It is now hundreds of years since the North polar regions began to
attract general attention. Men have long felt very inquisitive about
that part of the earth, and many good ships, many noble lives have been
lost in trying to force a passage through the ice that encumbers the
Arctic seas, summer and winter. Britain has done more than other
nations in the cause of discovery within the Arctic circle. The last
and greatest of her Arctic heroes perished there--the famous Sir John
Franklin.
Were I writing a history of those regions I would have much to say of
other countries as well as of our own. But such is not my object in
this book. I mean simply to follow in the wake of one of Britain's
adventurous discoverers, and thus give the reader an idea of the
fortunes of those gallant men who risk life and limb for the sake of
obtaining knowledge of distant lands.
There have always been restless spirits in this country. There have
ever been men who, when boys, were full of mischief, and who could
"settle to nothing" when they grew up. Lucky for us, lucky for the
world, that such is the case! Many of our "restless spirits," as we
call them, have turned out to be our heroes, our discoverers, our
greatest men. No doubt many of them have become our drones, our
sharpers, our blacklegs. But that is just saying that some men are
good, while others are bad--no blame is due to what is called the
restlessness of spirit. Our restless men, if good, find rest in action;
in bold energetic toil; if bad, they find rest, alas! in untimely
graves.
Captain Harvey was one of our restless spirits. He had a deeply learned
friend who said to him one day that he felt sure "_there was a sea of
open water round the North Pole_!" Hundreds of ships had tried to reach
that pole without success, because they always found a barrier of thick
ice raised against them. This friend said that if a ship could only cut
or force its way through the ice to a certain latitude north, open water
would be found. Captain Harvey was much interested in this. He could
not rest until he had proved it. He had plenty of money, so had his
friend. They resolved to buy a vessel and send it to the seas lying
within the Arctic circle. Other rich friends helped them; a brig was
bought, it was named the _Hope_, and, as we have seen in the last
chapter, it finally set sail under command of Captain Harvey.
Many days and nights passed, and the _Hope_ kept her course steadily
toward the coast of North America. Greenland was the first land they
hoped to see. Baffin's Bay was the strait through which they hoped to
reach the open polar sea.
The _Hope_ left England as a whaler, with all the boats, lances,
harpoons, lines, and other apparatus used in the whale fishery. It was
intended that she should do a little business in that way if Captain
Harvey thought it advisable, but the discovery of new lands and seas was
their chief end and aim.
At first the weather was fine, the wind fair, and the voyage prosperous.
But one night there came a deep calm. Not a breath of air moved over
the sea, which was as clear and polished as a looking-glass. The
captain walked the deck with the surgeon of the ship, a nephew of his
own, named Gregory.
Tom Gregory was a youth of about nineteen, who had not passed through
the whole course of a doctor's education, but who was a clever fellow,
and better able to cut and carve and physic poor suffering humanity than
many an older man who wrote M.D. after his name. He was a fine,
handsome, strapping fellow, with a determined manner and a kind heart.
He was able to pull an oar with the best man aboard, and could even
steer the brig in fine weather, if need be. He was hearty and romantic,
and a great favourite with the men. He, too, was a restless spirit. He
had grown tired of college life, and had made up his mind to take a
year's run into the Polar regions, by way of improving his knowledge of
the "outlandish" parts of the world.
"I don't like the look of the sky to-day, Tom," said the captain,
glancing at the horizon and then at the sails.
"Indeed!" said Tom, in surprise. "It seems to me the most beautiful
afternoon we have had since the voyage began. But I suppose you seamen
are learned in signs which we landsmen do not understand."
"Perhaps we are," replied the captain; "but it does not require much
knowledge of the weather to say that such a dead calm as this, and such
unusual heat, is not likely to end in a gentle breeze."
"You don't object to a stiff breeze, uncle?" said the youth.
"No, Tom; but I don't like a storm, because it does us no good, and may
do us harm."
"Storms do you no good, uncle!" cried Tom; "how can you say so? Why,
what is it that makes our sailors such trumps? The British tar would
not be able to face danger as he does if there were no storms."
"True, Tom, but the British tar would not require to face danger at all
if there were no storms. What says the barometer, Mr Mansell?" said
the captain, looking down the skylight into the cabin, where the first
mate--a middle-sized man of thirty-five, or thereabouts--was seated at
the table writing up the ship's log-book.
"The glass has gone down an inch, sir, and is still falling," answered
the mate.
"Reef the topsail, Mr Dicey," cried the captain, on hearing this.
"Why such haste?" inquired Gregory.
"Because such a sudden fall in the barometer is a sure sign of
approaching bad weather," answered the captain.
The first man on the shrouds and out upon the main-topsail yard was Sam
Baker, whose active movements and hearty manner showed that he had quite
recovered his health without the use of physic. He was quickly followed
by some of his shipmates, all of whom were picked men--able in body and
ready for anything.
In a few minutes sail was reduced. Soon after that clouds began to rise
on the horizon and spread over the sky. Before half an hour had passed
the breeze came--came far stronger than had been expected--and the order
to take in sail had to be repeated. Baker was first again. He was
closely followed by Joe Davis and Jim Croft, both of them sturdy
fellows--good specimens of the British seaman. Davy Butts, who came
next, was not so good a specimen. He was nearly six feet high, very
thin and loosely put together, like a piece of bad furniture. But his
bones were big, and he was stronger than he looked. He would not have
formed one of such a crew had he not been a good man. The rest of the
crew, of whom there were eighteen, not including the officers, were of
all shapes, sizes, and complexions.
The sails had scarcely been taken in when the storm burst on the brig in
all its fury. The waves rose like mountains and followed after her, as
if they were eager to swallow her up. The sky grew dark overhead as the
night closed in, the wind shrieked through the rigging, and the rag of
canvas that they ventured to hoist seemed about to burst away from the
yard. It was an awful night. Such a night as causes even reckless men
to feel how helpless they are--how dependent on the arm of God. The
gale steadily increased until near midnight, when it blew a perfect
hurricane.
"It's a dirty night," observed the captain, to the second mate, as the
latter came on deck to relieve the watch.
"It is, sir," replied Mr Dicey, as coolly as if he were about to sit
down to a good dinner on shore. Mr Dicey was a remarkably
matter-of-fact man. He looked upon a storm as he looked upon a fit of
the toothache--a thing that had to be endured, and was not worth making
a fuss about.
"It won't last long," said the captain.
"No, sir; it won't," answered Mr Dicey.
As Mr Dicey did not seem inclined to say more, the captain went below
and flung himself on a locker, having given orders that he should be
called if any change for the worse took place in the weather. Soon
afterward a tremendous sea rose high over the stern, and part of it fell
on the deck with a terrible crash, washing Mr Dicey into the
lee-scuppers, and almost sweeping him overboard. On regaining his feet,
and his position beside the wheel, the second mate shook himself and
considered whether he ought to call the captain. Having meditated some
time, he concluded that the weather was no worse, although it had
treated him very roughly, so he did not disturb the captain's repose.
Thus the storm raged all that night. It tossed the _Hope_ about like a
cork; it well-nigh blew the sails off the masts, and almost blew Mr
Dicey's head off his shoulders! then it stopped as it had begun--
suddenly.