But we were not destined, after all, to set out that
year. About the 20th February, the ice began to pack, and the ship was
subjected to an appalling pressure. We found it necessary to make
trumpets of our hands to shout into one another's ears, for the whole
ice-continent was crashing, popping, thundering everywhere in terrific
upheaval. Expecting every moment to see the _Boreal_ crushed to
splinters, we had to set about unpacking provisions, and placing
sledges, kayaks, dogs and everything in a position for instant flight.
It lasted five days, and was accompanied by a tempest from the north,
which, by the end of February, had driven us back south into latitude
79 deg. 40'. Clark, of course, then abandoned the thought of the Pole for
that summer.
And immediately afterwards we made a startling discovery: our stock of
reindeer-moss was found to be somehow ridiculously small. Egan, our
second mate, was blamed; but that did not help matters: the sad fact
remained. Clark was advised to kill one or two of the deer, but he
pig-headedly refused: and by the beginning of summer they were all dead.
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