The ship was specially scrubbed and cleaned, yards were squared, ropes hauled taut and neatly coiled down, and our best Jacks and Ensigns hoisted in gala fashion to meet and acclaim our leader and our comrades.  Glasses were levelled on the beach, and soon we discerned little men running hither and thither in wild excitement; a lump stuck in my throat at the idea of greeting the Polar Party with the knowledge that Amundsen had anticipated us, it was something like having to congratulate a dear friend on winning second prize in a great hard won race—­which is exactly what it was.  But it was not even to be that:  the ship rapidly closed the beach, engines were stopped, and a thrill of excitement ran through us.  The shore party gave three cheers, which we on board replied to, and espying Campbell I was overjoyed, for I feared more on his behalf than on the others, owing to the small amount of provisions he had left him at Evans Coves.  I shouted out, “Campbell, is every one well,” and after a moment’s hesitation he replied, “The Southern Party reached the South Pole on the 17th January, last year, but were all lost on the return journey—­we have their records.”  It was a moment of hush and overwhelming sorrow—­a great stillness ran through the ship’s little company and through the party on shore.

I have been reminded of it particularly on the anniversaries of Armistice Day.

The great silence was broken by the order to let the anchor fall:  the splash which followed and the rattle of the chain gave us relief, and then Campbell and Atkinson came off in a boat to tell us in detail how misfortune after misfortune had befallen our leader and his four brave comrades.  Slowly and with infinite sadness the flags were lowered from the mastheads and Scott’s little “Terra Nova” stood bareheaded at the Gate of the Great Ice Barrier.

From the bridge one heard the occasional clatter of plates and cutlery, for the steward was busy removing the table dressings and putting away the things that we had no heart for any longer.  The undelivered letters were taken out of the bunks, which had been spread with white clean linen for our chief and the Polar team, and Drake sealed them up for return to the wives and mothers who had given up so much in order that their men might achieve.

A great cross was now carved of Australian jarrah, on which was carved by
Davis: 
                             In
                          Memoriam
                   CAPT.  R.F.  Scott, R.N.,
         DR. E.A.  WILSON, Capt.  L.E.G.  Oates, INS.  DRGS. 
                  LT.  H.R.  BOWERS, R.I.M.,
                PETTY OFFICER E. Evans, R.N.,
                     Who Died on their
                      Return from the
                         Pole-March,
                            1912.

To Strive, To Seek,
To Find,
And Not To Yield.

This cross was borne on a sledge over the frozen sea to Hut Point, and thence carried by Atkinson, and those who had taken part in the search for Captain Scott, to the top of Observation Hill, which is in full view of Cape Evans, and also of Captain Scott’s original winter quarters in the Discovery Expedition.  The cross overlooks also his resting place:  The Great Ice Barrier.