It was with a feeling almost of relief that the end came.
"November 21, 1915.--This evening, as we were lying in our tents we
heard the Boss call out, 'She's going, boys!' We were out in a second
and up on the look-out station and other points of vantage, and, sure
enough, there was our poor ship a mile and a half away struggling in
her death-agony. She went down bows first, her stern raised in the
air. She then gave one quick dive and the ice closed over her for
ever. It gave one a sickening sensation to see it, for, mastless and
useless as she was, she seemed to be a link with the outer world.
Without her our destitution seems more emphasized, our desolation more
complete. The loss of the ship sent a slight wave of depression over
the camp. No one said much, but we cannot be blamed for feeling it in
a sentimental way. It seemed as if the moment of severance from many
cherished associations, many happy moments, even stirring incidents,
had come as she silently up-ended to find a last resting-place beneath
the ice on which we now stand. When one knows every little nook and
corner of one's ship as we did, and has helped her time and again in
the fight that she made so well, the actual parting was not without its
pathos, quite apart from one's own desolation, and I doubt if there was
one amongst us who did not feel some personal emotion when Sir Ernest,
standing on the top of the look-out, said somewhat sadly and quietly,
'She's gone, boys.
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