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- Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.
Little America Page 8
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Toward evening, the wind freshened almost to gale force, the barometer dropped slightly and all indications pointed to dirty weather. It came, with the blustery strength for which this region is famous, and my diary reports:
En Route to Bay of Whales
Aboard City of New York
December 8, 1928
Night
Owing to the bad weather that struck us yesterday, I made no entries in my log. Thursday night the ship pitched so, we got little sleep. About five o’clock, the ship was making very heavy weather of it. Seas were breaking over the taffrail, the wind velocity approached fifty miles per hour, and the glass dropped sharply. Matters were decidedly serious. My first fears were for the cargo on deck and the dogs. There was danger some of the heavy, loose stuff on the deck might be knocked about by boarding seas, perhaps smashing the skylights, hatchways and bulwarks. All hands were called out to make fast dog crates and all gear on deck with double lashings. Fortunately, the gale blew us along the line of our course. We managed to keep the City going with wind and waves—had we broached into the trough of a sea our decks must have been swept as clean as a pantry shelf.
The men at the wheel had the worst time. The wheel is out in the open on the after deck, and, lacking steam power, is very difficult to control. For this reason, we had two men on duty all the time, but even against their combined strength it spun on several occasions out of control. On the morning watch, McKinley was bowled over by one such revolution, falling with such force that he was knocked out. He came to in a moment, and save for a severe bruising was unhurt.
From time to time the ship rolled her sides under, but not enough green water came aboard to cause damage. It was hazardous work, however, moving about the deck in the confusion of the cargo, for there was always the thought that the crate or box that offered lee might in a moment be torn loose from its fastenings and become a Juggernaut. Believing the towline must presently give way, I went forward to the fo’c’s’le where I had an opportunity to see the play between ship and storm. A quarter of a mile away the Boiling labored heavily in water that rose high enough to hide her from sight, and she seemed to be rolling her sides under with every other roll. The bowsprit of the City pointed her out like an entreating finger. Now it rose dizzily to the horizon, trembled a moment at the top of flight, then plunged dizzily to the sea, to meet a rush of green water gushing underneath. Yardarms creaked and groaned overhead, and at times it seemed the outer reaches of the lower yardarms were flicking the tops of the waves at the end of a long roll. The towline tightened and slackened in rapid succession, and I knew then that it would be only a question of time before it broke or the bridle supporting it on the Boiling gave way.
I was writing out orders to radio to the Boiling to cast loose the tow line when I saw the port line on the bridle snap. Then the City rose on a wave and on the Boiling I saw someone race aft, seize a hatchet and cut loose the other line. Almost at the same moment the Boiling swerved to starboard, warning us with six toots on the whistle of her intent—a signal we had agreed upon in the event of such an emergency. Smith, helmsman on the City, on hearing the blasts, put rudder hard left, and the City bore away, dragging the heavy steel hawser across her bows. Had Smith been less quick-witted a collision might have followed.
As it was, we did not get clear unscotched. In the excitement a seaman loosed the main lower topsail sheets, and as the wet sail ran down it bellied out in the storm; before anxious hands could save it there was a series of pistol-like reports, and the sail was in shreds. This fellow’s mistake was nothing more criminal than lack of experience, but from the lacing he got from the mate of the watch he is not likely to repeat the mistake.
However, we reduced sail and made our way mostly under steam. The Bolling by now was a mile or two to starboard, no doubt alarmed as to our condition. Here the radio proved invaluable. By means of the wireless telephone which Hanson rigged up on both ships, it is possible to maintain excellent communication between the two ships. I lost no time in assuring Captain Brown the City was undamaged, and was in turn relieved to hear his voice say that, except for the broken line, the Bolling was also uninjured.
We then fell to the job of bringing home the towline, and what a miserable job that was. The City had no steam winch on the fo’c’s’le, her hand anchor winch was as old as the City, and its effectiveness had not improved with age. For two hours Strom and his crew, drenched with spray, pumped up and down, encouraging themselves with stirring chanties. At length we recovered every inch of it, full thirty fathoms in all, but there is scarcely a back aboard ship that can push itself erect.
A trip around the ship showed that everything was in place, although a few crates had been dislodged by the seas which still fell with smothering force upon the decks. Tennant’s galley ran with a foot of water, in which slops and food were commingled on the deck in an unsavory mess. In spite of these difficulties, he managed to keep his fire going and served an excellent hot meal of soup, boiled beef, potatoes, stewed tomatoes and pudding. The dogs took the storm in an evil mood. Their cries never ceased, and with the. wind, took on a strange and mournful note, whether because of distress or fear I cannot say. Heaven knows, they are rarely still, but now they howl all day, in the most dismal chorus, with occasional ferocious fighting sounds. Several fell sick, nearly all had their kennels flooded by the higher seas, but otherwise came to no harm. Because they hate the touch of dampness, those which can are standing weakly in their crates, fighting to keep footing against the pitch of the ship.
It appeared, at first, we were in for a spell of bad weather. The whalers farther south reported similar heavy storms, and Haines, our meteorologist, thought the storm might become more intense the next day, at least over short periods. Nevertheless, as the day wore on the glass rose, although the force of the seas did not abate and the sky was unpromising.
Then, about seven o’clock, the wind lessened in intensity and blew slightly to the west; an hour later the rim of the sun showed through a cloud, and the storm blew itself out. It was succeeded, however, by a period of very thick weather, which caused us to debate for a time the advisability of hauling to, lest we collide with an iceberg, the presence of which was suggested by rapidly chilling air. Toward eight o’clock, the sky cleared marvellously fast and we caught sight of the sun in a gorgeous sunset panorama. It came to me with strong force how we appreciate things by contrast. This inspiringly beautiful sunset, falling tranquilly upon a hushed sea after such a storm, gave one the impression of entering an entirely different world.
Saturday dawned cold and clear, with a moderate wind in the quarter. At five o’clock this morning, we gave our line to the Boiling again, and were underway by seven, making seven knots. Every one is the happier for the ending of yesterday’s travail. At noon our position was Lat. 62° 10’ S., Long. 174° 27’ E. We were then 997 miles south of Tairoa Head.
Tonight it is so clear that I can still write without the aid of lantern, although it is nearly ten o’clock. All’s well that ends well. The Larsen is still outside the pack!
I was to learn, the following day, Sunday, that I spoke too soon. For, as we drew nearer the south magnetic Pole, which was to the southwestward well under 1,ooo miles from us, the compasses became erratic; there was a large difference between the standard compass and the steering compass, and the directive force had become so slight we scarcely dared to trust the former. Facing, as we did, the necessity of meeting the Larsen which was on the move, the problem of navigation was a difficult one, especially as we spent the last half of Saturday night and most of Sunday poking through thick fog. It shut down so thickly that the Bolling was obscured, and opportunities to get a line on the sun to locate our position were few and far between. The Larrsen for the same reason did not know her exact position. From my point of view, this was one of the most ticklish moments of the trip. The Larsen was only about 200 miles south of us; and it was imperative we pick her up without loss of time.
Ea
rly Sunday morning we sighted the first sentinel of the Antarctic—a lone tabular iceberg. It was presently succeeded by others, in increasing quantities, until at last they formed an endless procession, stretching as far as the eye could see. They made a striking scene in the half-mist, and the mind suggested fantastic shapes bearing relationship to sculptured forms and faces. We could spare little time for day-dreaming just then, though, for the barometer started to drop with bewildering speed, and the sea developed a long, sustained roll. We turned east, to avoid an isolated section of the flat pack ice dead ahead and made some distance in this direction before turning west. We thus slipped in behind the smaller pack and the larger pack lay somewhere due south over the horizon. Our race against time was almost run.
Monday, the 10th, found us still making our way alongside rafted groups of icebergs, most of them of the long flat-topped types peculiar to Antarctic regions. In the space of a few hours we passed no less than fifty of them, each followed by the inevitable tail of brash ice. On those rare moments when the sun broke through and shone upon them, we had glimpses of enchanting beauty. The light fell softly in the smoking haze, until the sides of the bergs glittered like marbled cliffs, and the blue shadows in the ice glowed as with an internal radiance. In the nearer bergs we could observe the darker shadowed horizontal lines that indicated successive stratification. In the caves worn at the water line we could hear the booming of the sea, and as they struck the waves hurled spray higher, I judged, than our mast. Occasionally we sighted a true derelict—a berg undermined by the action of the sea until it had overturned, and now, with its eroded and hollowed basement in the air, was moving with wind and currents to complete annihilation in warmer waters.
The weather was heart-breaking—moments of glorious sunshine, succeeded by snow flurries, wretched squalls and fog. Nevertheless the Captain did manage to take some accurate sights, and we were so encouraged that at noon we laid a line that went through Scott Island, in the belief that, if our position was correct, we might be able to solve the mystery of this little outcropping of land. Lieutenant Colbeck, of Scott’s first expedition had first sighted this “loneliest of islands” and, although whaling ships were constantly in adjoining waters, they had not sighted it and doubted its existence The surprise of every one aboard was no greater than my own when, about five o’clock, the lookout reported land ahead. It was Scott Island, and we passed it abeam about seven o’clock.1
What a God-forsaken place it is. Simply two great hunks of basaltic rock emerging in misshapen outline from a waste of sea. One was much larger than the other. It rose, almost perpendicularly, from the sea, and its top was capped with snow. Someone remarked upon its resemblance to an elephant’s head, an appearance it did assume from the west. Flecks of brown moss were visible near the top of the peak. The sky overhead was noisy and dark with the flight of thousands of birds, mostly petrels, who nested on its bleak sides. This rock must be at least 200 feet high. The other rock was probably sixty feet shorter in height, but ran about a quarter mile in a north and south direction. To the south an icefoot descended to the sea. The excitement over this discovery was so great that it was all we could do to prevent the scientists from going overboard to make their first studies of glaciology and bird life.
Leaving this fascinating island behind, we struck due south. A confused, vaguely illuminated grayness in the sky indicated the pack was not far off. Soon the lookout reported it dead ahead, and not long afterwards it could be seen from the deck, a low rafted rampart stretching east and west as far as the eye could see. Reluctant to force the Bolling Into it, we sought a way around it and saw, to the eastward, a lane of fairly open water. Eight o’clock that night we were only about forty miles from the Larsen, but never seemed as far away. The pack ranged all about us, snow flurries from the west struck us continuously, and in the bad visibility we were repeatedly menaced by ice bergs, weighing hundreds of thousands of tons, that lay in our path. It was an eerie experience to see these floating dreadnaughts, propelled by unknown submarine currents, move forward in the face of a headwind, at varying gaits of speed.
All that night and the morning of the next day (it was still December 10—having crossed the 180th meridian we lost a day) we dodged shifting pack ice and bergs, working to the east in search of open water. Weather continued thick and snowy, with poor visibility. During one of these thick spells, the Bolling stopped quickly to avoid a berg, her whistle suddenly failed and we nearly rammed her. We went full speed astern and, of course, had just gathered momentum when the Boiling went ahead again. The shock tore the cable loose from the City. It was our good luck, however, to be free from the task of hauling it up again, so we stood by while the poor devils on the Bolling went at it. Then a peculiar accident occurred. They had all but a few fathoms on the drum when I noticed a scurry of men about the winch. The winch began to scream shrilly, I saw the line begin to pay out and flip wildly and serpentinely about the deck and then, with a last scream and a shower of sparks as it struck the metal deck, it whipped overboard. At the same time two men, who I later learned were McGuinness and Kessler, dropped to their knees, barely escaping being cut down in the final contortions of the hawser. It meant the loss of the cable and therefore the end of the towing, but I did not sorrow for that when I learned no one was injured. It was difficult to believe there were no casualties for only a moment before half the crew had been gathered about the winch. The compasses now went completely “haywire.” There was one hundred degrees difference between the standard compass and the steering compass. Because of thick weather neither our ships, nor the Larsen, knew our exact position. We were heading for a ship of unknown position with our own position doubtful and compasses confused.
In this situation our radio compasses proved invaluable. By means of a series of bearings we headed the ship in the direction of the wireless waves coming from the Larsen and thus bore steadily toward her. It was rather a problem, however, trying to keep on that elusive wave and dodge moving masses of ice at the same time.
Once we were caught between the main pack and an enormous field of floating ice, with cakes in it half a mile long, distorted by pressure—a rather fearsome sight, but with a bit of jockeying we avoided dangerous ice. Sverre Strom and Johanssen, Norwegian ice pilots who had come all the way from Norway in the City, spent hours in the rigging keeping us out of bad pack. We were greatly relieved when Strom called down from the lookout’s barrel on the masthead that they had sighted the Larsen on the other side of an ice field. Captain Melville and I studied the situation, and decided that, by making Eastings, we could get into the sheltered bay of ice in which she lay. Here was a perfect ice-locked harbor in the middle of the pack, with upended ice offering a splendid lee. The ice pilots guided us safely around and we stopped our engines a short distance from the whaler. For the moment, at least, our larger problems were solved, and you may be sure we were in a happy state of mind.
However, we found no leisure, for there now faced us the task of shifting 100 tons of coal in sacks from the Boiling to the City, to replenish the bunkers. Although a very heavy swell was running, we brought the Boiling alongside, smashing several davits on the Boiling and tearing off a strip of woodwork from the poop deck of the City. We had barely started shifting coal when the wind stiffened and drifted us to leeward, and as the sea rose we could see the iron plates of the Boiling bend and give as she banged against the tougher wooden sides of the City. Meanwhile the barometer plunged to 28.80, which at home would herald the coming of another Florida hurricane. Haines, watching its fall with excited eyes, was moved to say: “I never saw a barometer so low.” This position was altogether too precarious, so we cast off, and the vessels separated. About four o’clock in the afternoon Captain Nilsen informed me by radio that he expected to attempt to force the pack that night or early the following morning. We seemed caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. But needing that coal, we decided to take a long risk in getting it aboard. Making our way to the lee of t
he pack, we found long, slow swells but no rough water. I gave the order to tie up again, and after maneuvering for two hours, Brown with great skill brought the Bolling alongside the New York, with only minor damage. At eleven o’clock, the City was taking on coal, all hands were on deck and the work progressed in the golden haze of the midnight sun. The wind was from the south, a good omen, for it would help to break up the pack. By eleven o’clock the next day, Tuesday the eleventh, the last sack of coal was aboard, ninety tons having been transferred in twelve hours. The weather, fortunately, continued good; and the storm the barometer had suggested had failed, as often before, to materialize. It was a long time before Haines and Harrison got over their amazement at these terrific drops of the barometer that did not bring hurricanes. This was one of the queer things about this new world we were entering.
The Bolling immediately cast off and made for Dunedin. There was no use risking her presence in the dangerous ice. Besides, she must make haste if she were to accomplish two more trips that season. We saw her last about noon, her smoke a gray plume in the northern horizon. The men aboard her had done their job well, and Captain Brown proved himself to be a master of skill and courage.