been dispatched to Lord Denman, Governor-General of the Commonwealth, acquainting him with our situation and the loss of our comrades and, through him, one to his Majesty the King requesting his royal permission to name a tract of newly discovered country to the east, "King George V Land." Special messages were also sent to the relatives of Lieutenant B. E. S. Ninnis and Dr. X. Mertz.

The first news received from the outside world was the bare statement that Captain Scott and four of his companions had perished on their journey to the South Pole. It was some time before we knew the tragic details which came home, direct and poignant, to us in Adelie Land.

To Professor David a fuller account of our own calamity was sent and, following this, many kind messages of sympathy and congratulation were received from all over the world. On February 26 Lord Denman sent an acknowledgment of our message to him, expressing his sorrow at the loss of our two companions; and on March 7 his Majesty the King added his gracious sympathy, with permission to affix the name, King George V Land, to that part of the Antarctic continent lying between Adelie Land and Oates Land.

On February 23 there was a spell of dead calm; heavy nimbus clouds and fog lowering over sea and plateau. Fluffy grains of sago snow fell most of the day, covering the dark rocks and the blue glacier. A heaving swell came in from the north, and many seals landed within the boat harbour, where a high tide lapped over the ice-foot. The bergs and islands showed pale and shadowy as the snow ceased or the fog lifted. Then the wind arose and blew hard from the east-south-east for a day, swinging round with added force to its old quarter—south-by-east.

March began in earnest with much snow and monotonous days of wind. By contrast, a few hours of sunny calm were appreciated to the full. The face of the landscape changed; the rocky crevices filling flush with the low mounds of snow which trailed along and off the ridges.

On March 16 every one was relieved to hear that the 'Aurora' had arrived safely in Hobart, and that Wild and his party were all well. But the news brought disappointment too, for we had always a lingering ray of hope that there might be sufficient coal to bring the vessel back to Adelie Land. Later on we learned that on account of the shortage of funds the Ship was to be laid up at Hobart until the following summer. In the meantime, Professors David and Masson were making every effort to raise the necessary money. In this they were assisted by Captain Davis, who went to London to obtain additional donations.

It was now a common thing for those of us who had gone to bed before midnight to wake up in the morning and find that quite a budget of wireless messages had been received. It took the place of a morning paper and we made the most of the intelligence, discussing it from every possible point of view. Jeffryes and Bickerton worked every night from 8 P.M. until 1 A.M., calling at short intervals and listening attentively at the receiver. In fact, notes were kept of the intensity of the signals, the presence of local atmospheric electrical discharges—"static"—or intermittent sounds due to discharges from snow particles—St. Elmo's fire—and, lastly, of interference in the signals transmitted. The latter phenomenon should lead to interesting deductions, for we had frequent evidence to show that the wireless waves were greatly impeded or completely abolished during times of auroral activity.

Listening at the wireless receiver must have been very tedious and nerve-racking work, as so many adventitious sounds had to be neglected. There was, first of all, the noise of the wind as it swept by the Hut; then there was the occasional crackling of "St. Elmo's fire"; the dogs in the veranda shelter were not always remarkable for their quietness; while within the Hut it was impossible to avoid slight sounds which were often sufficient to interrupt the sequence of a message. At times, when the aurora was visible, signals would often die away, and the only alternative was to wait until they recurred, meanwhile keeping up calls at regular intervals in case the ether was not "blocked." So Jeffryes would sometimes spend the whole evening trying to transmit a single message, or, conversely, trying to receive one. By experience it was found easier to transmit and receive wireless messages between certain hours in the evening, while not infrequently, during the winter months, a whole week would go by and nothing could be done. During such a period auroral displays were usually of nightly occurrence. Then a "freak night" would come along and business would be brisk at both terminals.

It was often possible for Jeffryes to "hear" Wellington, Sydney, Melbourne and Hobart, and once he managed to communicate directly with the last-named. Then there were numerous ships passing along the southern shores of Australia or in the vicinity of New Zealand whose "calls" were audible on "good nights." The warships were at times particularly distinct, and occasionally the "chatter in the ether" was so confusing that Sawyer, at Macquarie Island, would signal that he was "jammed."

The "wireless" gave us another interest in life, and plenty of outside occupation when the stays became loose or an accident occurred. It served to relieve some of the tedium of that second year:

Day after day the same Only a little worse.

On March 13 there was a tremendous fall of snow, and worst "pea-souper" we had had during the previous year. Next day everything was deluged, and right up the glacier there were two-foot drifts, despite a sixty-mile wind.

It was very interesting to follow the changes which occurred from day to day. First of all, under the flail of the incessant wind, a crust would form on the surface of the snow of the type we knew as "piecrust," when out sledging. It was never strong enough to bear a man, but the sledge-runners would clear it fairly well if the load were not too heavy. Next day the crust would be etched, and small flakes and pellets would be carried away until the snow was like fleece. Assuming that the wind kept up (which it always did) long, shallow concavities would now be scooped out as the "lobules" of the fleece were carried away piecemeal. These concavities became deeper, hour by hour and day by day, becoming at last the troughs between the crests of the snow-waves or sastrugi. All this time the surface would be gradually hardening and, if the sun chanced to shine for even a few hours every day, a shining glaze would gradually form on the long, bevelled mounds. It was never a wise thing to walk on these polished areas in finnesko and this fact was always learnt by experience.

Above the Hut, where the icy slopes fell quickly to the sea, the snow would lie for a few days at the very most, but, lower down, where the glacier ran almost level for a short distance to the harbour ice, the drifts would lie for months at the mercy of the wind, furrowed and cut into miniature canyons; wearing away in fragments until the blue ice showed once more, clear and wind-swept.

Towards the end of March the wind gave a few exhibitions of its power, which did not augur well for the maximum periods of the winter. A few diary jottings are enough to show this:

"March 23. During the previous night the wind steadily rose to an eighty-mile 'touch' and upwards. It was one of those days when it is a perpetual worry to be outside.

"March 24. Doing at least seventy miles per hour during the morning. About 8 P.M. there was a temporary lull and a rise of.15 in the barometer. Now, 9.30 P.M., it is going 'big guns.' The drift is fairly thick and snow is probably falling.

"March 25. Much the same as yesterday.

"March 28. In a seventy-five-mile wind, Hodgeman had several fingers frost-bitten this morning while attending to the anemograph.

"March 29. It was quite sunny when we opened the trap-door, though it blew about sixty miles per hour with light drift.

"March 30. The wind is doing itself full justice. About 8 P.M. it ranged between ninety-five and one hundred miles per hour, and now the whole hut is tremulous and the stove-pipe vibrates so that the two large pots on the stove rattle."

At the beginning of April, McLean laid the foundations of The Adelie Blizzard which recorded our life for the next seven months. It was a monthly publication, and contributions were invited from all on every subject but the wind. Anything from light doggerel to heavy blank verse was welcomed, and original articles, letters to the Editor, plays, reviews on books and serial stories were accepted within the limits of our supply of foolscap paper and type-writer ribbons.

/ / THE ADELIE BLIZZARD / Registered at the General Plateau Office / / for transmission by wind as a newspaper / -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- CONTENTS o-o-o-o- Editorial.............................. Page 1 Southern Sledging Song................. " 2 A Phantasm of the Snow................. " 3 The Romance of Exploration First Crossing of Greenland (Nansen). " 8 Ode to Tobacco.......................... " 10 Punch, the dinner epilogue.............. " 11 To the Editor........................... " 12 Scott's British Antarctic Expedition.... " 13 Statics and Antarctics.................. " 14 Wireless the realization............... " 16 Birth's, Deaths and Marriages........... " 17 The Evolution of Women.................. " 18 A Concise Narrative..................... " 21 The Daylight Proposition................ " 23 Meteorological and Magnetic Notes....... " 24 Calendar Rhymes......................... " 25 Answers to Correspondents............... " 26 o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- VOL-I No. I April, 1913

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

It was the first Antarctic publication which could boast a real cable column of news of the day. Extracts from the April number were read after dinner one evening and excited much amusement. An "Ode to Tobacco" was very popular, and seemed to voice the enthusiasm of our small community, while "The Evolution of Women" introduced us to a once-familiar subject. The Editor was later admitted by wireless to the Journalists' Association (Sydney).

Many have asked the question, "What did you do to fill in the time during the second year?"

The duties of cook and night-watchman came to each man once every week, and meteorological and magnetic observations went on daily. Then we were able to devote a good deal of time to working up the scientific work accomplished during the sledging journeys. The wireless watches kept two men well occupied, and in spare moments the chief recreation was reading. There was a fine supply of illustrated journals and periodicals which had arrived by the 'Aurora', and with papers like the 'Daily Graphic', 'Illustrated London News', 'Sphere' and 'Punch', we tried to make up the arrears of a year in exile. The "Encyclopaedia Britannica" was a great boon, being always "the last word" in the settlement of a debated point. Chess and cards were played on several occasions. Again, whenever the weather gave the smallest opportunity, there were jobs outside, digging for cases, attending to the wireless mast and, in the spring, geological collecting and dredging. If the air was clear of drift, and the wind not over fifty miles per hour, one could spend a pleasant hour or more walking along the shore watching the birds and noting the changes in "scenery" which were always occurring along our short "selection" of rocks. During 1912 we had been able to study all the typical features of our novel and beautiful environment, but 1913 was the period of "intensive cultivation" and we would have gladly forgone much of it. Divine service was usually held on Sunday mornings, but in place of it we sometimes sang hymns during the evening, or arranged a programme of sacred selections on the gramophone. There was a great loss in our singing volume after the previous year, which Hodgeman endeavoured to remedy by striking up an accompaniment on the organ.

Cooking reached its acme, according to our standard, and each man became remarkable for some particular dish. Bage was the exponent of steam puddings of every variety, and Madigan could always be relied upon for an unfailing batch of puff-pastry. Bickerton once started out with the object of cooking a ginger pudding, and in an unguarded moment used mixed spices instead of ginger. The result was rather appetizing, and "mixed-spice pudding" was added to an original list. McLean specialized in yeast waffles, having acquired the art of tossing pancakes. Jeffryes had come on the scene with a limited experience, but his first milk scones gained him a reputation which he managed to make good. Hodgeman fell back on the cookery book before embarking on the task of preparing dinner, but the end-product, so to speak, which might be invariably expected for "sweets" was tapioca pudding. Penguin meat had always been in favour. Now special care was devoted to seal meat, and, after a while, mainly owing to the rather copious use of onion powder, no one could say for certain which was which.

During the previous year, yeast had been cultivated successfully from Russian stout. The experiments were continued, and all available information was gathered from cookery books and the Encyclopaedia. Russian stout, barley wine, apple rings, sugar, flour and mould from potatoes were used in several mixtures and eventually fermentation was started. Bread-making was the next difficulty, and various instructions were tried in succession. The method of "trial and error" was at last responsible for the first light spongy loaf, and then every night-watchman cultivated the art and baked for the ensuing day.

On April 8 the snow had gathered deeply everywhere and we had some exercise on skis. Several of the morainic areas were no longer visible, and it was possible to run between the rocks for a considerable distance. A fresh breeze came up during the afternoon and provided a splendid impetus for some good slides. During the short calm, twenty-six seals landed on the harbour-ice.

On the morning of the same day Mary gave birth to five pups in the Transit House. The place was full of cracks, through which snow and wind were always driving, and so we were not surprised when four of them were found to have died. The survivor was named "Hoyle" (a cognomen for our old friend Hurley) and his doings gave us a new fund of entertainment.

The other dogs had been penned in the veranda and in tolerable weather were brought outside to be fed. Carrying an axe, Madigan usually went down to the boat harbour, followed by the expectant pack, to where there were several seal carcases. These lay immovably frozen to the ice, and were cut about and hacked so that the meat in section reminded one of the grain of a log of red gum, and it was certainly quite as hard. When Madigan commenced to chop, the dogs would range themselves on the lee side and "field" the flying chips.

On April 16 the last penguin was seen on a ledge overhanging an icy cove to the east. Apparently its moulting time had not expired, but it was certainly a very miserable bird, smothered in small icicles and snow and partly exposed to a sixty-five mile wind with the temperature close to -10 degrees F. Petrels were often seen flying along the foreshores and no wind appeared to daunt them. It was certainly a remarkable thing to witness a snow-petrel, small, light and fragile, making headway over the sea in the face of an eighty-mile hurricane, fluttering down through the spindrift to pick up a morsel of food which it had detected. Close to the western cliffs there was a trail of brash-ice where many birds were often observed feeding on Euphausia (crustaceans) in weather when it scarcely seemed possible for any living creature to be abroad.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

The meteorological chart for April 12, 1913, compiled by the Commonwealth Meteorological Bureau

Mr. Hunt appends the following explanation: "A very intense cyclone passing south of Macquarie Island, where the barometer fell on the 11th from 29.49 at 9 A.M. to 29.13 at 6 P.M., and the next day to 28.34 at 9 A.M. and 27.91 at 6 P.M. At Adelie Land the barometer was not greatly affected, but rose in sympathy with the passage of the 'low' from 28.70 to 28.90 during the twenty-four hours. The influence of this cyclone was very wide and probably embraced both Adelie Land and Tasmania."



Throughout April news by wireless came in slowly and spasmodically, and Jeffryes was becoming resigned to the eccentricities of the place. As an example of the unfavourable conditions which sometimes prevailed: on April 14 the wind was steady, in the nineties, with light drift and, at times, the aurora would illumine the north-west sky. Still, during "quiet" intervals, two messages came through and were acknowledged.

A coded weather report, which had priority over all other messages, was sent out each night, and it is surprising how often Jeffryes managed to transmit this important intelligence. On evenings when receiving was an impossibility, owing to a continual stream of St. Elmo's fire, the three code words for the barometric reading, the velocity and direction of the wind were signalled repeatedly and, on the following night, perhaps, Macquarie Island would acknowledge them. Of course we had to use new signs for the higher wind velocities, as no provision had been made for them in our meteorological code-book. The reports from Macquarie Island and Adelie Land were communicated to Mr. Hunt of the Commonwealth Weather Bureau and to Mr. Bates of the Dominion Meteorological Office, who plotted them out for their daily weather forecasts.

It was very gratifying to learn that the Macquarie Island party to a man had consented to remain at their lonely post and from Ainsworth, their leader, I received a brief report of the work which had been accomplished by each member. We all could appreciate the sacrifice they were making. Then, too, an account was received of the great sledging efforts which had been made by Wild and his men to the west. But it was not till the end of the year that their adventurous story was related to us in detail.

On the 23rd Lassie, one of the dogs, was badly wounded in a fight and had to be shot. Quarrels amongst the dogs had to be quelled immediately, otherwise they would probably mean the death of some unfortunate animal which happened to be thrown down amongst the pack. Whenever a dog was down, it was the way of these brutes to attack him irrespective of whether they were friends or foes.

Among our dogs there were several groups whose members always consorted together. Thus, George and Lassie were friends and, when the latter was killed, George, who was naturally a miserable, downtrodden creature, became a kind of pariah, morose and solitary and at war with all except Peary and Fix, with whom he and Lassie had been associated in fights against the rest. The other dogs lived together in some kind of harmony, Jack and Amundsen standing out as particular chums, while the "pups," as we called them—D'Urville, Ross and Wilkes ("Monkey")—were a trio born in Adelie Land and, therefore, comrades in misfortune. Hoyle, as a pup, was treated benevolently by all the others, and entered the fellowship of the other three when he grew up. Among the rest, Mikkel stood out as a good fighter, Colonel as the biggest dog and ringleader against the Peary-Fix faction, Fram as a nervous intractable animal, and Mary as the sole representative of the sex.

It was remarkable that Peary, Fix and George in their hatred of the others, who were penned up in the dog shelter during bad weather, would absent themselves for days on a snow ramp near the Magnetograph House, where they were partly protected from the wind by rocks. George, from being a mere associate of Peary and Fix, became more amiable as the year went by, and at times it was quite pathetic to see his attempts at friendliness.

We became very fond of the dogs despite their habit of howling at night and their wolfish ferocity. They always gave one a welcome, in drift or sunshine, and though ruled by the law of force, they had a few domestic traits to make them civilized.

May was a dreaded month because it had been the period of worst wind and drift during 1912. On this occasion the wind velocities over four weeks were not so high and constant, though the snowfall was just as persistent. On the 17th and 18th, however, there was an unexpected "jump" to the nineties. The average over the first twenty-four hours was eighty-three, and on the 18th it attained 93.7 miles per hour. One terrific rise between 6.30 and 7.30 on the night of the 17th was shown as one hundred and three miles on the anemometer—the record up to that time.

Madigan was thrown over and had a hard fall on his arm, smashing a bottle of the special ink which was used for the anemograph pen. Bage related how he had sailed across the Magnetic Flat by sitting down and raising his arms in the air. He was accompanied by Fix, Peary and George, who were blown along the slippery surface for yards. McLean had a "lively time" cutting ice and bringing in the big blocks. Often he would slide away with a large piece, and "pull up" on a snow patch twenty yards to leeward.

On the 22nd there were hours of gusts which came down like thunderbolts, making us apprehensive for the safety of the wireless masts; we had grown to trust the stability of the Hut. Every one who went outside came back with a few experiences. Jeffryes was roughly handled through not wearing crampons, and several cases of kerosene, firmly stacked on the break-wind, were dislodged and thrown several yards.

Empire Day was celebrated in Adelie Land with a small display. At 2.30 P.M. the Union Jack was hoisted to the topmast and three cheers were given for the King. The wind blew at fifty miles an hour with light drift, temperature -3 degrees F. Empire greetings were sent to the Colonial Secretary, London, and to Mr Fisher, Prime Minister of Australia. These were warmly reciprocated a few days afterwards.

Preceded by a day of whirlies on the 7th and random gusts on the same evening, the wind made a determined attack next morning and carried away the top and part of the middle section of the main wireless mast. It was a very unexpected event, lulled as we were into security by the fact that May, the worst month, had passed. On examination it was found that two of the topmast wire stays had chafed through, whilst another had parted. At first it seemed a hopeless task to re-erect the mast, but gradually ways and means were discussed, and we waited for the first calm day to put the theories into execution.

Meanwhile, it was suggested that if a heavy kite were made and induced to fly in the continuous winds, the aerial thus provided would be sufficient to receive wireless messages. To this end, Bage and Bickerton set to work, and the first invention was a Venesta-box kite which was tried in a steady seventy-mile wind. Despite its weight,—at least ten pounds —the kite rose immediately, steadied by guys on either side, and then suddenly descended with a crash on to the glacier ice. After the third fall the kite was too battered to be of any further use. Another device, in which an empty carbide tin was employed, and still another, making use of an old propeller, shared the same fate.

On the evening of the 19th a perfect coloured corona, three degrees in diameter, was observed encircling the moon in a sky which lit up at intervals with dancing auroral curtains. Coronae or "glories," which closely invest the luminary, are due to diffraction owing to immense numbers of very minute water or ice particles floating in the air between the observer and the source of light. The larger the particles the smaller the corona, so that by a measurement of the diameter of a corona the size of the particles can be calculated. Earlier in the year, a double corona had been seen when the moon was shining through cirro-cumulus clouds. Haloes, on the other hand, are wide circles (or arcs of circles) in the sky surrounding the sun or moon, and arising from light-refraction in myriads of tiny ice-crystals suspended in the atmosphere. They were very commonly noted in Adelie Land where the conditions were so ideal for their production.

Midwinter's Day 1913! we had reached a turning-point in the season. The Astronomer Royal told us that at eight o'clock on June 22 the sun commenced to return, and every one took note of the fact. The sky was overcast, the air surcharged with drifting snow, and the wind was forty miles an hour—a representative day as far as the climate was concerned. The cook made a special effort and the menu bore the following foreword:

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer....

On July 6 the wind moderated, and we set about repairing once more the fortunes of the "wireless." The shattered topmast used to sway about in the heavy winds, threatening to bring down the rest of the mast. Bickerton, therefore, climbed up with a saw and cut it almost through above the doubling. All hands then pulled hard, and the upper part cracked off, the lower section being easily removed from the cross-trees. The mast now looked "shipshape" and ready for future improvements.

It was decided to use as a topmast the mast which had been formerly employed to support the northern half of the aerial. So on the 29th this was lowered and removed to the veranda to be fitted for erection.

Almost a fortnight now elapsed, during which the weather was "impossible." In fact, the wind was frightful throughout the whole month of July, surpassing all its previous records and wearing out our much-tried patience. All that one could do was to work on and try grimly to ignore it. On July 2 we noted: "Thick as a wall outside with an eighty-five miler." And so it commenced and continued for a day, subsiding slowly through the seventies to the fifties and then suddenly redoubling in strength, rose to a climax about midnight on the 5th—one hundred and sixteen miles an hour! For eight hours it maintained an average of one hundred and seven miles an hour, and the timbers of the Hut seemed to be jarred and wrenched as the wind throbbed in its mightier gusts. These were the highest wind-velocities recorded during our two years' residence in Adelie Land and are probably the highest sustained velocities ever reported from a meteorological station.

With the exception of a few Antarctic and snow petrels flying over the sea on the calmer days, no life had been seen round the Hut during June. So it was with some surprise that we sighted a Weddell seal on July 9 attempting to land on the harbour-ice in a seventy-five-mile wind. Several times it clambered over the edge and on turning broadside to the wind was actually tumbled back into the water. Eventually it struggled into the lee of some icy hummocks, but only remained there for a few minutes, deciding that the water was much warmer.

On the 11th there was an exceptionally low barometer at 27.794 inches. At the same time the wind ran riot once more—two hundred and ninety-eight miles in three hours. The highest barometric reading was recorded on September 3, 30.4 inches, and the comparison indicates a wide range for a station at sea-level.

To show how quickly conditions would change, it was almost calm next morning, and all hands were in readiness to advance the wireless mast another stage. Previously there had been three masts, one high one in three lengths, and two smaller ones of one length each, between which the aerial stretched; the "lead-in" wires being connected to the middle of the aerial. This is known as an "umbrella aerial." Since we were without one short mast it was resolved to erect a "directive" [capital gamma gjc]-shaped aerial. The mainmast was to be in two instead of three lengths, and we wondered if the aerial would be high enough. In any case, it was so calm early on the 11th that we ventured to erect the topmast and had hauled it half-way, when the wind swooped down from the plateau, and there was just time to make fast the stays and the hauling rope and to leave things "snug" for the next spell of bad weather.

In eight days another opportunity came, and this time the topmast was hoisted, wedged and securely stayed. Bickerton had fixed a long bolt through the middle of the topmast and just above it three additional wire stays were to be placed. Another fine day and we reckoned to finish the work.

From July 26 onwards the sky was cloudless for a week, and each day the northern sun would rise a fraction of a degree higher. The wind was very constant and of high velocity.

It was a grand sight to witness the sea in a hurricane on a driftless, clear day. Crouched under a rock on Azimuth Hill, and looking across to the west along the curving brink of the cliffs, one could watch the water close inshore blacken under the lash of the wind, whiten into foam farther off, and then disappear into the hurrying clouds of spray and sea-smoke. Over the Mackellar Islets and the "Pianoforte Berg" columns of spray would shoot up like geysers, and fly away in the mad race to the north.

Early in July Jeffryes became ill, and for some weeks his symptoms were such as to give every one much anxiety. His work on the wireless had been assiduous at all times, and there is no doubt that the continual and acute strain of sending and receiving messages under unprecedented conditions was such that he eventually had a "nervous breakdown." Unfortunately the weather was so atrocious, and the conditions under which we were placed so peculiarly difficult, that nothing could be done to brighten his prospects. McLean considered that as the spring returned and it became possible to take more exercise outside, the nervous exhaustion would pass off. In the meantime Jeffryes took a complete rest, and slowly improved as the months went by, and our hopes of relief came nearer. It was a great misfortune for our comrade, especially as it was his first experience of such a climate, and he had applied himself to work with enthusiasm and perhaps in an over-conscientious spirit.

July concluded its stormy career with the astonishing wind-average of 63.6 miles an hour. We were all relieved to see Friday, August 1, appear on the modest calendar, which it was the particular pleasure of each night-watchman to change. More light filtered day by day through the ice on the kitchen window, midwinter lay behind, and we were ready to hail the first signs of returning spring.



CHAPTER XXIV NEARING THE END

Seven men from all the world, back to town again, Seven men from out of hell. Kipling

It is wonderful how quickly the weeks seemed to pass. Situated as we were, Time became quite an object of study to us and its imperceptible drift was almost a reality, considering that each day was another step towards liberty—freedom from the tyranny of the wind. In a sense, the endless surge of the blizzard was a slow form of torture, and the subtle effect it had on the mind was measurable in the delight with which one greeted a calm, fine morning, or noted some insignificant fact which bespoke the approach of a milder season. Thus in August, although the weather was colder, there were the merest signs of thawing along the edges of the snow packed against the rocky faces which looked towards the sun; Weddell seals came back to the land, and the petrels would at times appear in large flocks; all of which are very commonplace events which any one might have expected, but at the time they had more than their face value.

August 5 was undoubtedly a great day from our very provincial point of view. On the 4th there had been a dense drift, during which the Hut was buttressed round with soft snow which rose above the eaves and half filled the entrance-veranda. The only way in which the night-watchman could keep the hourly observations was to dig his way out frequently with a shovel. In the early morning hours of the 5th the wind abated and veered right round from south through east to north-east, from which quarter it remained as a fresh breeze with falling snow. By 7 A.M. the air was still, and outside there was a dead world of whiteness; flocculent heaps of down rolling up to where glimpses of rock streaked black near the skyline of the ridges, striated masses of livid cloud overhead, and to the horizon the dark berg-strewn sea, over which the snow birds fluttered.

We did not linger over the scenery, but set to work to hoist to the head of the mainmast the aerial, which had been hurriedly put together. The job occupied till lunch-time, and then a jury-mast was fixed to the southern supporting mast, and by dusk the aerial hung in position. Bickerton was the leading spirit in the work and subsequently steadied the mainmast with eighteen wire stays, in the determination to make it stable enough to weather the worst hurricane. The attempt was so successful that in an ordinary fifty-mile "blow" the mast vibrated slightly, and in higher winds exhibited the smallest degree of movement.

At eight o'clock that night, Jeffryes, who felt so benefited by his rest that he was eager to commence operating once more, had soon "attuned" his instrument to Macquarie Island, and in a few minutes communication was reestablished.

We learned from the Governor-General, Lord Denman, that her Majesty the Queen was "graciously pleased to consent to the name 'Queen Mary Land' being given to newly discovered land." The message referred to the tract of Antarctic coast which had been discovered and mapped by Wild and his party to the west.

On August 6 Macquarie Island signalled that they had run short of provisions. The message was rather a paradox: " Food done, but otherwise all right." However, on August 11, we were reassured to hear that the 'Tutanekai', a New Zealand Government steamer, had been commissioned to relieve the party, and that Sawyer through ill-health had been obliged to return to Australia. A sealing-ship, the 'Rachel Cohen', after battling for almost the whole month of July against gales, in an endeavour to reach the island, with stores for our party and the sealers, had returned damaged to port.

Marvellous to relate we had two calm days in succession, and on the 6th the snow lay so deeply round the Hut that progression without skis was a laborious flounder. The dogs plunged about in great glee, rolling in the snow and "playing off" their surplus energy after being penned for a long spell in the shelter.

On skis one could push up the first slopes of the glacier for a long distance. Soft snow had settled two feet thick even on the steep icy downfalls. The sea to the north was frozen into large cakes between which ran a network of dark water "leads." With glasses we could make out in the near distance five seals and two tall solitary figures which were doubtless Emperor penguins. During the whole day nimbus clouds had hung heavily from the sky, and snow had fallen in grains and star-like crystals. Gradually the nimbus lightened, a rift appeared overhead, and,the edges of the billowy cumulus were burnished in the light of the low sun. The sea-horizon came sharply into sight through fading mist. Bergs and islands, from being ghostly images, rose into sharp-featured reality. The masts and Hut, with a dark riband of smoke floating from the chimney, lay just below, and two of the men were walking out to the harbour-ice where a seal had just landed, while round them scampered the dogs in high spirits. That was sufficient to set us sliding downhill, ploughing deep furrows through the soft drift and reaching the Hut in quick time.

During August we were able to do more work outside, thus enlarging our sphere of interest. Bage, who had been busy up till August 8 with his daily magnetograph records, ran short of bromide papers and now had to be contented with taking "quick runs" at intervals, especially when the aurora was active. His astronomical observations had been very disappointing owing to the continuous wind and drift. Still, in September, which was marked by periods of fine weather, a few good star observations were possible. Shafts were sunk in the sea-ice and up on the glacier, just above the zone where the ice was loaded with stones and debris—the lower moraine. The glacier shaft was dug to a depth of twenty-four feet, and several erratics were met with embedded in the ice. In this particular part the crystalline structure of the ice resembled that of a gneiss, showing that it had flowed under pressure. I was able to make measurements of ablation on the glacier, to take observations of the temperature and salinity of the sea-water, and to estimate the forward movement of the seaward cliffs of the ice-cap.

Geological collecting now became quite a popular diversion. With a slight smattering of "gneiss," "felspar," "weathered limestone," "garnets," and "glacial markings" the amateurs went off and made many finds on the moraines, and the specimens were cached in heaps, to be later brought home by the dogs, some of which were receiving their first lessons in sledge-pulling.

Rather belated, but none the less welcome, our midwinter wireless greetings arrived on August 17 from many friends who could only imagine how much they were appreciated, and from various members of the Expedition who had spent the previous year in Adelie Land and who knew the meaning of an Antarctic winter. A few evenings later, Macquarie Islanders had their reward in the arrival of the 'Tutanekai' from New Zealand with supplies of food, and, piecing together a few fragments of evidence "dropped in the ether," we judged that they were having a night of revelry.

The wind was in a fierce humour on the morning of August 16, mounting to one hundred and five miles per hour between 9 and 10 A.M., and carrying with it a very dense drift.

We were now in a position to sit down and generalize about the wind. It is a tiresome thing to have it as the recurring insistent theme of our story, but to have had it as the continual obstacle to our activity, the opposing barrier to the simplest task, was even more tedious.

A river, rather a torrent, of air rushes from the hinterland northward year after year, replenished from a source which never fails. We had reason to believe that it was local in character, as apparently a gulf of open water about one hundred miles in width—the D'Urville Sea—exists to the north of Adelie Land. Thus, far back in the interior—back to the South Geographical Pole itself—across one thousand six hundred miles of lofty plateau—is a zone of high barometric pressure, while to the north lies the D'Urville Sea and beyond it the Southern Ocean—a zone of low pressure. As if through a contracted outlet, thereby increasing the velocity of the flow, the wind sweeps down over Adelie Land to equalize the great air-pressure system. And so, in winter, the chilling of the plateau leads to the development of a higher barometric pressure and, as the open water to the north persists, to higher winds. In summer the suns shines on the Pole for six months, the uplands of the continent are warmed and the northern zone of low pressure pushes southward. So, in Adelie Land, short spells of calm weather may be expected over a period of barely three months around the summer solstice. This explanation is intentionally popular. The meteorological problem is one which can only be fully discussed when all the manifold observations have been gathered together, from other contemporary Antarctic expeditions, from our two stations on the Antarctic continent, and from Macquarie Island; all taken in conjunction with weather conditions around Australia and New Zealand. Then, when all the evidence is arrayed and compared, some general truths of particular value to science and, maybe, to commerce, should emerge.

Of one thing we were certain, and that was that Adelie Land was the windiest place in the world. To state the fact more accurately: such wind-velocities as prevail at sea-level in Adelie Land are known in other parts of the world only at great elevations in the atmosphere. The average wind-velocity for our first year proved to be approximately fifty miles per hour. The bare figures convey more when they are compared with the following average annual wind-velocities quoted from a book of reference: Europe, 10.3 miles per hour; United States, 9.5 miles per hour; Southern Asia, 6.5 miles per hour; West Indies, 6.2 miles per hour.

Reference has already been made to the fact that often the high winds ceased abruptly for a short interval. Many times during 1913 we had opportunities of judging this phenomenon and, as an example, may be quoted September 6.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

A diagrammatic sketch illustrating the meteorological conditions at the main base, noon, September 6, 1913

On that day a south-by-east hurricane fell off and the drift cleared suddenly from about the Hut at 11.20 A.M. On the hills to the south there was a dense grey wall of flying snow. Whirlies tracked about at intervals and overhead a fine cumulus cloud formed, revolving rapidly. Over the recently frozen sea there was an easterly breeze, while about the Hut itself there were light northerly airs. Later in the day the zone of southern wind and drift crept down and once more overwhelmed us. Evidently the "eye" of a cyclonic storm had passed over.

During September the sea was frozen over for more than two weeks, and the meteorological conditions varied from their normal phase. It appeared as if we were situated on the battlefield, so to speak, of opposing forces. The pacific influence of the "north" would hold sway for a few hours, a whole day, or even for a few days. Then the vast energies of the "south" would rise to bursting-point and a "through blizzard" would be the result.

On September 11, although there was a wind of seventy miles per hour, the sea-ice which had become very solid during a few days of low temperature was not dispersed. Next day we found it possible to walk in safety to the Mackellar Islets. On the way rushes of southerly wind accompanied by a misty drift followed behind us. Then a calm intervened, and the sun momentarily appeared and shone warmly. Suddenly from the north-west came breezy puffs which settled into a light wind as we went north. On the way home we could not see the mainland for clouds of drift, and, when approaching the mouth of the boat-harbour, these clouds were observed to roll down the lower slopes of the glacier and, reaching the shore, rise into the air in columns. They then sailed away northward at a higher altitude, almost obscuring the sun with a fine fog. On the same night the "south" had gained the mastery, and the wind blew with its accustomed strength.

Again, on September 24, McLean had a unique experience. He was digging ice in a fifty-mile wind with moderate drift close to the Hut and, on finishing his work, walked down to the harbour-ice to see if there were any birds about. He was suddenly surprised to leave the wind and drift behind and to walk out into an area of calm. The water lapped alongside the ice-foot, blue in the brilliant sunlight. Away to the west a few miles distant a fierce wind was blowing snow like fine spume over the brink of the cliffs. Towards the north-west one could plainly see the junction between calm water and foam-crested waves. To the south the drift drove off the hills, passed the Hut, and then gyrated upwards and thinned away seawards at an altitude of several hundred feet.

The wind average for September was 36.8 miles per hour, as against 53.7 for September of the previous year. There were nine "pleasant" days, that is, days on which it was possible to walk about outside and enjoy oneself. On the 27th there was a very severe blizzard. The wind was from the south-east: the first occasion on which it had blown from any direction but south-by-east at a high velocity. The drift was extremely dense, the roof of the Hut being invisible at a distance of six feet. Enormous ramps of snow formed in the vicinity, burying most of the cases and the air-tractor sledge completely. The anemograph screen was blown over and smashed beyond all repair. So said the Meteorological Notes in the October number of the 'Adelie Blizzard'.

Speaking of temperature in general, it was found that the mean-temperature for the first year was just above zero; a very low temperature for a station situated near the Circle. The continual flow of cold air from the elevated interior of the continent accounts for this. If Adelie Land were a region of calms or of northerly winds, the average temperature would be very much higher. On the other hand, the temperature at sea-level was never depressed below-28 degrees F., though with a high wind we found that uncomfortable enough, even in burberrys. During the spring sledging in 1912 the lowest temperature recorded was -35 degrees F. and it was hard to keep warm in sleeping-bags. The wind made all the difference to one's resistance.

There was an unusually heavy snowfall during 1913. When the air was heavily charged with moisture, as in midsummer, the falls would consist of small (sago) or larger (tapioca) rounded pellets. Occasionally one would see beautiful complicated patterns in the form of hexagonal flakes. When low temperatures were the rule, small, plain, hexagonal stars or spicules fell. Often throughout a single snowfall many types would be precipitated. Thus, in September, in one instance, the fall commenced with fluffy balls and then passed to tapioca snow, sago snow, six-rayed stars and spicules.

Wireless communication was still maintained, though September was found to be such a "disturbed" month—possibly owing to the brilliant aurorae—that not a great many messages were exchanged. Jeffryes was not in the best of health, so that Bickerton took over the operating work. Though at first signals could only be received slowly, Bickerton gradually improved with practice and was able to "keep up his end" until November 20, when daylight became continuous. One great advantage, which by itself justified the existence of the wireless plant, was the fact that time-signals were successfully received from Melbourne Observatory by way of Macquarie Island, and Bage was thus able to improve on his earlier determinations and to establish a fundamental longitude.

During this same happy month of September, whose first day marked the event of "One hundred days to the coming of the Ship" there was a great revival in biological work. Hodgeman made several varieties of bag-traps which were lowered over the edge of the harbour-ice, and many large "worms" and crustaceans were caught and preserved.

On September 14 Bickerton started to construct a hand-dredge, which was ready for use by the next evening. It was a lovely, cloudless day on the 16th and the sea-ice, after more than two weeks, still spread to the north in a firm, unbroken sheet. We went out on skis to reconnoitre, and found that the nearest "lead" was too far away to make dredging a safe proposition. So we were contented to kill a seal and bring it home before lunch, continuing to sink the ice-shaft above the moraine for the rest of the day.

The wind rose to the "seventies" on September 17, and the sea-ice was scattered to the north. On the 19th—a fine day—there were many detached pieces of floe which drifted in with a northerly breeze, and on one of these, floating in an ice-girt cove to the west, a sea-leopard was observed sunning himself. He was a big, vicious-looking brute, and we determined to secure him if possible. The first thing was to dispatch him before he escaped from the floe. This Madigan did in three shots from a Winchester rifle. A long steel-shod sledge was then dragged from the Hut and used to bridge the interval between the ice-foot and the floe. After the specimen had been flayed, the skin and a good supply of dogs' meat were hauled across and sledged home. On the 30th another sea-leopard came swimming in near the harbour's entrance, apparently on the look-out for seals or penguins. Including the one seen during 1912, only three of these animals were observed during our two years' sojourn in Adelie Land.

Dredgings in depths up to five fathoms were done inside the boat harbour and just off its entrance on five separate occasions between September 22 and the end of the month. Many "worms," crustaceans, pteropods, asteroids, gastropods and hydroids were obtained, and McLean and I had many interesting hours classifying the specimens. The former preserved and labelled them, establishing a small laboratory in the loft above the "dining-room." The only disadvantage of this arrangement was that various "foreign bodies" would occasionally come tumbling through the interspaces between the flooring boards of the loft while a meal was in progress.

Some Antarctic petrels were shot and examined for external and internal parasites. Fish were caught in two traps made by Hodgeman and myself in October, but unfortunately the larger of the two was lost during a blizzard. However, on October 11 a haul of fifty-two fish was made with hand-lines off the boat harbour, and we had a pleasant change in the menu for dinner. They were of the type known as Notothenia, to which reference has already been made.

By October 13, when a stray silver-grey petrel appeared, every one was on the qui vive for the coming of the penguins. In 1912 they had arrived on October 12, and as there was much floating ice on the northern horizon, we wondered if their migration to land had been impeded.

The winds were very high for the ensuing two days, and on the 17th the horizon was clearer and more "water sky" was visible. Before lunch on that day there was not a living thing along the steep, overhanging ice-foot, but by the late afternoon thirteen birds had effected a landing, and those who were not resting after their long swim were hopping about making a survey of the nearest rookeries. One always has a "soft spot" for these game little creatures—there is something irresistibly human about them—and, situated as we were, the wind seemed of little account now that the foreshores were to be populated by the penguins—our harbingers of summer and the good times to be. Three days later, at the call of the season, a skua gull came flapping over the Hut.

It was rather a singular circumstance that on the evening of the 17th, coincident with the disappearance of the ice on the horizon, wireless signals suddenly came through very strongly in the twilight at 9.30 P.M., and for many succeeding nights continued at the same intensity. On the other hand, during September, when the sea was either firmly frozen or strewn thickly with floe-ice, communication was very fitful and uncertain. The fact is therefore suggested that wireless waves are for some reason more readily transmitted across a surface of water than across ice.

The weather during the rest of October and for the first weeks of November took on a phase of heavy snowfalls which we knew were inevitable before summer could be really established. The winds were very often in the "eighties" and every four or five days a calm might be expected.

The penguins had a tempestuous time building their nests, and resuming once more the quaint routine of their rookery life. In the hurricanes they usually ceased work and crouched behind rocks until the worst was over. A great number of birds were observed to have small wounds on the body which had bled and discoloured their feathers. In one case a penguin had escaped, presumably from a sea-leopard, with several serious wounds, and had staggered up to a rookery, dying there from loss of blood. Almost immediately the frozen carcase was mutilated and torn by skua gulls.

On October 31 the good news was received that the 'Aurora' would leave Australia on November 15. There were a great number of things to be packed, including the lathe, the motor and dynamos, the air-tractor engine, the wireless "set" and magnetic and meteorological instruments. Outside the Hut, many cases of kerosene and provisions, which might be required for the Ship, had been buried to a depth of twelve feet in places during the southeast hurricane in September. So we set to work in great spirits to prepare for the future.

McLean was busy collecting biological specimens, managing to secure a large number of parasites from penguins, skua gulls, giant petrels, snow petrels, Wilson petrels, seals and an Emperor penguin, which came up on the harbour-ice. On several beautiful days, with a sea-breeze wafting in from the north, large purple and brown jelly-fish came floating to the ice-foot. Many were caught in a hand-net and preserved in formalin. In his shooting excursions McLean happened on a small rocky ravine to the east where, hovering among nests of snow and Wilson petrels, a small bluish-grey bird,* not unlike Prion Banksii, was discovered. Four specimens were shot, and, later, several old nests were found containing the unhatched eggs of previous years.

** On arrival in Australia this bird proved to be new to science.

On the highest point of Azimuth Hill, overlooking the sea, a Memorial Cross was raised to our two lost comrades.

A calm evening in November! At ten o'clock a natural picture in shining colours is painted on the canvas of sea and sky. The northern dome is a blush of rose deepening to a warm terra-cotta along the horizon, and the water reflects it upward to the gaze. Tiny Wilson petrels flit by like swallows; seals shove their dark forms above the placid surface; the shore is lined with penguins squatting in grotesque repose. The south is pallid with light—the circling sun. Adelie Land is at peace!

For some time Madigan, Hodgeman and I had been prepared to set out on a short sledging journey to visit Mount Murchison and to recover if possible the instruments cached by the Eastern Coastal and the Southern Parties. It was not until November 23 that the weather "broke" definitely, and we started up the old glacier "trail" assisted by a good team of dogs.

Aladdin's Cave was much the same as we had left it in the previous February, except that a fine crop of delicate ice-crystals had formed on its walls. We carried with us a small home-made wireless receiving set, and arrangements were made with Bickerton and Bage to call at certain hours. As an "aerial" a couple of lengths of copper wire were run out on the surface of the ice. At the first "call" Madigan heard the signals strongly and distinctly, but beyond five and a half miles nothing more was received.

Resuming the journey on the following day, we made a direct course for Madigan Nunatak and then steered southeast for Mount Murchison, pitching camp at its summit on the night of November 28.

On the 29th Madigan and Hodgeman made a descent into the valley, on whose southern side rose Aurora Peak. The former slid away on skis and had a fine run to the bottom, while Hodgeman followed on the sledge drawn by Monkey and D'Urville, braking with an ice-axe driven into the snow between the cross-bars. Their object was to find the depot of instruments and rocks which the Eastern Coastal Party were forced to abandon when fifty-three miles from home. They were unsuccessful in the search, as an enormous amount of snow had fallen on the old surface during the interval of almost a year. Indeed, on the knoll crowning Mount Murchison, where a ten-foot flagpole had been left, snow had accumulated so that less than a foot of the top of the pole was showing. Nine feet of hard compressed snow scarcely marked by one's footsteps—the contribution of one year! To such a high isolated spot drift-snow would not reach, so that the annual snowfall must greatly exceed the residuum found by us, for the effect of the prevailing winds would be to reduce it greatly.

On the third day after leaving Mount Murchison for the Southern Party's depot, sixty-seven miles south of Winter Quarters, driving snow commenced, and a blizzard kept us in camp for seven days. When the drift at last moderated we were forced to make direct for the Hut, as the time when the Ship was expected to arrive had passed.

Descending the long blue slopes of the glacier just before midnight on December 12, we became aware of a faint black bar on the seaward horizon. Soon a black speck had moved to the windward side of the bar—and it could be nothing but the smoke of the 'Aurora'. The moment of which we had dreamt for months had assuredly come. The Ship was in sight!

There were wild cheers down at the Hut when they heard the news. They could not believe us and immediately rushed up with glasses to the nearest ridge to get the evidence of their own senses. The masts, the funnel and the staunch hull rose out of the ocean as we watched on the hills through the early hours of a superb morning. The sun was streaming warmly over the plateau and a cool land breeze had sprung up from the south, as the 'Aurora' rounded the Mackellar Islets and steamed up to her old anchorage. We picked out familiar figures on the bridge and poop, and made a bonfire of kerosene, benzine and lubricating oil in a rocky crevice in their honour.

The indescribable moment was when Davis came ashore in the whale-boat, manned by two of the Macquarie Islanders (Hamilton and Blake), Hurley and Hunter. They rushed into the Hut, and we tried to tell the story of a year in a few minutes.

On the Ship we greeted Gillies, Gray, de la Motte, Ainsworth, Sandell and Correll. It was splendid to know that the world contained so many people, and to see these men who had stuck to the Expedition through "thick and thin." Then came the fusillade of letters, magazines and "mysterious" parcels and boxes. At dinner we sat down reunited in the freshly painted ward-room, striving to collect our bewildered thoughts at the sight of a white tablecloth, Australian mutton, fresh vegetables, fruit and cigars.

The two long years were over—for the moment they were to be effaced in the glorious present. We were to live in a land where drift and wind were unknown, where rain fell in mild, refreshing showers, where the sky was blue for long weeks, and where the memories of the past were to fade into a dream—a nightmare?



CHAPTER XXV LIFE ON MACQUARIE ISLAND

By G. F. Ainsworth

Left on an island in mid-ocean!

It suggests the romances of youthful days—Crusoe, Sindbad and all their glorious company. Still, when this narrative is completed, imagination will be seen to have played a small part. In fact, it is a plain tale of our experiences, descriptive of a place where we spent nearly two years and of the work accomplished during our stay.

The island was discovered in 1810 by Captain Hasselborough of the ship 'Perseverance', which had been dispatched by Campbell and Sons, of Sydney, under his command to look for islands inhabited by fur seals. Macquarie Islands, named by Hasselborough after the Governor of New South Wales, were found to be swarming with these valuable animals, and for two years after their discovery was made known, many vessels visited the place, landing gangs of men to procure skins and returning at frequent intervals to carry the proceeds of their labours to the markets of the world.

The slaughter of the seals was so great that the animals were almost exterminated within a few years. One ship is known to have left Macquarie Island with a cargo of 35,000 skins during the first year of operations. High prices were obtained for them in London and China, and many American, British and Sydney firms were engaged in the enterprise.

The value of a skin is determined by the condition of the fur, which is often damaged by the animals fighting amongst themselves. Furthermore, at a certain season of the year, the seals moult, and if taken within a certain time of this natural process, the skin is almost valueless. These facts were ignored by the sealers, who killed without discrimination.

Again, both male and female, old and young were ruthlessly slaughtered, with the obvious result—the extermination of the species. If supervision had been exercised and restrictions imposed, there is no doubt that the island would still have been used by the fur seal as a breeding-ground. During our stay none were seen, but Mr. Bauer, who acts as sealing herdsman and who had visited the island in that capacity each summer for eleven years, stated that he had seen odd ones at infrequent intervals.

Associated as the island has been since the year 1812 with sealing and oil ventures, it follows that a history has been gradually developed; somewhat traditional, though many occurrences to which we shall refer are well authenticated.

It might be supposed from the foregoing, that a good deal is known about the place, but such is not the case, except in a general sense. Several scientific men from New Zealand, recognizing the importance of the island as a link between Australasia and Antarctica, visited it at different times within the past twenty years, only remaining long enough to make a cursory examination of the eastern side. They had to depend on the courtesy of the sealing ships' captains for a passage, and the stormy conditions which are ever prevalent made their stay too brief for any exhaustive work.

A Russian Antarctic expedition, under Bellingshausen's command, called there in 1821 and stayed for two days, collecting a few bird and animal specimens. They referred to the island as being "half-cooled down," in a short but interesting account of their visit, and remarked upon the large number of sea-elephants lying on the shores.

In 1840 the ship 'Peacock', one of the exploring vessels of the American Expedition under Wilkes, landed several men after much difficulty on the south-west of the island, but they remained only a few hours, returning to their ship after securing some specimens of birds. Expressing astonishment at the "myriad of birds", they remarked, "Macquarie Islands offer no inducement for a visit, and as far as our examination showed, have no suitable place for landing with a boat."

The next call of an Antarctic expedition was made by Captain Scott in the 'Discovery' in November 1901. He, with several naturalists, landed on the eastern side to collect specimens, but remained only a few hours. He refers to the penguins, kelp-weed and tussock grass; certainly three characteristic features.

Captain Davis, during his search for charted sub-antarctic islands, when connected with Sir Ernest Shackleton's expedition, called there in the 'Nimrod' in 1909. He landed a party of men who secured several sea-elephants and some penguins.

It will thus be seen that very little had been done which was scientifically important or generally interesting. Sealers came and went as a matter of business, and probably the arduous nature of their work and the rugged topography of the island combined to prevent the more curious from exploring far afield.

Captain Scott was desirous of establishing a base on Macquarie Island in 1910, but circumstances compelled him to abandon the idea. And so it came that we five men of Dr. Mawson's Expedition were landed on December 22, 1911, with a programme of work outlined by our leader. H. Hamilton was biologist, L. R. Blake surveyor and geologist, C. A. Sandell and A. J. Sawyer were wireless operators, the former being also a mechanic, and I was appointed meteorologist and leader of the party.

We stood on the beach in the dusk, watching the boat's party struggle back to the 'Aurora', which lay at anchor one and a half miles from the north-west shore. Having received a soaking landing in the surf and being tired out with the exertions of the day, we started back to our temporary shelter. We had not gone very far when a mysterious sound, followed by a shaking of the earth, made us glance at each other and exclaim, "An earthquake!" The occurrence gave rise to a discussion which carried us to bed.

Seeing that we were to spend a long time on the island, the question of building a hut was the first consideration. Through the kindness of Mr. Bauer, who had just left the island in the s.s. 'Toroa', we were able to live for the time being in the sealers' hut.

It was urgent to get the wireless station into working order as soon as possible. The masts and operating-hut had been erected during the stay of the 'Aurora', but there yet remained the building of the engine-hut and the installation of the machinery and instruments, as well as the construction and erection of the aerial. Accordingly we proceeded with the living-hut and the job on Wireless Hill at the same time, working on the hill most of the day and at the hut in the evening.

Wireless Hill rose to three hundred and fifty feet in height, and formed part of a peninsula running in a northeasterly direction from the main island. It had been chosen by Mr. Hannam of the Adelie Land party because of its open northerly aspect, and because "wireless" waves would probably have a good "set-off," southward to the Main Base in Antarctica.

Just a few yards from the base of the hill on its southwestern side was a huge rock, upon the easterly side of which we decided to build our dwelling. The timbers for the hut had been cut and fitted in Hobart, so all that remained for us was to put them together.

After working at high pressure until December 30, we were able to establish ourselves in a home. The doorway faced to the east, and the rock protected the small place from the strong westerly weather which is invariable in these latitudes. The dimensions were twenty feet by thirteen feet, the front wall being nine feet six inches high, sloping to seven feet six inches at the back. All the timbers were of oregon and deal, and particular attention was paid to bracing and strengthening the building, which rested on piles just clear of the sandy surface. The inside was lined and ceiled, and the roof of galvanized iron was set flush with the front wall, fascia boards along the front and sides being designed to keep the fine snow from blowing under the corrugations and lodging on the ceiling. "George V Villa" was fixed upon as the name, but the hut was never at any time referred to as the villa, and in future will always be known as the Shack.

[TEXT ILLUSTRATION]

Plan of Hut—Macquarie Island

Twelve live sheep had been landed, and these had been driven on to Wireless Hill so as to be accessible. We decided to kill one for Christmas, so on December 24 Sandell and I, leaving the others at work on the Shack, started out.

The hillsides are deeply ravined and the slopes covered with a dense growth of tussock, which renders progress uncertain and laborious. Our experience was a foretaste of many to come. We found the sheep huddled together in a deep gully on the eastern side, and drove them round to the front of the hill, where one was caught, killed and dressed.

Christmas Day dawned fine and sunny, and we decided to make some attempt at a dinner. Blake produced a plum pudding, and this, together with roast mutton and several kinds of vegetables, washed down with a little claret, constituted our first Christmas dinner.

The sealing schooner, Clyde, had been wrecked without loss of life on November 14, 1911, on the east coast, and was now lying on the beach nearly half a mile away. A two-hundred-gallon tank had been saved from the wreck and we managed on Christmas morning, after two hours of carrying and trundling, to place it at the end of the Shack. This was a valuable find, ensuring in the future a constant, convenient supply of rain water. Further, we made use of the timber of the wreck for building, and the broken pieces strewn about were stored up as firewood.

On the 26th we all went to the wireless station, and, as Sandell had the aerial made, we pulled it into position. In the afternoon I unpacked all my instruments and started them off so as to make sure that all were working correctly. I did not intend to record any observations till January 1, 1912, and therefore did not erect the meteorological screen until the 28th.

On moving into our abode domestic arrangements were made. With regard to cooking, each man took duty for a week, during which he was able to write up his work and to wash and mend clothes. To Hamilton and Sandell, who had had previous experience, frequent appeals were made as to methods of cooking various dishes, but by degrees each one asserted his independence. There were several cookery books for reference and each week saw the appearance of some new pudding, in each instance prefaced by the boast: "This is going to be the best pudding ever turned out on the island!" The promise was not always made good.

We had a good deal of difficulty at first in making bread and several batches were very "heavy" failures. This difficulty, however, was soon overcome and, after the first few months, the cooking standard was high and well maintained. Our stove was very small and only two loaves of bread could be cooked at once. It frequently happened, therefore, that the others, which would go on rising in the tins, overflowed; a matter which could only be set right by experience.

On New Year's Day, 1912, we carried timber in relays from the wreck to the top of Wireless Hill, so that the building of the engine-hut could be started. The next few days were occupied in getting food-stuffs, medicines, stationery, clothing and other necessaries over to the Shack from the landing-place on the beach. Blake and Hamilton unpacked their instruments and appliances, fitting up a small laboratory and photographic dark-room in one corner of the hut.

Some kind Hobart friend had sent four fowls to me on the day of sailing, requesting me to take them to Macquarie island. They were housed in one of the meteorological screens, but on the third day from Hobart a heavy sea broke on board, upset the temporary fowl-house and crushed the rooster's head. The three hens were landed safely and appeared to be thoroughly reconciled to their strange surroundings, though the presence of so many large birds soaring about overhead had a terrifying effect on them for several days. They did not appear to pick up much food amongst the grass, but scratched away industriously all the same. I must say that they were very friendly and gave the place quite a homely aspect. One of them was christened "Ma" on account of her maternal and somewhat fussy disposition.

On the first Sunday in the new year all except myself went along the coast towards West Point. The party reported immense numbers of sea-elephants, especially young ones. They also saw many wekas and three ducks, shooting nine of the former for the kitchen.

The wekas or Maori hens are small, flightless birds, averaging when full grown about two and three-quarter pounds. They were introduced twenty-five years ago by Mr. Elder, of New Zealand, a former lessee of the island, and multiplied so fast that they are now very numerous. They live among the tussocks, and subsist for the most part upon the larvae of the kelp-fly, small fish and other marine life which they catch under the stones along the rocky shores at low tide. They are exceedingly inquisitive and pugnacious and may easily be caught by hand.

Usually, when disturbed, they will pop under a rock, and on being seized immediately commence to squeak. This is sufficient to bring every weka within a quarter of a mile hurrying to the spot, and, in a few minutes, heads may be seen poking out of the grass in every direction. The man holding the bird then crouches down, preferably just on the border of the tussock, holding the protesting bird in one hand. Soon there will be a rustle, then a rush, and another furious weka will attack the decoy. The newcomer is grabbed and, if the birds are plentiful, five or six of them may be taken in one spot.

Their call is peculiarly plaintive and wild and may be heard night and day. Though we saw and caught innumerable young ones of all sizes, we were never able to find the nests of these Maori hens.

A depot of stores had been laid by the 'Aurora' at Caroline Cove, twenty miles from the Shack at the south end of the island, and it was deemed advisable to lay several more intermediate food-depots along the east coast.

The sealers had a motor-launch which they kindly placed at our disposal, and a supply of stores was put on board for transport. At 8 A.M., January 9, Sandell, Blake, Sawyer and Hamilton started out accompanied by two sealers who offered to point out the positions of several old huts along the coast. These huts had been built by sealing gangs many years ago and were in a sad state of disrepair.

The first call was made at Sandy Bay, about five miles from the Shack. Stores were landed and placed in the hut, and the party proceeded to Lusitania Bay, eleven miles farther on, where they stayed for the night. At this place (named after an old sealing craft, the 'Lusitania') there were two huts, one being a work-hut and the other a living-hut. They had not been used for sixteen years and, as a result, were found to be much dilapidated. In the locality is a large King penguin rookery, the only one on the island, and two dozen eggs were obtained on this visit, some fresh and some otherwise.

As the next morning was squally, it was decided that the stores should be deposited in the hut at the south end; a distance of five miles across country. Through bog and tussock it took the party four hours to accomplish this journey. The hut was found in the same condition as the others and a rather miserable night was spent. A short distance from this spot is situated the largest penguin rookery on the island. On returning to the launch, the six men had a quick run of three hours back to the north end.

During the absence of the party I had been busy erecting a stand for the anemo-biagraph. Ordinarily, such an instrument is kept in a house, the upper section only being exposed through the roof. The Shack was in a position too sheltered for my purpose, so I built a place for the anemo-biagraph behind a low rock well out on the isthmus.

Sandell and Sawyer reported on the 16th that the wireless station was ready for testing. Therefore, on the following day, the three of us erected a small set on the farthest point of the peninsula—North Head. The set had been made in order to test the large station. Sawyer then returned to the operating-hut and received signals sent from North Head by Sandell, who in return received Sawyer's signals, thus showing that so far everything was satisfactory. It was thought, after the tests, that the "earth" was not by any means good and Sawyer erected a counterpoise, which, however, failed to give anything like the "earth" results. More "earths" (connexions by wire with the ground) were now put in from day to day, and on the 27th Sawyer noted an improvement. Successful tests were again made on the 30th. The wireless men now expected communication with Australia.