THE DEPOT JOURNEY 137 
Found every one very cold and depressed. Wilson and 
Meares had had continuous bad weather since we left, 
Bowers and Oates since their arrival. The blizzard had 
raged for two days. The animals looked in a sorry condi- 
tion, but all were alive. The wind blew keen and cold from 
the east. There could be no advantage in waiting here, and 
soon all arrangements were made for a general shift to Hut 
Point. Packing took a long time. The snowfall had been 
prodigious, and parts of the sledges were 3 or 4 feet under 
drift. About 4 o’clock the two dog-teams got safely away. 
Then the pony party prepared to go. As the cloths were 
stript from the ponies the ravages of the blizzard became 
evident. The animals, without exception, were terribly 
emaciated, and Weary Willie was in a pitiable condition. 
“The plan was for the ponies to follow the dog tracks, 
our small party to start last and get in front of the ponies 
on the sea-ice. I was very anxious about the sea-ice passage 
owing to the spread of the water holes.” } 
The two dog-teams left with Meares and Wilson some 
time before the ponies, and for the moment they go out of 
this story. 
Bowers’ pony, Uncle Bill, was ready first, and he 
started with him. We got three more ponies harnessed, 
Punch, Nobby and Guts, and tried to harness Weary 
Willie, but when we attempted to lead him forward he 
immediately fell down. 
Scott rapidly reorganized. He sent Crean and me for- 
ward with the three better ponies to join Bowers, now 
waiting a mile ahead. Oates and Gran he kept with him- 
self, to try and help the sick pony. His diary tells how “we 
made desperate efforts to save the poor creature, got him 
once more on his legs, gave him a hot oat mash. Then, 
after a wait of an hour, Oates led him off, and we packed 
the sledge and followed on ski; 500 yards from the camp 
the poor creature fell again and I felt it was the last effort. 
We camped, built a snow wall round him, and did all we 
possibly could to get him on his feet. Every effort was 
fruitless, though the poor thing made pitiful struggles. 
1 Scote’s Last Expedition, vol. i. pp. 190-191. 
