Since morning the wind had been blowing strongly in their faces. By noon
it had increased. At four o'clock a violent gale was howling over the
reaches of ice and rock-ribbed land. It was impossible to go forward
while it lasted. The stronger gusts fairly carried their feet from under
them. At half-past four the party halted. The gale was now a hurricane.
The expedition paused, collected itself, went forward; halted again,
again attempted to move, and came at last to a definite standstill in
whirling snow-clouds and blinding, stupefying blasts.

"Pitch the tent!" said Bennett quietly. "We must wait now till it blows
over."

In the lee of a mound of ice-covered rock some hundred yards from the
coast the tent was pitched, and supper, such as it was, eaten in
silence. All knew what this enforced halt must mean for them. That
supper--each man could hold his portion in the hollow of one hand--was
the last of their regular provisions. March they could not. What now?
Before crawling into their sleeping-bags, and at Bennett's request, all
joined in repeating the Creed and the Lord's Prayer.

The next day passed, and the next, and the next. The gale continued
steadily. The southerly march was discontinued. All day and all night
the men kept in the tent, huddled in the sleeping-bags, sometimes
sleeping eighteen and twenty hours out of the twenty-four. They lost all
consciousness of the lapse of time; sensation even of suffering left
them; the very hunger itself had ceased to gnaw. Only Bennett and
Ferriss seemed to keep their heads. Then slowly the end began.

For that last week Bennett's entries in his ice-journal were as follows: