Now in the Zoological Report of the Discovery Expedition Wilson states that the true identity of the Bottle-nosed whale (Hyperoodon rostrata) in Antarctic Seas has not been conclusively established.  But that inasmuch as it certainly frequents seas so far as 48 deg.  S. latitude it is probable that certain whales which he and other members of that expedition saw frequenting the edge of the ice were, as they appeared to be, Bottle-nosed whales.  For my part, without great knowledge of whales, I am convinced that these whales which lay but twenty feet below us were whales of this species.

After our rescue by Scott we pitched our tents, as has been described, at least half a mile from the fast edge of the Barrier.  All night long, or as it really was, early morning, the Killers were snorting and blowing under the Barrier, and sometimes, it seemed, under our tents.  Time and again some member of the party went out of the tent to see if the Barrier had not broken farther back, but there was no visible change, and it must have been that the apparently solid ice on which we were, was split up by crevasses by the big swell which had been running, and that round us, hidden by snow bridges, were leads of water in which whales were cruising in search of seal.

The next day most of the ice had gone out to sea, and I do not think the whales were so numerous.  The most noticeable thing about them that day was the organization shown by the band of whales which appeared after Bowers’ pony, Uncle Bill, had fallen between two floes, and we were trying to get him towards the Barrier.  “Good God, look at the whales,” said some one, and there, in a pool of water behind the floe on which we were working, lay twelve great whales in perfect line, facing the floe.  And out in front of them, like the captain of a company of soldiers, was another.  As we turned they dived as one whale, led by the big fellow in front, and we certainly expected that they would attack the floe on which we stood.  Whether they never did so, or whether they tried and failed, for the floes here were fifteen or sixteen feet thick, I do not know; we never saw them again.

One other incident of those days is worth recalling.  “Cherry, Crean, we’re floating out to sea,” was the startling awakening from Bowers, standing in his socks outside the tent at 4.30 A.M. that Wednesday morning.  And indeed at first sight on getting outside the tent it looked a quite hopeless situation.  I thought it was madness to try and save the ponies and gear when, it seemed, the only chance at all of saving the men was an immediate rush for the Barrier, and I said so.  “Well, I’m going to try,” was Bowers’ answer, and, quixotic or no, he largely succeeded.  I never knew a man who treated difficulties with such scorn.

* * * * *