ENTERING MELVILLE BAY.--THE MIDDLE ICE.--THE GREAT POLAR CURRENT--A
SNOW STORM.--ENCOUNTER WITH AN ICEBERG.--MAKING CAPE
YORK--RESCUE OF HANS.
The sun was now no longer above the horizon at midnight, and the nights
were growing gloomy, a circumstance which warned us to additional
carefulness.
Notwithstanding our precautions, we narrowly escaped running upon a
sunken reef which lies off the Horse's Head, and is not laid down
on the chart. We came also among some ice-fields, the first that we
had yet encountered. The waves were rolling in threateningly from
the southwest, and the ice, tossing madly upon them, gave us an
uncomfortable sense of insecurity; but we escaped into clear water
after receiving a few thumps which did no material damage to our solid
bows.
By eight o'clock in the morning we had Wilcox Point clearly in view,
and the Devil's Thumb loomed above a light cloud which floated along
its base. Before us lay Melville Bay. Climbing to the fore-yard, I
swept the horizon with my glass;--there was no ice in sight except here
and there a vagrant berg. To the westward an "ice-blink" showed us that
the "pack" lay there; but before us all was clear,--nothing in sight
but the "swelling and limitless billows."
No discovery of my life ever gave me greater gratification. The
fortunes of the expedition were, at least for the present year,
dependent upon an open season, and my most sanguine anticipations did
not equal the apparent reality.
In order that the reader may appreciate, in some measure, the
satisfaction which I took in the prospect that opened before me, it is
necessary that I should here pause to give a general description of the
region we were about to traverse, and an explanation of the physical
conditions which made this portion of the Greenland waters of such
conspicuous importance in the destinies of our voyage.
[Sidenote: MELVILLE BAY.]
The shores of Melville Bay, as laid down on the maps, appear as a
simple curved line of the Greenland coast; but the Melville Bay of the
geographer comprehends much less than that of the mariner. The whalers
have long called by that name the expansion of Baffin Bay which begins
at the south with the "middle ice," and terminates at the north with
the "North Water." The North Water is sometimes reached near Cape
York, in latitude 76°, but more frequently higher up; and the "middle
ice," which is more generally known as "the pack," sometimes stretches
down to the Arctic Circle. This pack is made up of drifting ice-floes,
varying in extent from feet to miles, and in thickness from inches to
fathoms. These masses are sometimes pressed close together, having but
little or no open space between them; and sometimes they are widely
separated, depending upon the conditions of the wind and tide. They are
always more or less in motion, drifting to the north, south, east, or
west, with the winds and currents. The penetration of this barrier is
usually an undertaking of weeks or months, and is ordinarily attended
with much risk.
Since the days when Baffin first penetrated these waters, in the
_Discovery_, a vessel of fifty-eight tons burden, (it was in the year
1616,) a fleet of whale-ships has annually run this gauntlet. The
fleet was once large, numbering upwards of a hundred sail; but of
latter years it has been reduced to less than one tenth of its former
magnitude. Great though the danger, it has always been a favorite route
of the whale fishers. Many a stout ship has gone down with her sides
mercilessly crushed in by the "thick-ribbed ice;" but those vessels
which escape disaster almost uniformly return home with holds well
filled with the blubber and oil of unlucky whales whose evil destiny
led them to frequent the waters about Lancaster Sound, Pond's Bay, and
the coasts below.
[Sidenote: THE MIDDLE ICE.]
The "middle ice" is always more or less in motion, and is never tightly
closed up, even in midwinter. Of this we have abundant proof in the
fate of the Steamer _Fox_, which was caught towards the close of the
autumn, and released in the spring, after a perilous winter drift, down
near the Arctic Circle.
As the summer advances, it becomes more and more broken up; and,
little by little, the solid land-belt, which is known as the "fast" or
"land-ice," is encroached upon. Of this, however, there usually remains
a narrow strip up to the close of the season. To it the whalers cling
most tenaciously, and the exploring vessels have usually followed their
example, taking always the last crack that has opened, or, as they call
it, the "in-shore lead." They have naturally a great horror of being
caught in the "pack." The "fast" gives them security if the wind brings
the ice down upon them from the westward, for they can always saw a
dock for their ships in the solid ice, or find a bight in which to
moor the vessel. They have always, too, the advantage of being able,
when the ice is loose and there is no wind, to tow their vessel along
its margin with the crew, steam being rarely used by the whalers.
[Sidenote: THE GREAT POLAR CURRENT.]
The currents have much to do with the formation of this barrier. The
great Polar Current coming down through the Spitzbergen Sea along the
eastern coast of Greenland, laden with its heavy freight of ice, and
bringing from the rivers of Siberia a meagre supply of drift-wood to
the Greenlanders, sweeps around Cape Farewell and flows northward as
far as Cape York, where it is deflected to the westward. Joining here
the ice-encumbered current which comes from the Arctic Ocean through
Smith, Jones, and Lancaster Sounds, it flows thence southward, past
Labrador and Newfoundland, receives on its way an accession of strength
from Hudson Strait, wedges itself in between the Gulf Stream and the
shore, gives cool, refreshing waters to the bathers of Newport and Long
Branch, and is finally lost off the Capes of Florida.
Now it will readily be seen, by the most casual glance at any map of
Baffin Bay, that this movement of the current forms, where the middle
ice is found, a sort of slow-moving whirlpool, and this it is which
locks up the ice and prevents its more rapid movement southward. It
will also be readily understood that, by the end of August, the pack
has been very materially shorn of its dimensions. The sun above and
the waters beneath have both eaten it away, until much of it has
disappeared altogether, and all of it has become more or less rotten.
The month of August is necessarily the most favorable period of the
year for the navigation of this sea, so far as concerns the ice;
but the winter is then near at hand, and presents a serious source
of danger; for if the ice once closes around you, the first fall of
temperature may glue you fast for the next ten months to come. The
whalers usually take the pack in May or June, and even sometimes
earlier, when the ice is hard and is just beginning to break up.
[Sidenote: A SNOW-STORM.]
When we entered Melville Bay there were but eight days remaining to
us of the month of August. I had to regret the loss of time at the
settlements; but this was unavoidable. Before leaving Upernavik I
had resolved upon the course which I would pursue,--to take the pack
whenever we should find it, enter it at the most favorable opening,
and, without looking for the land ice, to make the most direct line for
Cape York. It was much in our favor that the wind had prevailed for
many days from the eastward, and had apparently pushed the whole pack
over toward the American side, opening for us a clear, broad expanse
of water. Would it so remain, and give us a free passage to Cape York?
I have already said that I saw its reflection over the clouds,--the
"ice-blink" to the westward. It was not far away. Would it remain so?
While reflecting upon the chances ahead the wind rose, and blew half
a gale. A heavy sea was getting up behind us. A dark cloud, which had
hung upon the southern horizon for some time, came climbing up the
sky, and at length spreading itself out in flying fragments, it shook
over us a shower of frozen vapor, and then settled into a regular snow
storm. Unable to see fifty yards on either side, I came down from my
uncomfortable perch on the fore-yard.
It became now a subject for serious consideration whether we should
continue on in our course, or heave to and wait for better weather. In
either case we were exposed to much risk. By heaving to, the vessel
would not be under command; and, drifting through the gloom, we stood
a fair chance of settling upon a stray berg or upon the ice-fields
which we had every reason to suppose would, sooner or later, obstruct
our progress; besides, and it was not an unimportant consideration, we
lost a fine wind. On the other hand, by holding on, although we had
the vessel under control, there was an even chance that, in the event
of ice lying in our course, we would not be able to see it through
the thick atmosphere in time to avoid it. The question was, however,
quickly decided. Preferring that danger which had some energy in it, I
reefed every thing down, pointed the schooner's head for Cape York, and
went at it.
[Sidenote: AN ANXIOUS NIGHT.]
I paced the deck in much anxiety of mind. We were traversing a sea
which no keel had ever plowed before without meeting ice, and why
should better fortune be in store for our little craft. The air was so
thick that I could sometimes barely see the lookout on the forecastle;
then again it would lighten up, and, underneath the broad canopy of
dark vapors, which seemed to be supported by the icebergs that here and
there appeared, I could see a distance of several miles. Then again
the air became thick with the falling snow and rattling hail; the wind
whistled through the rigging, and all the while the heavy waves were
rolling up behind us, deluging the decks, and threatening to swallow us
up. I shall not soon forget our first ten hours in Melville Bay.
At length, after a few hours of this wild running, my ear, which was
keenly alive to every impression, caught the sound of breakers. The
lookout gave the alarm a moment afterward.
[Sidenote: ENCOUNTER WITH AN ICEBERG.]
"Where away?"
"I can't make out, sir."
The sound came from an object which was evidently near at hand, but no
one could tell where. A few moments more, and the loom of an iceberg
appeared in our course. There was no time for reflection, and it was
too late for action. To haul the schooner by the wind was to insure our
plunging broadside upon it; and so indistinct was the object that we
knew not which way to steer. We could not see either end of it or its
top,--nothing but a white shimmer and a line of angry surf.
I have always found inaction to be a safe course when one does not know
what to do; and in the present case that course saved us. Had I obeyed
my first impulse, and put the helm up, we should have gone straight to
ruin; as it was, we slipped past the ugly monster, barely escaping a
collision which, had it occurred, would have been instantly fatal to
the vessel, and of course to every one on board. The fore-yard actually
grazed its side, and the surf was thrown back upon us from the white
wall. In a few moments the berg was swallowed up in the gloom from
which it had so suddenly emerged.
"A close shave, that!" said cool-headed Dodge.
"Ver--very close," answered Starr, much as if he had just received the
first shock of a shower-bath.
The old cook was called out of his galley to lend a hand, and in the
midst of the excitement he was heard to growl out, "I don't see how
I's to get de gentlemens' dinner ready if I's to be called out of my
galley in dis way to pull and haul on de ropes." He did not seem to
have a thought that there was, a moment before, very little expectation
on the part of "de gentlemens" that any of them would have further
occasion for his services.
This adventure inspired the crew with greater confidence. I suppose
they thought that, as two cannon-balls never strike in the same spot,
another iceberg would not very likely lay in our course; and so it fell
out. The cry of "breakers" was often heard from the forecastle-deck,
but in the end the sound proved to come from off the bow, and we passed
on unharmed.
At length the wind blew itself out, the snow ceased falling, the clouds
broke, the sun shone out brightly, and we lay becalmed not far from
the centre of Melville Bay. The snow and ice were shovelled from the
deck and beaten from the rigging. I went aloft again with my glass.
There were no ice-fields in sight, but the reflection of them was still
visible in the sky to the westward.
The sea was dotted over with icebergs, and it seemed wonderful that
we should have passed safely between them. One near by particularly
excited my admiration. It was a perfect "triumphal arch," through which
the schooner might have passed with perfect ease.
[Sidenote: CAPE YORK IN SIGHT.]
The schooner lay motionless during the night, but early in the morning
a fair wind sent us again upon our course, and this wind held steadily
through the day. Icebergs rose before us and set behind us in solemn
procession. My journal designates them as "mile-stones of the ocean."
The lofty, snow-crowned highlands behind Cape York rose at length above
the horizon, and the bold, dark-sided cape itself was, after a while,
seen "advancing in the bosom of the sea."
We did not meet any field-ice until near noon of the 25th. I had been
aloft in anxious watching during almost all of the whole preceding day
and night; but when I had made up my mind that we should clear Melville
Bay without a single brush with the enemy, a line of whiteness revealed
itself in the distance. We were not long in reaching it, and, selecting
the most conspicuous opening, forced our way through. It proved to
be only a loose "pack" about fifteen miles wide, and, under a full
pressure of canvas, we experienced little difficulty in "boring" it.
[Sidenote: IN THE NORTH WATER.]
And now we were in the "North Water." We had passed Melville Bay in
fifty-five hours.
Standing close in under Cape York, I kept a careful lookout for
natives. The readers of the narrative of Dr. Kane may remember that
that navigator took with him from one of the southern settlements of
Greenland a native hunter, who, after adhering to the fortunes of the
expedition through nearly two years, abandoned it, (as reported,) for
a native bride, to live with the wild Esquimaux who inhabit the shores
of the headwaters of Baffin Bay. This boy was named Hans. Anticipating
that, growing tired of his self-imposed banishment, he would take
up his residence at Cape York, with the hope of being picked up by
some friendly ship, I ran in to seek him. Passing along the coast at
rifle-shot I soon discovered a group of human beings making signs to
attract attention. Heaving the vessel to, I went ashore in a boat, and
there, sure enough, was the object of my search. He quickly recognized
Sonntag and myself, and called us by name.
[Sidenote: AN ESQUIMAU FAMILY.]
Six years' experience among the wild men of this barren coast had
brought him to their level of filthy ugliness. His companions were his
wife, who carried her first-born in a hood upon her back; her brother,
a bright-eyed boy of twelve years, and "an ancient dame with voluble
and flippant tongue," her mother. They were all dressed in skins, and,
being the first Esquimaux we had seen whose habits remained wholly
uninfluenced by contact with civilization, they were, naturally,
objects of much interest to us all.
Hans led us up the hill-side, over rough rocks and through deep
snow-drifts, to his tent. It was pitched about two hundred feet above
the level of the sea, in a most inconvenient position for a hunter; but
it was his "lookout." Wearily he had watched, year after year, for the
hoped-for vessel; but summer after summer passed and the vessel came
not, and he still sighed for his southern home and the friends of his
youth.
His tent was a sorry habitation. It was made after the Esquimau
fashion, of seal-skins, and was barely large enough to hold the little
family who were grouped about us.
I asked Hans if he would go with us.
"Yes!"
Would he take his wife and baby.
"Yes!"
Would he go without them.
"Yes!"
[Sidenote: RESCUE OF HANS.]
Having no leisure to examine critically into the state of his mind,
and having an impression that the permanent separation of husband and
wife is regarded as a painful event, I gave the Esquimau mother the
benefit of this conventional suspicion, and brought them both aboard,
with their baby and their tent and all their household goods. The
old woman and bright-eyed boy cried to be taken along; but I had no
further room, and we had to leave them to the care of the remainder of
the tribe, who, about twenty in number, had discovered the vessel, and
came shouting gleefully over the hill. After distributing to them some
useful presents, we pushed off for the schooner.
Hans was the only unconcerned person in the party. I subsequently
thought that he would have been quite as well pleased had I left his
wife and child to the protection of their savage kin; and had I known
him as well then as, with good reason, I knew him afterward, I would
not have gone out of my way to disturb his barbarous existence.
[Illustration]