Loss of the ‘endurance’

The ice did not trouble us again seriously until the end of September, though during the whole month the floes were seldom entirely without movement.  The roar of pressure would come to us across the otherwise silent ice-fields, and bring with it a threat and a warning.  Watching from the crow’s-nest, we could see sometimes the formation of pressure-ridges.  The sunshine glittered on newly riven ice-surfaces as the masses of shattered floe rose and fell away from the line of pressure.  The area of disturbance would advance towards us, recede, and advance again.  The routine of work and play on the ‘Endurance’ proceeded steadily.  Our plans and preparations for any contingency that might arise during the approaching summer had been made, but there seemed always plenty to do in and about our prisoned ship.  Runs with the dogs and vigorous games of hockey and football on the rough snow-covered floe kept all hands in good fettle.  The record of one or two of these September days will indicate the nature of our life and our surroundings: 

“September 4.—­Temperature, -14.1° Fahr.  Light easterly breeze, blue sky, and stratus clouds.  During forenoon notice a distinct terra-cotta or biscuit colour in the stratus clouds to the north.  This travelled from east to west and could conceivably have come from some of the Graham Land volcanoes, now about 300 miles distant to the north-west.  The upper current of air probably would come from that direction.  Heavy rime.  Pack unbroken and unchanged as far as visible.  No land for 22 miles.  No animal life observed.”

“September 7.—­Temperature, -10.8° Fahr.  Moderate easterly to southerly winds, overcast and misty, with light snow till midnight, when weather cleared.  Blue sky and fine clear weather to noon.  Much rime aloft.  Thick fresh snow on ship and floe that glistens brilliantly in the morning sunlight.  Little clouds of faint violet-coloured mist rise from the lower and brinier portions of the pack, which stretches unbroken to the horizon.  Very great refraction all round.  A tabular berg about fifty feet high ten miles west is a good index of the amount of refraction.  On ordinary days it shows from the mast-head, clear-cut against the sky; with much refraction, the pack beyond at the back of it lifts up into view; to-day a broad expanse of miles of pack is seen above it.  Numerous other bergs generally seen in silhouette are, at first sight, lost, but after a closer scrutiny they appear as large lumps or dark masses well below the horizon.  Refraction generally results in too big an altitude when observing the sun for position, but to-day, the horizon is thrown up so much that the altitude is about 12´ too small.  No land visible for twenty miles.  No animal life observed.  Lower Clark’s tow-net with 566 fathoms of wire, and hoist it up at two and a half miles an hour by walking across the floe with the wire.  Result rather