THE region, which ten days before was teeming with animal life, was now
almost deserted. We saw but one narwhal and a few seal. The Ivory gull
too, a solitary traveler, occasionally flitted by us; but the season
had evidently wrought its change.
Several flocks of the snow bunting had passed over us while we were
attached to the main ice off Griffith's Island, and a single raven
was seen from the _Rescue_ at her holding grounds. The Brent geese,
however, the dovekies, the divers, indeed all the anatidæ, the white
whales, the walrus, the bearded and the hirsute seal, the white bear,
whatever gave us life and incident, had vanished.
The following Sunday, the 15th, was signalized by the introduction of a
bright new "Cornelius" lard lamp into the cabin, a luxury which I had
often urged before, but which the difficulties of opening the hold had
compelled the captain to deny us. The condensation of moisture had been
excessive; the beams had been sweating great drops, and my bedding and
bunk-boards bore the look of having been exposed to a drizzling mist.
The temperature had been below the freezing point for a week before.
The lamp gave us the very comfortable warmth of 44°, twelve degrees
above congelation. It was a luxury such as few but Arctic travelers can
apprehend.
For some days after this, an obscurity of fog and snow made it
impossible to see more than a few hundred yards from the ship. This
little area remained fast bound, the ice bearing us readily, though a
very slight motion against the sides of the vessel seemed to show that
it was not perfectly attached to the shores. But as I stood on deck
in the afternoon of the 16th, watching the coast to the east of us,
as the clouds cleared away for the first time, it struck me that its
configuration was unknown to me. By-and-by. Cape Beechy, the isthmus of
the Graves, loomed up; and we then found that we were a little to the
north of Cape Bowden.
The next two days this northward drift continued without remission. The
wind blew strong from the southward and eastward, sometimes approaching
to a gale; but the ice-pack around us retained its tenacity, and
increased rapidly in thickness.
Yet every now and then we could see that at some short distance it was
broken by small pools of water, which would be effaced again, soon
after they were formed, by an external pressure. At these times our
vessels underwent a nipping on a small scale. The smoother ice-field
that held us would be driven in, piling itself in miniature hummocks
about us, sometimes higher than our decks, and much too near them
to leave us a sense of security against their further advance. The
noises, too, of whining puppies and swarming bees made part of these
demonstrations, much as when the heavier masses were at work, but
shriller perhaps, and more clamorous.
I was aroused at midnight of the 16th by one of these onsets of the
enemy, crunching and creaking against the ship's sides till the masses
ground themselves to powder. Our vessel was trembling like an ague-fit
under the pressure; and when so pinched that she could not vibrate any
longer between the driving and the stationary fields, making a quick,
liberating jump above them that rattled the movables fore and aft. As
it wore on toward morning, the ice, now ten inches thick, kept crowding
upon us with increased energy; and the whole of the 17th was passed in
a succession of conflicts with it.
The 18th began with a nipping that promised more of danger. The banks
of ice rose one above another till they reached the line of our
bulwarks. This, too, continued through the day, sometimes lulling for
a while into comparative repose, but recurring after a few minutes of
partial intermission. While I was watching this angry contest of the
ice-tables, as they clashed together in the darkness of early dawn,
I saw for the first time the luminous appearance, which has been
described by voyagers as attending the collision of bergs. It was very
marked; as decided a phosphorescence as that of the fire-fly, or the
fox-fire of the Virginia meadows.
Still, amid all the tumult, our drift was toward the north. From the
bearings of the coast, badly obtained through the fogs, it was quite
evident that we had passed beyond any thing recorded on the charts.
Cape Bowden, Parry's furthest headland, was at least twenty-five
miles south of us; and our old landmarks. Cape Hotham and Beechy,
had entirely disappeared. Even the high bluffs of Barlow's Inlet had
gone. I hardly know why it was so, but this inlet had somehow or other
been for me an object of special aversion: the naked desolation of
its frost-bitten limestone, the cavernous recess of its cliffs, the
cheerlessness of its dark shadows, had connected it, from the first day
I saw it, with some dimly-remembered feeling of pain. But how glad we
should all of us have been, as we floated along in hopeless isolation,
to find a way open to its grim but protecting barriers.
I return to my journal.
"_September_ 19, Thursday. About five o'clock this morning the wind
set in from the northward and eastward; but the ice was tightly
compacted, and for a while did not budge. Presently, however, we could
see the water-pools extending their irregular margins. Ahead of us,
that is, still further to the north, was ice apparently more solid
than the ten-inch field around us. It shot up into larger hummocks and
heavier masses, and was evidently thicker and more permanent. It had
been for the past two days not more than fifty yards ahead, and we
called it in the log the 'fixed ice.' By breakfast-time this opened
into two long pools on our right, and one on the left, which seemed to
extend pretty well toward the western shore. It was evident that we
were now drifting to the southward again.
"The sun, so long obscured, gave us to-day a rough meridian altitude.
Murdaugh, always active and efficient, had his artificial horizon ready
upon the ice, and gave us an approximate latitude. We were in 75° 20'
11'' north. A large cape and several smaller headlands were seen,
together with apparently an inlet or harbor, all on the western side.
They remain unchristened. From our mast-head, no _positive_ land was
visible to the north. Tides we have not had the means of observing.
Our soundings on the 17th gave us bottom at 110 fathoms, nearly in
mid-channel.
"_September_ 19, 11:20 P.M. The wind continued all day from the
northward and westward, freshening gradually to a gale. The barometer
fell from 29.73 to 32, and our maximum temperature was 26°. A heavy
fall of snow covered the deck.
"_September_ 20. I have been keeping the first watch and anxiously
observing the ice; for I am no sailor, and in emergency can only wake
my comrades. The darkness is now complete. The wind has changed again.
At three A.M. it set in from the southward and eastward, increasing
gradually to a fresh gale. Perhaps it may be the breaking up of the
season, or some unusual premonition of stern winter; but certain it
is that our experience of Lancaster Sound has given us anything but
tranquillity of winds. We entered on the wings of a storm; and ever
since, with the exception of about three days off Cape Riley, we have
had nothing but gales, rising and falling in alternating series from
the north to northward and westward, and from the south to southward
and eastward. The day was as usual ushered in with snow, and the
thermometer rose to the height of 29°; yet to sensation it was cold.
There is something very queer about this discrepancy between the
thermometrical register and the effects of heat. It thawed palpably
to-day at 28°; and yet all complain of cold, even without the influence
of the wind.
"We are now, poor devils! drifting northward again. Creatures of habit,
those who were anxious have forgotten anxiety; glued fast here in a
moving mass, we eat, and drink, and sleep, unmindful of the morrow.
It is almost beyond a doubt that, if we find our way through the
contingencies of this Arctic autumn, we must spend our winter in open
sea. Many miles to the south. Captain Back passed a memorable term of
vigil and exposure. Here, however, I do not anticipate such encounters
with drifting floes as are spoken of in Hudson's Bay. The centre of
greatest cold is too near us, and the communication with open sea too
distant.--
"I was in the act of writing the above, when a startling sensation,
resembling the spring of a well-drawn bow, announced a fresh movement.
Running on deck, I found it blowing a furious gale, and the ice again
in motion. I use the word motion inaccurately. The field, of which
we are a part, is always in motion; that is, drifting with wind or
current. It is only when other ice bears down upon our own, or our own
ice is borne in against other floes, that pressure and resistance make
us conscious of motion.
"The ice was again in motion. The great expanse of recently-formed
solidity, already bristling with hummocks, had up to this moment
resisted the enormous incidence of a heavy gale. Suddenly, however,
the pressure increasing beyond its strength, it yielded. The twang
of a bow-string is the only thing I can compare it to. In a single
instant the broad field was rent asunder, cracked in every conceivable
direction, tables ground against tables, and masses piled over masses.
The sea seemed to be churning ice.
"By the time I had yoked my neck in its _serape_, and got up upon deck,
the ice had piled up a couple of feet above our bulwarks. In less
than another minute it had toppled over again, and we were floating
helplessly in a confused mass of broken fragments. Fortunately the
_Rescue_ remained fixed; our hawser was fast to her stern, and by it we
were brought side by side again. Night passed anxiously; _i. e._, slept
in my clothes, and dreamed of being presented to Queen Victoria.
"_September_ 21, Saturday. We have drifted still more to the northward
and eastward. An observation gave us latitude 75° 20' 38'' N. We are
apparently not more than seven miles from the shore. It is still of the
characteristic transition limestone, very uninviting, snow-covered,
and destitute; but we look at it longingly. It would be so comforting
to have landed a small depôt of provisions, in case of accident or
impaction further north.
"No snow until afternoon. Thermometer, maximum 22°, minimum 19°, mean
20° 35'. Wind gentle, and now nearly calm, from southward and eastward
to southward.
"About tea-time (21st), the sun sufficiently low to give the effects of
sunset, we saw distinctly to the north by west a series of hill-tops,
apparently of the same configuration with those around us. The trend
of the western coast extending northward from the point opposite our
vessel receded westward, and a vacant space, either of unseen very low
land or of water, separated it from the Terra Nova, which we see north
of us. Whether this Grinnell Land, as our captain has named it, be a
continuation of Cornwallis Island or a cape from a new northernland, or
a new direction of the eastern coast of North Devon, or a new island,
I am not prepared to say. We shall probably know more of each other
before long.
"_September_ 22, Sunday. A cloudless morning: no snow till afternoon.
Our drift during the night has been to the northward; and, except an
occasional crack or pool, our horizon was one mass of snow-covered ice.
"The beautifully clear sky with which the day opened gave us another
opportunity of seeing the unvisited shores of Upper Wellington
Sound. Our latitude by artificial horizon was 75° 24' 21'' N., about
sixty miles from Cape Hotham. Cape Bowden, on the eastern side, has
disappeared; and on the west, Advance Bluff, a dark, projecting cape,
from which we took sextant angles, was seen bearing to the west of
south. To the northward and westward low land was seen, having the
appearance of an island,[B] and mountain tops terminating the low strip
ahead. The trend of the shore on our left, the western, is clearly to
the westward since leaving Advance Bluff. It is rolling, with terraced
shingle beach, and without bluffs. It terminates, or apparently
terminates, abruptly, thus:
[Illustration]
after which comes a strip without visible land, and then the mountain
tops mentioned above. Beyond this western shore, distant only seven
miles, we see mountain tops, distant and very high, rising above the
clouds.
[B] I have followed my journal literally. I find, however, in my copy
of the log-book, below the entry of the watch-officer which mentions
this island, a note made by me at the time: "I can see no island, but
simply this prolongation or tongue."
"_September_ 25, Wednesday. The wind has changed, so that our helpless
drift is now again to the north. The day was comparatively free from
snow; but not clear enough to give us an observation, or to exhibit the
more distant coast-lines. We can see the western shore very plainly
covered with snow, and stretching in rolling hills to the north and
west. A little indentation, nearly opposite the day before yesterday,
is now in nearly the same phase--if any thing, a little to the
southward. We have therefore changed our position by drift not so much
as on the preceding days. The winds, however, have been very light.
Advance Bluff is now shut in by 'Cape Rescue,' the westernmost point
yet discovered of Cornwallis Island. This shows that we are nearing the
shore.
"Toward the north and a little to the west is a permanent dark cloud,
a line of stratus with a cumulated thickening at the western end. This
is the same during sunshine and snow-storm, night and day. It is
thought by Captain De Haven to be indicative of open water. It may be
that Cornwallis Island ends there, and that this is a continuation of
the present channel trending to the westward. Or this dark appearance
may be merely the highland clouds over the mountains seen on Sunday;
but De Haven suggests that it is rather a vacant space, or water free
from ice; the exemption being due to the island and adjacent western
shore (not more than seven miles from it), acting as a barrier to the
northern drift of the present channel."