W., force 4, temp.
-35 deg.. No human being could face it, and we are worn out _nearly_.
"My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes--two days ago I was proud
possessor of best feet.... Bowers takes first place in condition, but
there is not much to choose after all. The others are still confident of
getting through--or pretend to be--I don't know! We have the last _half_
fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit--this alone
between us and thirst. The wind is fair for the moment, and that is
perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small
on our outward journey."
"_Monday, March 19. Lunch._ We camped with difficulty last night and were
dreadfully cold till after our supper of cold pemmican and biscuit and a
half pannikin of cocoa cooked over the spirit. Then, contrary to
expectation, we got warm and all slept well. To-day we started in the
usual dragging manner. Sledge dreadfully heavy. We are 151/2 miles from the
depot and ought to get there in three days. What progress! We have two
days' food but barely a day's fuel. All our feet are getting
bad--Wilson's best, my right foot worse, left all right. There is no
chance to nurse one's feet till we can get hot food into us. Amputation
is the least I can hope for now, but will the trouble spread? That is the
serious question.
Pages:
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900