“There are two in the water,” somebody answered.  The crack had widened to about four feet, and as I threw myself down at the edge, I saw a whitish object floating in the water.  It was a sleeping-bag with a man inside.  I was able to grasp it, and with a heave lifted man and bag on to the floe.  A few seconds later the ice-edges came together again with tremendous force.  Fortunately, there had been but one man in the water, or the incident might have been a tragedy.  The rescued bag contained Holness, who was wet down to the waist but otherwise unscathed.  The crack was now opening again.  The ‘James Caird’ and my tent were on one side of the opening and the remaining two boats and the rest of the camp on the other side.  With two or three men to help me I struck my tent; then all hands manned the painter and rushed the ‘James Caird’ across the opening crack.  We held to the rope while, one by one, the men left on our side of the floe jumped the channel or scrambled over by means of the boat.  Finally I was left alone.  The night had swallowed all the others and the rapid movement of the ice forced me to let go the painter.  For a moment I felt that my piece of rocking floe was the loneliest place in the world.  Peering into the darkness; I could just see the dark figures on the other floe.  I hailed Wild, ordering him to launch the ‘Stancomb Wills’, but I need not have troubled.  His quick brain had anticipated the order and already the boat was being manned and hauled to the ice-edge.  Two or three minutes later she reached me, and I was ferried across to the Camp.

We were now on a piece of flat ice about 200 ft. long and 100 ft. wide.  There was no more sleep for any of us that night.  The killers were blowing in the lanes around, and we waited for daylight and watched for signs of another crack in the ice.  The hours passed with laggard feet as we stood huddled together or walked to and fro in the effort to keep some warmth in our bodies.  We lit the blubber-stove at 3 a.m., and with pipes going and a cup of hot milk for each man, we were able to discover some bright spots in our outlook.  At any rate, we were on the move at last, and if dangers and difficulties lay ahead we could meet and overcome them.  No longer were we drifting helplessly at the mercy of wind and current.

The first glimmerings of dawn came at 6 a.m., and I waited anxiously for the full daylight.  The swell was growing, and at times our ice was surrounded closely by similar pieces.  At 6.30 a.m. we had hot hoosh, and then stood by waiting for the pack to open.  Our chance came at 8, when we launched the boats, loaded them, and started to make our way through the lanes in a northerly direction.  The ‘James Caird’ was in the lead, with the ‘Stancomb Wills’ next and the ‘Dudley Docker’ bringing up the rear.  In order to make the boats more seaworthy we had left some of our shovels, picks, and dried vegetables on the floe, and for a long time we could see the abandoned