Imagine then what kind of time Pennell and his ship’s company had in late autumn, after remaining in the south until only a bare ration of coal was left for steaming, until the sea was freezing round them and the propeller brought up dead as they tried to force their way through it.  Pennell was a very sober person in his statements, yet he described the gale through which the Terra Nova passed on her way to New Zealand in March 1912 as seeming to blow the ship from the top of one wave to the top of the next; and the nights were dark, and the bergs were all round them.  They never tried to lay a meal in those days, they just ate what they could hold in their hands.  He confessed to me that one hour he did begin to wonder what was going to happen next:  others told me that he seemed to enjoy every minute of it all.

Owing to press contracts and the necessity of preventing leakage of news the Terra Nova had to remain at sea for twenty-four hours after a cable had been sent to England.  Also it was of the first importance that the relatives should be informed of the facts before the newspapers published them.

And so at 2.30 A.M. on February 10 we crept like a phantom ship into the little harbour of Oamaru on the east coast of New Zealand.  With what mixed feelings we smelt the old familiar woods and grassy slopes, and saw the shadowy outlines of human homes.  With untiring persistence the little lighthouse blinked out the message, “What ship’s that?” “What ship’s that?” They were obviously puzzled and disturbed at getting no answer.  A boat was lowered and Pennell and Atkinson were rowed ashore and landed.  The seamen had strict orders to answer no questions.  After a little the boat returned, and Crean announced:  “We was chased, sorr, but they got nothing out of us.”

We put out to sea.

When morning broke we could see the land in the distance—­greenness, trees, every now and then a cottage.  We began to feel impatient.  We unpacked the shore-going clothes with their creases three years old which had been sent out from home, tried them on—­and they felt unpleasantly tight.  We put on our boots, and they were positively agony.  We shaved off our beards!  There was a hiatus.  There was nothing to do but sail up and down the coast and, if possible, avoid coastwise craft.

In the evening the little ship which runs daily from Akaroa to Lyttelton put out to sea on her way and ranged close alongside.  “Are all well?” “Where’s Captain Scott?” “Did you reach the Pole?” Rather unsatisfactory answers and away they went.  Our first glimpse, however, of civilized life.

At dawn the next morning, with white ensign at half-mast, we crept through Lyttelton Heads.  Always we looked for trees, people and houses.  How different it was from the day we left and yet how much the same:  as though we had dreamed some horrible nightmare and could scarcely believe we were not dreaming still.