Yet, for all that, the night was miserable.  Even after that day of superhuman struggle they were not to be allowed a few hours of unbroken rest.  By midnight the wind had veered to the east and was blowing a gale.  An hour later the tent came down.  Exhausted as they were, they must turn out and wrestle with that slatting, ice-sheathed canvas, and it was not until half an hour later that everything was fast again.

Once more they crawled into the sleeping-bags, but soon the heat from their bodies melted the ice upon their clothes, and pools of water formed under each man, wetting him to the skin.  Sleep was impossible.  It grew colder and colder as the night advanced, and the gale increased.  At three o’clock in the morning the centigrade thermometer was at eighteen degrees below.  The cooker was lighted again, and until six o’clock the party huddled wretchedly about it, dozing and waking, shivering continually.

Breakfast at half past six o’clock; under way again an hour later.  There was no change in the nature of the ice.  Ridge succeeded ridge, hummock followed upon hummock.  The wind was going down, but the snow still fell as fine and bewildering as ever.  The cold was intense.  Dennison, the doctor and naturalist of the expedition, having slipped his mitten, had his hand frostbitten before he could recover it.  Two of the dogs, Big Joe and Stryelka, were noticeably giving out.

But Bennett, his huge jaws clenched, his small, distorted eyes twinkling viciously through the apertures of the wind-mask, his harsh, black eyebrows lowering under the narrow, contracted forehead, drove the expedition to its work relentlessly.  Not Muck Tu, the dog-master, had his Ostiaks more completely under his control than he his men.  He himself did the work of three.  On that vast frame of bone and muscle, fatigue seemed to leave no trace.  Upon that inexorable bestial determination difficulties beyond belief left no mark.  Not one of the twelve men under his command fighting the stubborn ice with tooth and nail who was not galvanised with his tremendous energy.  It was as though a spur was in their flanks, a lash upon their backs.  Their minds, their wills, their efforts, their physical strength to the last ounce and pennyweight belonged indissolubly to him.  For the time being they were his slaves, his serfs, his beasts of burden, his draught animals, no better than the dogs straining in the traces beside them.  Forward they must and would go until they dropped in the harness or he gave the word to pause.

At four o’clock in the afternoon Bennett halted.  Two miles had been made since the last camp, and now human endurance could go no farther.  Sometimes when the men fell they were unable to get up.  It was evident there was no more in them that day.

In his ice-journal for that date Bennett wrote: