A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH POLE
The Thrilling Story of Scott’s Expedition to the Antarctic
THE age-old dreams of hundreds of men have been realised; the ends of the earth have yielded up their secrets—the Poles have been discovered. Peary to the North, Amundsen and Scott to the South, hardy adventurers all, with the wanderlust in their souls and science as their beckoner—these men went forth and wrested from the ice-bound regions something of what had been refused to the scores of men preceding them; some of whom had come back, weak, despondent, while others left their bones as silent witnesses to their noble failure to achieve what they set out for.
Of all the many expeditions which have set forth to the Polar regions, none was more tragic than that commanded by Captain Robert F. Scott. In practically the hour of his triumph he failed, because, no matter how efficient an organisation, no matter how far-sighted policy and arrangements may be, there is always the uncertain human element; there comes the point when human endurance can stand out no longer, when the struggle against the titan forces of Nature cannot be kept up. And then there is failure, though often a splendid failure.
Such was that of Captain Scott; he reached the goal he had aimed at for many years only to find that he had been forestalled by a month, and then, overtaken by unexpected bad weather, he and the men with him had to give up the struggle when within eleven miles of just one thing they stood in need of—fuel with which to cook the hot meals that meant life. The story is one that makes the blood course through the veins, makes the heart glow, makes the head bow in honour; because it is a story of matchless bravery, heroic fortitude and noble effort.
The Terra Nova, Scott’s ship, carried a complement of sixty men, each one of them picked because of his efficiency, each one having his allotted work. Geologists and grooms, physicist and photographers, meteorologists and motor-engineer, surgeons and ski-expert and seamen, men to care for dogs, and men to cook food—a civilised community of efficient, well-found, keen, and high-idealed men. It was, in fact, the best-equipped Polar expedition ever sent forth. Scott went out not merely to discover the South Pole, but also to gather data that should elucidate many problems of science. He took with him all the apparatus that would be necessary for this purpose, and when the Terra Nova left New Zealand, on November 26, 1910, there seemed good reason for the conviction that success must attend the expedition.
The voyage out to the Polar Sea was uneventful, except that early in December a great storm arose, and called for good seamanship to keep the vessel going; and even then she was very badly knocked about. She made a good deal of water, and the seamen had to pump hard and long; but at last, under steam and sail, the Terra Nova came through safely, and was able to go forward again, and by December 9 was in the ice-pack, which was that year much farther north than was expected. This held them up so that they could not go in the direction they wanted to, and had to drift where the pack would take them—northwards. Christmas Day found them still in the pack, and they celebrated the festivity in the good old English style. By the 30th they were out of the pack, and set off for Cape Crozier, the end of the Great Ice Barrier, where they had decided to fix their winter quarters. They could not get there, however, and they had to proceed to Cape Royds, passing along an ice-clad coast which showed no likely landing-place. Cape Royds was also inaccessible owing to the ice, and the ship was worked to the Skuary Cape, renamed Cape Evans, in the McMurdo Sound.
A landing was effected, and for a week the explorers worked like niggers getting stores ashore, disembarking ponies and dogs, unloading sledges, and the hundred and one other things necessary to success. The hut, which was brought over in pieces, was also taken ashore, a suitable site for it cleared, and the carpenters began erecting it.
During these early days misfortune fell upon them. One of their three motor-sledges, upon which great hopes were built, slipped through the ice and was lost.
By January 14 the station was almost finished, and Captain Scott went on a sledge trip to Hut Point, some miles to the west. Here Scott had wintered on his first expedition, which set out from England in 1901. In this his new expedition the hut was to be used for some of the party, and telephonic communication was installed. In due course the station was completed; there is no need for us to go into all the details of the hard work, or the exercising of animals and men, but a short description of this house on the ice may be of interest. It was a wooden structure, 50 feet long by 25 feet wide and nine feet to the eaves. It was divided into officers’ and men’s quarters; there was a laboratory and dark-room, galley and workshop. Books were there, pictures on the walls, stove to keep the right temperature. Stables were built on the north side, and a store-room on the south. In the hut itself was a pianola and a gramophone to wile away the monotony of the long winter night. Mr. Ponting, the camera artist, had a lantern with him, which was to provide vast entertainment in the way of picture-lectures on all kinds of subjects. Altogether, everything was as compact and comfortable as could be wished.
Naturally, there were various adventures during these early days; once the ship just managed to get away from the spot where almost immediately afterwards a huge berg crashed down, only a little later on the same day to become stranded. Luckily, by much hard work, the seamen managed to get her off.
On January 25 the next piece of work was begun—namely, the laying of a depot some hundred miles towards the south. Both ponies and dogs were used for this work, which took nearly a month—the Barrier ice was always dangerous—and both the outward and inward journeys were beset by bad weather, bad surfaces, hard work, disappointments and many dangers. Once, a party was lost, and found only after they had experienced much suffering.
It was not until April 13 that the depot laying party returned to the hut, minus some of their animals, which had succumbed to the rigours of the climate and the stiff work demanded of them. A few days later the long winter night set in, and the men had to confine themselves to winter quarters to wait until the coming of the sun before the main object of their voyage could be attempted. The ship had returned to New Zealand meanwhile.
The long winter months were filled up with scientific studies of the neighbourhood, and evenings were occasions for lantern lectures and discussions on all kinds of subjects, including those which concerned the expedition. There was plenty of work to do; things had to be prepared, as far as was possible then, for the final dash; the animals had to be looked after; and they were a source of trouble, because it was essential that they should be kept fit. A winter party was organised and sent to Cape Crozier, a journey that took them five weeks under “the hardest conditions on record.” It was well worth while, for many were the valuable observations made.
Always the scientific aspect of the expedition was kept in view; and when the sun returned a spring journey to the west was undertaken, Scott and his little party being absent thirteen days, 175 miles being covered in that time.
We now come to the great journey to the Pole—a journey of 800 miles. On October 24 the two motor-sledges were sent off, after a good deal of trouble, Evans and Day in charge of one, and Lashly of the other; they were the forerunners of the expedition to the Pole. On the 26th, Hut Point rang up to say that the motors were in trouble, and Scott and seven men went off to see what they could do. They came up with the motors about three miles from Hut Point, and found that various little things were causing trouble. Eventually, these difficulties were overcome, and the sledges started off again, and Scott and his party went back to Cape Evans to get ready for their own journey south.
“The future is in the lap of the gods; I can think of nothing left undone to deserve success.”
Thus wrote Captain Scott the night before he set out on his last great journey, and reading the remarkable journal which he left, one is forced to the conclusion that he was right; if ever man deserved success, if ever achievement with glory and safety should have been vouchsafed, it should have been to Scott; but the lap of the gods is often a sacrificial altar on which men lay down their lives for the sake of great ideals.
It was on November 1 that the Southern Party set out. It consisted of ten men, in charge of ten ponies drawing sledges, and two men leading the dogs which were to take the ponies’ places when the latter were done. Everything was favourable for the send-off, and the company arrived at Hut Point, the first stoppage place, quite safely. From there they pushed on again in three parties, the slowest starting first, and the others following at sufficient intervals for all to arrive at the end of the day’s stage at the same time. The motor party going on in front were putting up cairns for guidance, and Scott himself on the journey to One Ton Depot had placed landmarks to guide them. On the 4th Scott came across the wreck of the sledge worked by Captain Evans and Day—a cylinder had gone wrong, and the motor had had to be abandoned, the men going on with the other sledge. This was the first bit of ill-luck, but the days to come were to bring much more. The dash to One Ton Depot consisted of hard going over rough surfaces; there were blizzards, trouble with the ponies; snow walls had to be built to protect the animals at camp after a long and hard night’s toil, during which they had journeyed seldom more than ten miles. Night was chosen because it enabled them to escape the sun, which even in that latitude was sufficient to make them sweat as they forced their way over the terrible ground. They reached One Ton Depot at last, and then picked up the motor party, commanded by Evans, on November 21. The motorists had been waiting six days, unable to go any farther.
The little band now plunged forward again, meeting the same difficult surface, having the same trouble with the ponies, one of whom had to be shot on the 24th, the day on which the first supporting party, consisting of Day and Hooper, were sent back to the base. Two days later a depot was laid, Middle Barrier Depot, and on the 28th, when ninety miles from the Glacier, another pony was shot, and provided food for the dogs. Ninety miles were still to be covered, and there was only food for seven marches for the animals. It would be stiff going, for Scott was relying upon the ponies getting him to the foot of the Glacier.
Having laid another depot on December 1, thus lightening the load, and hoping to be able to make good progress, they were furiously opposed by the elements. On the 3rd, the 4th, and the 5th, blizzards blew down upon them, impeding them, making the work trebly difficult, and the last one holding them up for four days, during which food, precious food, and much-needed fuel were being consumed without any progress being made. Impatient, bitterly cold, with the animals getting worn out, Scott and his companions had to keep to their tents, eager to go on, but realising that to venture forth was to court disaster. Experienced Polar explorer though he was, Scott was at a loss to account for the character of the weather at this, the most favourable, only practicable, time of the year. It was disheartening, especially when they had to start on the rations that they had reckoned would not be needed until they reached the summit of the Glacier. But at last the blizzard blew itself out, and, stiff and cold, the party set out again, each day finding their ponies becoming weaker, until on the 9th, at Camp 31, named the Shambles, all these were shot.
Then it was a case of the dogs pulling the sledges, and on the 10th the explorers began the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier, the summit of which was thousands of feet above them. Meares and Atkinson left for the base on the 11th, and the reduced party trudged forward and upwards, now having to go down again to avoid some dangerous part, toiling manfully up the Glacier, in danger of falling into crevasses, sinking into soft snow, which made the surface so difficult that after trudging for hours and hours only four miles were covered when they had hoped to do ten or more. By the 22nd, when the next supporting party left, they had climbed 7,100 feet (the day before they had been up 8,000 feet) and then a heavy mist enshrouded them, and hung them up for some hours—when every minute was precious.
When they started on the 22nd there were but eight men, and these toiled on day after day, meeting all sorts of trouble, running all kinds of risks, but never stopping unless compelled, dropping a depot on the last day of the year, and sending back three men on the 4th. This left only Scott, Captain Oates, Petty Officer Evans, Dr. Wilson and Lieutenant Bowers to make the final dash to the Pole. They had over a month’s rations, which was considered ample to do the 150 miles that separated them from their goal.
The party now had the small ten-foot sledges, which were neat and compact, and much lighter than the twelve-foot sledges which were sent back. The dogs had now gone back, and all the pulling was done by the men. The difficulty of the surface made them leave their skis behind on the 7th, but later on that day the surface become so much easier that it was decided to go back for the skis, which delayed them nearly an hour and a half. They were now on the summit, and were held up by a blizzard which, though it delayed them, gave them the opportunity for a rest which they sadly needed, especially Evans, who had hurt his hand badly while attending to the sledges. On the 9th they were able to start again, now swinging out across the great Polar plateau. They cached more stores on the 10th, and found the lightening of the load very helpful. But even then, so hard was the pulling, that on the 11th, when only seventy-four miles from the Pole, Scott asked himself whether they could keep up the struggle for another seven days. Never had men worked so hard before at so monotonous a task; winds blew upon them, clouds worried them because they knew not what might come in their wake; snow was falling and covering the track behind them, sufficient to cause them some anxiety, for they wanted that track to lead them home again via their depots upon which safety depended.
The weather! Day by day the weather worried them; only that could baulk them in their purpose, and never men prayed so much for fine days as did these. The 16th found them still forcing their way onward, with lightened loads again, having left a depot on the previous day, consisting of four days’ food; and they knew that they were now only two good marches from the Pole. Considering they carried with them nine days’ rations, while just behind lay another four days’, they felt that all would be well if the weather would but keep clear for them.
The thing that now troubled these men who toiled so manfully against great odds was the thought that lurked in their minds that when they reached the Pole they might find that they had been forestalled. For they knew, everyone of them, that the Norwegian, Amundsen, was bent on achieving what they were hoping to do: on being first at the Pole. They knew, too, that things had been more favourable for him from the very outset; that he had been able to set out from a much better spot than they had. What if they attained the goal, only to find a foreign flag flying bravely in the breeze? The thought was maddening; but the Britishers were sportsmen. And when months before Scott had heard that Amundsen was in the South, instead of trying for the North Pole, as he had given out when he started, the gallant captain had made up his mind to act just as if he had no competitor.
Next day, the 16th, all their hopes were dashed to the ground. Away out across the white expanse there loomed a tiny black speck, and immediately Scott’s thoughts flew to Amundsen. Some of his companions said it was one thing, others another. As they pulled hard at their loads the five men debated amongst themselves, trying to cheer each other up, seeking to cast aside the horrible thought that would force its way into their minds.
And then, the black spot was reached. It was a black flag, tied to a sledge bearer. It was the sign that the Norwegians had won in the race.
All around were signs of a camp, which to the filmed eyes of the explorers were the tokens of their failure to be first.
“It is a terrible disappointment,” wrote Scott in his diary, “and I am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much discussion have we had. To-morrow we must march on to the Pole, and then hasten home with the utmost speed we can compass. All the day dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return.”
And the next day the Pole was reached, and from out its solitude and austerity the great explorer cried:
“Great God! This is an awful place, and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority....”
The great goal had been won; but the joy of achievement was dimmed; Amundsen’s records and tent were found there, the Norwegian flag had been hoisted and flaunted bravely in the wind. They had been forestalled by over a month.
Having fixed up their “poor slighted Union Jack,” as Scott called it, the explorers turned northwards again, and began to retrace their footsteps over the Polar plateau, which had cost them so much labour to cross, then down the great Glacier with ever worsening weather. The men themselves, who had been so fit coming out, were now beginning to show signs of their gigantic labours; perhaps now, when the day dreams were over, and hopes long deferred had been fulfilled and dashed to pieces at one moment, they were disheartened; there was not the spur of achievement before them. Evans and Oates began to show signs of weariness—those two strong men of the party. Evans had his nose and fingers frostbitten and suffered much agony. Then, while descending the Glacier, he tumbled on the Glacier, fell among rough ice which injured his head, and gave him a touch of concussion of the brain. Dr. Wilson injured his leg, and snow-blindness was causing him much trouble. All these things impeded the party, to whom time was everything; food depended on picking up the depots on the right days—perhaps hours; and when, as often happened, the track was not easily found, the anxiety of the explorers was considerably increased.
Then Evans grew worse; from being self-reliant, and the man on whom the party had been able to look for help in any circumstances, he became weak and wellnigh helpless; he lagged behind, and the party had to wait for him to catch up. On February 17 at the foot of the Glacier, after a terribly hard day’s work, Evans—poor man!—was so far behind when the party camped, that his comrades became anxious and went back for him. They found him. The limit of human endurance had been reached. “He was on his knees, with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.” They got him to the tent with great difficulty, and he died that night. Scott mourned his loss; and his journal is full of his praises of the petty officer who had been so indefatigable a worker and so adaptable a man, doing everything his inventive genius could think of to lighten the work for the explorers.
One day was now much like another to the four men left; they pushed on and on, picking up depots as they went, and suffering every day from the bitter cold, and feeling the effects of the hard work. On March 16, Captain Oates went out. Frostbitten hands and feet had made life burdensome for him, and he knew that he was a burden to the gallant men with him; without him, they could progress much quicker.
“Go on without me,” he had said, earlier in the day. “I’ll keep in my sleeping bag!” But they had prevailed upon him to keep on. Like a hero he forced himself to struggle on until they camped at night. When the morning came he awoke. Of him in those last moments Scott said: “He was a brave soul.... It was blowing a blizzard. He said: ‘I’m just going outside, and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard, and we have not seen him since.... We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death; but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman.”
He had sacrificed himself for the sake of the others. “Greater love hath no man than this.”
Reduced now to three men, the little party struggled on gamely, fighting against the weariness that was upon them, making with all haste for One Ton Depot. They had expected ere this to have met the dogs which were to come out to help them back, but misfortune had overtaken Cherry Garrard, who had been waiting at One Ton Depot for six days held up by a blizzard. He had not sufficient food for the dogs to enable him to go south, and he knew that the state of the weather might easily make him miss Scott, whereas to wait at the depot was to be on hand when Scott did turn up.
Now the dire peril of their position forced itself upon them; though they fought to drive the thoughts away, manfully cheering each other up, none of them believed that they would ever get through, and on March 18, when twenty-one miles from the depot, the wind compelled them to call a halt. Scott’s right foot was frostbitten; he suffered from indigestion; they had only a half fill of oil left and a small amount of spirit. It meant that when this was gone, they could have no more hot drink—which would bring the end.
Despite their sufferings they went on again, until on the 21st they were camped eleven miles from the depot, a blizzard raging round them, little food, no fuel, and knowing in their hearts that when the next day dawned they could not continue the journey perilous and laborious; the end was at hand.
Days before Scott and Bowers had made Dr. Wilson give them that which would enable them to put an end to their misery; but now to-night, when face to face with death, they resolved that they would die natural deaths; it should not be said of them that they shirked. Each morning until the 29th they got ready to start for the depot that was so near, with its food, its fuel, its warmth, its companions; and each day they found the blizzard howling about them, as effectual a barrier as if it had been a cast-iron wall.
“We shall stick it out to the end,” wrote Scott on the 29th, “but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.
“It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.
“For God’s sake look after our people!”
And so they died, these heroes and gentlemen; and through Scott’s last letters which were found with the dead bodies in the tent on November 10 there is but one thought running: the care of the people left behind and the praises of the men who had accompanied him. Never were such eulogiums written. “Gallant, noble gentlemen,” he called them, as death brooded over him; and throughout every line there was the spirit of cheeriness which takes life—and death—as becomes a hero who knows that failure was no fault of his own, that man can do no more than fight nobly against the forces arrayed against him.