My
tent, No. 1, was pitched close under the cliff, and there during my
stay on Elephant Island I lived. Crean's tent was close by, and the
other three tents, which had fairly clean snow under them, were some
yards away. The fifth tent was a ramshackle affair. The material of
the torn eight-man tent had been drawn over a rough framework of oars,
and shelter of a kind provided for the men who occupied it.
The arrangement of our camp, the checking of our gear, the killing and
skinning of seals and sea-elephants occupied us during the day, and we
took to our sleeping-bags early. I and my companions in No. 1 tent were
not destined to spend a pleasant night. The heat of our bodies soon
melted the snow and refuse beneath us and the floor of the tent became
an evil smelling yellow mud. The snow drifting from the cliff above us
weighted the sides of the tent, and during the night a particularly
stormy gust brought our little home down on top of us. We stayed
underneath the snow-laden cloth till the morning, for it seemed a
hopeless business to set about re-pitching the tent amid the storm that
was raging in the darkness of the night.
The weather was still bad on the morning of April 19. Some of the men
were showing signs of demoralization. They were disinclined to leave
the tents when the hour came for turning out, and it was apparent they
were thinking more of the discomforts of the moment than of the good
fortune that had brought us to sound ground and comparative safety.
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