Meanwhile men were working for all our lives to cut through two bulkheads which cut off all communication with the suction of the hand-pumps.  One bulkhead was iron, the other wood.

Scott wrote at this time: 

“We are not out of the wood, but hope dawns, as indeed it should for me, when I find myself so wonderfully served.  Officers and men are singing chanties over their arduous work.  Williams is working in sweltering heat behind the boiler to get the door made in the bulkhead.  Not a single one has lost his good spirits.  A dog was drowned last night, one pony is dead and two others in a bad condition—­probably they too will go.  Occasionally a heavy sea would bear one of them away, and he was only saved by his chain.  Meares with some helpers had constantly to be rescuing these wretched creatures from hanging, and trying to find them better shelter, an almost hopeless task.  One poor beast was found hanging when dead; one was washed away with such force that his chain broke and he disappeared overboard; the next wave miraculously washed him on board again and he is fit and well. [I believe the dog was Osman.] The gale has exacted heavy toll, but I feel all will be well if we can only cope with the water.  Another dog has just been washed overboard—­alas!  Thank God the gale is abating.  The sea is still mountainously high but the ship is not labouring so heavily as she was."[47]

The highest waves of which I can find any record were 36 feet high.  These were observed by Sir James C. Ross in the North Atlantic.[48]

On December 2 the waves were logged, probably by Pennell, who was extremely careful in his measurements, as being ’thirty-five feet high (estimated).’  At one time I saw Scott, standing on the weather rail of the poop, buried to his waist in green sea.  The reader can then imagine the condition of things in the waist of the ship, “over and over again the rail, from the fore-rigging to the main, was covered by a solid sheet of curling water which swept aft and high on the poop."[49] At another time Bowers and Campbell were standing upon the bridge, and the ship rolled sluggishly over until the lee combings of the main hatch were under the sea.  They watched anxiously, and slowly she righted herself, but “she won’t do that often,” said Bowers.  As a rule if a ship gets that far over she goes down.

* * * * *

Our journey was uneventful for a time, but of course it was not by any means smooth.  “I was much disturbed last night by the motion; the ship was pitching and twisting with short sharp movements on a confused sea, and with every plunge my thoughts flew to our poor ponies.  This afternoon they are fairly well, but one knows that they must be getting weaker as time goes on, and one longs to give them a good sound rest with a ship on an even keel.  Poor patient beasts!  One wonders how far the memory of such fearful discomfort will remain with them—­animals so often remember places and conditions where they have encountered difficulties or hurt.  Do they only recollect circumstances which are deeply impressed by some shock of fear or sudden pain, and does the remembrance of prolonged strain pass away?  Who can tell?  But it would seem strangely merciful if nature should blot out these weeks of slow but inevitable torture."[50]