New Year's Eve, Midnight

LAND-OH!!!

The clouds lifted and before us lie the Admiralty Range, Mount Sabine being most visible, its peaks touched by snow glinting in the sky. They are still over 100 miles away, but a glorious sight!

Cherry came up all wrapped in his blankets to look, I think Atkinson had woken him.

Someone is running all up and down the ship ringing in the new year with the dinner bell.

It might be midnight, but the sun shines bright, and the fresh bracing air makes being on deck an exhilarating experience.

I wonder what trials the new year will bring, and where I shall be a year from now. In some stark place with the Pole in my hand no doubt!

31 December, 1910 New Year's Eve

72 degrees 54 minutes South, 174 degrees 55 minutes East.

187 fathoms.

We are at last in the Ross Sea, but not at the end of our misfortunes. We had a horrible night.

Very rough seas with swell and wind -- the ponies are suffering terribly. We sought some pack to protect us from the rocking, but it doesn't last long.

What a year. It is a pleasure to write 1910 for the last time.

From our sounding you can see how sharply the continental shelf rises here. But where is Cape Crozier?

30 December, 1910

1111 fathoms! We are at the lip of the continental shelf and out of the pack at last! Twenty godforsaken days we lingered there, eating an astonishing ton of coal for every six miles progress.

How Lady Fortune turns us on her cruel wheel. On every occasion she seems to have decided against us.

Still, while held up we have managed some important scientific work and I have grown strangely attached to the Terra Nova, plucky little ship that she is. Certainly the Nimrod would never have reached the south water had she been caught in such pack. So strike one for us and none for Shackleton so far!

All the while, I have never seen a party of men so anxious to be doing work or so cheerful in doing it. When there is anything to be done, such as making or shortening sail, digging ice from floes for the water supply, or heaving up to the sounding line, it goes without saying that all the afterguard turn out to do it. There is no hesitation and no distinction. It will be the same when it comes to landing stores or doing any other hard manual labour.

the spirit of enterprise is as bright as ever. Every one strives to help every one else, and not a word of complaint or anger has been heard on board. the inner life of our small community is very pleasant to think upon and very wonderful considering the extremely small space in which we are confined.

The attitude of the men (the crew) is equally worthy of admiration. In the forecastle as in the wardroom there is a rush to be first when work is to be done, and the same desire to sacrifice selfish consideration to the success of the expedition. It is very good to be able to write in such high praise of one's companions, and I feel that the possession of such support ought to ensure success.

Fortune would be in a hard mood indeed if it allowed such a combination of knowledge, experience, ability, and enthusiasm to achieve nothing.

29 December, 1910

Today I wrote in my journals that:

"...the sky is overcast and slight sleety drizzle is falling; the sun has made one or two attempts to break through but without success."

It seems to me that I could have written that sitting at my desk in London in December, just the same.

I used the word "hopefullest" which I fear is not in fact a word. I have, however, run out of words to describe the possibility of hope when in fact what I feel is despair. How much longer can this go on? The new year will soon be upon us and I had wanted to be settled into our new home on land by now so that we may begin our programme of depot-laying journeys during what remains of the summer.

I take comfort in my pipe and tobacco, and read.

28 December, 1910

Bacon and Drayton,

top chaps.

"And in regions far

Such heroes bring ye forth

As those from whom we came

And plant out name

Under that star

Not known unto our North."

-- To the Virginian Voyage, Drayton

"But be the workemen what they be, let us speake of the worke: that is, the true greatnesse of Kingdom and estates; and the meanes thereof."

-- Francis Bacon

Have raised steam.

The ponies are miserable, especially those under the forecastle. We brought one up for fresh air today, and it is in a most pathetic condition. It's hair is falling out in great clumps and it can barely stand. Have had some tense words with Oates about them. He wants me to use the deck as a sort of exercise yard so they may stretch their legs, but I can't have the boat being rocked to and fro like that.

Two leopard seals were spotted playing in our wake.

Have been enjoying the antics of the Adelie penguins, watching the way they are so graceful when under water. As one looks across the barren stretches of the pack, it is sometimes difficult to realise what teeming life exists immediately beneath its surface.

It makes one very much aware of one's place in the large scheme of things -- observing the smallest shrimps and fish and seals, penguins, skua and whales, and thinking how one feeds on the other. Beneath the placid ice floes and under the calm water pools the old universal warfare is raging incessantly in the struggle for existence.

Meanwhile, we lay about on deck sunning ourselves and reading. There I am smoking my pipe.

And here are the rest of the officers lazing about!

And the crew posed with an ice anchor and Nigger, of course.

Ponting has been busy today. Here's a view of the crow's nest from decks. You can see two chaps in there, and one out on the mast, if you look closely. He's probably taking them a flask of hot cocoa.

27 December, 1910

I expect you're sick to death of my going on about pack ice and the like. I am too. I wrote a lot about it in the journal, more than I ever thought I would, simply because it's been the only thing to report on for what seems like half my life.

I have a better idea of what is rotten in Denmark: I'm afraid the ice-house isn't going on so well as it might. There is some mould on the mutton and the beef is tainted. There is a distinct smell. I ordered the door of it open when the temperature fell below 28 degrees, in an effort to 'harden' the meat, but apparently you need air circulation. When the temperature goes down tonight we shall probably take the beef out of the house and put a wind-sail in to clear the atmosphere. If this does not improve matters we must hang more carcasses in the rigging. That ice-house cost me a fortune, too.

One has to be an expert in so many areas on an expedition such as this. One can't be expected to know everything. Clissold looks at me as though he wishes I'd consulted a food preservation professional before embarking, but really, how would that look? For a Commander of the British Royal Navy to go cap-in-hand to tradesmen for advice? He's just going to have to find a way to make it palatable, that's all. A good curry ought to take care of it.

I have noticed that towards the end of my journal entries I refer to myself in the second-person rather often. To wit:

"One must confess that things might be a great deal worse and there would be little to disturb one if one's release was certain, say in a week's time."

One feels this is appropriate, however, as one has to step away from one's work every now and then to contemplate it with perspective.

Good Lord, that stinks.

Boxing Day, 1910

Our position tonight is very cheerless. One can only vaguely comprehend that things are happening far beyond our horizon which directly affect our situation. It is a very, very trying time.

Rennick got a sounding of 1843 fathoms today. Clearly we are still a very long way off the continental shelf. I can't help but think about Davy and Jones, those two ponies we had to haul overboard.

Am feeling extremely despondent, truth is. The men are all cheerful -- what choice to they have? -- but a Captain's job is a lonely one. I want to be able to do something about our situation but am impotent. I lay in my bunk and listen to the swoosh of the ice as it brushes the ship and feel so helpless.