We revelled in the warmth of the sun that day.  Life was not so bad, after all.  We felt we were well on our way.  Our gear was drying, and we could have a hot meal in comparative comfort.  The swell was still heavy, but it was not breaking and the boat rode easily.  At noon Worsley balanced himself on the gunwale and clung with one hand to the stay of the mainmast while he got a snap of the sun.  The result was more than encouraging.  We had done over 380 miles and were getting on for half-way to South Georgia.  It looked as though we were going to get through.

The wind freshened to a good stiff breeze during the afternoon, and the ‘James Caird’ made satisfactory progress.  I had not realized until the sunlight came how small our boat really was.  There was some influence in the light and warmth, some hint of happier days, that made us revive memories of other voyages, when we had stout decks beneath our feet, unlimited food at our command, and pleasant cabins for our ease.  Now we clung to a battered little boat, “alone, alone—­all, all alone; alone on a wide, wide sea.”  So low in the water were we that each succeeding swell cut off our view of the sky-line.  We were a tiny speck in the vast vista of the sea—­the ocean that is open to all and merciful to none, that threatens even when it seems to yield, and that is pitiless always to weakness.  For a moment the consciousness of the forces arrayed against us would be almost overwhelming.  Then hope and confidence would rise again as our boat rose to a wave and tossed aside the crest in a sparkling shower like the play of prismatic colours at the foot of a waterfall.  My double-barrelled gun and some cartridges had been stowed aboard the boat as an emergency precaution against a shortage of food, but we were not disposed to destroy our little neighbours, the Cape pigeons, even for the sake of fresh meat.  We might have shot an albatross, but the wandering king of the ocean aroused in us something of the feeling that inspired, too late, the Ancient Mariner.  So the gun remained among the stores and sleeping-bags in the narrow quarters beneath our leaking deck, and the birds followed us unmolested.

The eighth, ninth, and tenth days of the voyage had few features worthy of special note.  The wind blew hard during those days, and the strain of navigating the boat was unceasing, but always we made some advance towards our goal.  No bergs showed on our horizon, and we knew that we were clear of the ice-fields.  Each day brought its little round of troubles, but also compensation in the form of food and growing hope.  We felt that we were going to succeed.  The odds against us had been great, but we were winning through.  We still suffered severely from the cold, for, though the temperature was rising, our vitality was declining owing to shortage of food, exposure, and the necessity of maintaining our cramped positions day and night.  I found that it was now absolutely