CHAPTER XXIX 



BARTLETT REACHES 87° 47' 



OUR hopes were soon realized, for at one o'clock 

 in the morning, March 30, when I awoke 

 and looked at my watch, the murmur from 

 the closing lead had increased to a hoarse roar, punc- 

 tuated with groans and with reports like those of rifles, 

 dying away to the east and west like the sounds from 

 a mighty firing line. Looking through the peephole, 

 I saw that the black curtain had thinned so that I 

 could see through it to another similar, though blacker, 

 curtain behind, indicating still another lead further on. 

 At eight o'clock in the morning the temperature 

 was down to minus 30°, with a bitter northwest breeze. 

 The grinding and groaning of the ice had ceased, 

 and the smoke and haze had disappeared, as is usual 

 when a lead closes up or freezes over. We rushed 

 across before the ice should open again. All this day 

 we traveled together, Bartlett's division, Henson's, 

 and mine, constantly crossing narrow lanes of young 

 ice, which had only recently been open water. Dur- 

 ing this march we had to cross a lake of young ice some 

 six or seven miles across — so thin that the ice buckled 

 under us as we rushed on at full speed for the other 

 side. We did our best to make up for the previous 

 day's delay, and when we finally camped on a heavy 

 old floe we had made a good twenty miles. 



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