On December 9 the blizzard was really over; we completed the digging out of sledges and stores and wallowed sometimes thigh-deep whilst getting the ponies out of their snow-drifted shelters.  Then we faced probably the hardest physical test we had had since the bailing out in the great gale a year ago.  We had breakfast and got away somewhere about 8 a.m.  My party helped the pony sledges to get away for a mile or two; the poor brutes had a fearful struggle, and so did we in the man-hauling team.  We panted and sweated alongside the sledges, and when at last Captain Scott sent us back to bring up our own sledge and tent we were quite done.  Arrived at the Shambles Camp we cooked a little tea, and then wearily hauled our sledge for hour after hour until we came up with the Boss, dead cooked—­we had struggled and wallowed for nearly 15 hours.  The others had certainly an easier time but a far sadder time, for, they had to coax the exhausted ponies along and watch their sufferings, knowing that they must kill the little creatures on halting.

Oh, Lord—­what a day we had of it.  Fortunately we man-haulers missed the “slaughter of the innocents,” as some one termed the pony killing.  When we got to the stopping place all five ponies had been shot and cut up for dog and man food.

This concluded our Barrier march:  the last was tragic enough in its disappointment, but one felt proud to be included in such a party, and none, of us survivors can forget the splendid efforts of the last five ponies.

Meantime Roald Amundsen had a gale in Lat. 87-88 degrees on December 5, with falling and drifting snow, yet not too bad to stop his party travelling:  he was 11,000 feet above our level at this time and covering 25 miles a day.  He also experienced thick weather but light wind on the 7th December and on the day of our sorrowful march he was scuttling along beyond Shackleton’s farthest South, indeed close upon the 89th Parallel.  It is just as well we did not know it too.

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE BEARDMORE GLACIER AND BEYOND

Probably no part of the Southern journey was enjoyed more thoroughly than that stage which embraced the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier.  Those who survive it can only have refreshing reminiscences of this bright chapter in our great sledge excursion.  Scientifically it was by far the most interesting portion travelled over, and to the non-scientific it presented something interesting every day, if only in the shape, colour, and size of the fringing rocks and mountains—­a vast relief from the monotony of the Barrier travel.

First we had Mount Hope at the lower end of the Glacier.  Mount Hope is a nunatak of granite, about 2800 feet in height, of which the summit is strewn with erratics, giving evidence of former glaciation of far greater extent.