FROM EDINBURGH TO THE ANTARCTIC 323 
front of us. The screw goes on revolving, but we make 
no way, and we feel the ice creeping along our sides and 
round our stern ; another clang of the bell, but too late — 
the propeller strikes the ice, and the engines are stopped, 
with an alarming shock — all is quiet but for the howling 
of the wind outside; then come feet thumping overhead as 
men hurry aft to see to the rudder. We are fairly caught 
now, fore and aft, and the Balaena rolls a little, uneasily, 
in the ice grip. 
It was difficult to go to sleep whilst these various 
shocks and sounds continued ; so I put by my log, blew 
out my candle, and went on deck to look at the grey ice 
ghosts that were trying to crush in our bulwarks. . . . 
It was comfortable enough in the focsle, so at least I 
found it when I went to the galley for our evening brew 
of coffee. Half a dozen of the watch below sat before the 
fire puffing at their pipes and staring at the red coals. It 
was comfortable, by contrast at least, but the conversation 
was doleful and intermittent, and one man was praying 
beside his sea-chest for our preservation. No wonder the 
men were depressed : Mark Tapley would have groaned 
on such a night; 1 and some of the most lugubrious spoke 
of putting on their best clothes — to be neat and tidy, I 
suppose, when all hands should be piped aloft. I am 
afraid that on this occasion my friends brocaded their 
1 Dr. Donald, of the Active, tells me they were also in a very tight place 
OB this night, and all their men had packed their chests. The idea with 
whalers in case of their ship being nipped is to get on to the ice with their 
belongings and anything of any value they can lay hands on in the ship — 
rifles, copper pipes, etc., and then get another whaler to take them home. 
They are quite accustomed to this. 
