We made our way to the snow-slope at
the shoreward end of the spit, with the intention of digging a hole in
the snow large enough to provide shelter for the party. I had an idea
that Wild and his men might camp there during my absence, since it
seemed impossible that the tents could hold together for many more days
against the attacks of the wind; but an examination of the spot
indicated that any hole we could dig probably would be filled quickly
by the drift. At dark, about 5 p.m., we all turned in, after a supper
consisting of a pannikin of hot milk, one of our precious biscuits, and
a cold penguin leg each.
The gale was stronger than ever on the following morning (April 20).
No work could be done. Blizzard and snow, snow and blizzard, sudden
lulls and fierce returns. During the lulls we could see on the far
horizon to the north-east bergs of all shapes and sizes driving along
before the gale, and the sinister appearance of the swift-moving masses
made us thankful indeed that, instead of battling with the storm amid
the ice, we were required only to face the drift from the glaciers and
the inland heights. The gusts might throw us off our feet, but at least
we fell on solid ground and not on the rocking floes. Two seals came
up on the beach that day, one of them within ten yards of my tent.
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