THE THIRTY-TWO SHIPS
That great disaster in the Arctic during the year 1830, when nineteen
British whaling ships and one French were lost, and over a thousand men
temporarily lived on the ice, was destined to be repeated but on an
even greater scale by the calamity which overtook the American whaling
fleet in the year 1871. In the former case the scene was Baffin’s
Bay: in the latter it was further to the westward. I believe that
never in the history of the industry has a loss so wholesale and so
financially deplorable taken place. Whaling-ship owners could scarcely
have received a more terrible shock than the news which eventually
reached them. It is the old story of that enemy ice making sport of
wooden ships. The one satisfactory aspect--and that an amazing one--is
that not a single life was lost. But instead of nineteen vessels being
wrecked, we have to chronicle thirty-two.[1]
[1] For information in this chapter I have to acknowledge Mr. Arthur
C. Watson’s interesting article in _Yachting_ for May 1925. Mr. Watson
has had available the journals and log books of American whaling ship
masters.
The Bering Strait, separating Asia from America, is of course the most
northerly part of the Pacific, narrow, shallow and bordered by bare,
rocky shores, and from November to May generally impassable owing to
the fog and ice: but otherwise it gives access to the Arctic in the
remaining months. The right of Canadian fishermen to hunt seals in this
strait used to be the cause of much irritation for many years between
the Governments of the United States, Canada and Great Britain, until
the award by the arbitrators was made in 1893. Through this sea in the
summer of 1871 thirty-nine whaling ships and barques were able to sail
into the Arctic Ocean, their intended destination being Cape Barrow, at
the extreme northern end of Alaska, where it was known that the whales
were plentiful. Thus we have to observe that the mammal in the course
of his migration had gone still further west. Theoretically there
seemed every chance of a fine catch for the fleet.
Luckily, too, movements of the Bering Strait ice packs gave a
comparatively easy passage to these ships, whose captains in their
combined knowledge and judgment of this part of the world were
unequalled. The late spring had been passed whaling in this strait,
and so soon as the ice permitted, the fleet was able to work north,
past Cape Lisburne in June and then to anchor at the other side of that
great bight by Icy Cape, which will be found marked in the modern maps
less than a hundred and fifty miles short of Cape Barrow.
Early in August some of the fleet were able, by the receding of the
ice, to get further ahead and either anchor or secure to the ice. Then
after another wait, the ships were able to sail in a six-mile-wide
channel between the shore and the ice until once more they reached
the barrier, and made fast as before. The idea was to keep going as
soon as the lane was clear, so as to reach Cape Barrow at the earliest
date: but it was the ice which determined the rate of progress and
the annoying stoppages. However, in the period of waiting, boats
were launched and whales struck, and the oil extracted. There was no
idleness that could have been overcome. Towing the whales back to the
ship secured to the ice, cutting them sometimes till midnight, the
days were full of activity. And then by August 11th the ice surrounded
some of the ships so that many of the boats were unable to work, and
others had to be hauled over the frozen surface in order to regain
their vessels. Efforts were made by setting all sail to get ships clear
of this frozen obstruction, yet it was no good.
But then on August 14th, when the ice loosened, ships did succeed in
reaching clear water and coming to anchor in a narrow belt between ice
and shore, yet extending no further north than Cape Belcher, which
effectually stopped further progress. It was hoped that this delay was
only temporary, and in the meanwhile the boats were out chasing the
whales keenly. If only a north-easter would come, this accumulation
of pack ice, with its power of danger, would soon be driven away: the
fleet would be able to work to its destination. Here in this confined
lane were thirty fine ships, with about a hundred and fifty boats
working till nine at night: a wonderful sight of seafarers.
But now that treacherous ice, instead of clearing, came driving down so
near to the fleet that the ships were compelled to go close in to the
beach. Some ships had to shift in a hurry, slipping their cables. The
lane had been reduced to half a mile now: only at the southern end was
it clear of ice. And yet it was a fine picture to see that long line of
vessels riding there and their crews still at it dragging their boats
across the ice, working arduously, bringing back the blubber by the
same rough route. The continuance of the ice setting in from the west,
however, was giving cause for anxiety. Boats not engaged in whaling
were sent along the coast reconnoitring, and then on August 25th strong
north-east winds began.
Any but intrepid mariners would have taken advantage of this new
condition and gone south, for now a lane was opened several miles
wide, and the ships could have still escaped the fate that was coming
to them. The local Esquimaux prophesied that this clearing would not
last long, that the ice would soon close around once more; and strongly
advised the whaling captains to go back whilst the opportunity lasted.
But these masters of craft were too plucky to be scared, too intent on
the numerous whales now being struck to heed this precaution. They had
come in order to fill their holds with the precious cargo, and if they
went home now they would not have completed their job. However, that
delay, that enthusiasm, were fatal. On August 29th the proof of the
Esquimaux’s sagacity began to manifest itself, for the wind came round
to west-nor’-west and blew freshly.
Picture this long line of vessels anchored to the south-west of Cape
Belcher, still busy boiling out the oil from their whales whilst that
merciless ice like the approach of doom began crowding in always from
the west. Watch some of the ships hang on till it was necessary to
get under way and secure under the lee of a large floe. But on the
following day the wind had backed to south-east, it was blowing hard
and snowing. Thirty vessels in sight with their spars all frosted,
every ship hemmed in between land and ice, yet most of them still
boiling away at their oil as if the danger were not worth considering.
But on the second day of September the disaster began its toll by
numbers. First the _Roman_ was crushed by the ice and abandoned, and
then the brig _Comet_.
Strong westerly winds were blowing and a thick snow-storm was making
matters no more pleasant, but unless that north-easter returned there
was no prospect of the other ships being saved: already they were
uncomfortably close to the shore. But still the boats went out in the
narrow lane that existed, and still the whaling operations went on. It
became necessary now to kedge the ships clear of the ice and anchor in
only three fathoms of water, on a lee shore, with every prospect of
being driven on to the beach. In a short time one vessel was seen with
her masts cut away, forced into the shallows by the oncoming ice, and a
complete wreck.
What was to be done? Universal loss was merely a matter now of time.
All the captains realized that the only chance lay in getting news of
the situation through to the south where those of the fleet, seven in
number, which had not advanced so far north remained in clear water.
How was this to be done? On September 9th at four in the morning
several boats from imprisoned ships were sent in order to sound and
find a channel so as to get the brig _Kohola_ out and reach those seven
southern ships. If the latter had left, what would be the fate of the
rest? But, unfortunately, the water was found too shallow. It now
looked as if the entire northern fleet would have to remain hemmed in
for the winter, for the new ice was making. On August 11th preparations
were undertaken to leave the ships, and some boats with provisions were
sent to deposit them at Icy Cape to the southward, the distance between
this headland and Cape Belcher being a matter of about fifty-odd miles.
If the ships had to be abandoned, these supplies would be essential.
So it came to pass that on the following day the captains of this
northern fleet held a council and came to the conclusion that
abandonment was inevitable. There were only two alternatives: that
irresistible ice would presently either crush every ship or drive
them ashore. But to remain in the Arctic with provisions inadequate
to last till next spring was a gloomy thought, and the chance of that
north-easter returning was now one in a million. Anyone who has had to
abandon his ship knows that terrible pang, which is indescribable in
its bitterness. I can think of nothing more sad and sorrowful than a
fine hardy set of captains being driven to the decision of deserting
their stout ships by the inevitable cruelty of circumstance. It was man
versus nature, with the former’s weakness exemplified in its nakedness.
To leave a shattered wreck is one thing: but in cold blood, after
mature consideration, to do so whilst the ship is still intact is the
greatest grief which can ever be the lot of a shipmaster.
Orders were given for every vessel to fly the ensign union down, and
for the crews to make ready and leave. On September 13th the whole
fleet had its boats in the water with provisions trying to find a clear
lane: nor was it known that the southern ships were in any clear sea.
To get the fleet out had been found impossible owing to banks carrying
but five feet of water. So far only two ships had met their fate, but
by the 14th the ice was surrounding the remaining thirty with closer
grip, so that there was no room now for the vessels to swing clear,
and the rudders hit the ice. Moreover the barometer was falling very
surely. Now in these thirty whalers were officers, crew and the wives
as well as children of the captains. They were more than ships: they
were the only homes of many, and some of these people had been born
and brought up in these craft. Thus to have to leave the vessels was
something deeply personal and sentimental.
The sorrowful exodus began on this fourteenth day of the month, the
wind being now south-west and the boats, steering along the land
towards Icy Cape, managed to get through southwards so that by the
afternoon of the 15th they began to approach the _Daniel Webster_, the
_Progress_ and the other five of the seven ships which luckily were
still clear of the ice. Here in these vessels the entire number of
survivors was received on board. Mothers and girls and boys; captains
and mates and hardy seamen with bedding and stores loading the boats to
the gunwales had come over those perishing waters, which fortunately
had remained calm. A halt had been made at night, after starting on the
morning of the 14th, and having rowed and sailed till darkness overcame
them, this population of twelve hundred people in that numerous
flotilla landed for the night at Icy Cape. Here a tent was erected for
the women and children: the men warmed themselves around great fires.
On the 15th there were still several miles before reaching the seven
ships; it was no longer a lane sheltered by ice, but the unrestricted
Arctic Ocean; it came on to blow, and although several reefs were
tucked in the sail, every boat was so low down in the water that it was
a toss-up as to whether even now the little craft with their cargoes
would win through. And having arrived near the ships which were lying
at anchor, even these heavy vessels were pitching so monstrously
in the nasty sea that it was a ticklish business getting alongside
and hoisting up the passengers out of the lively boats. The _Daniel
Webster_ and the _Progress_ were still anchored, but others were under
way. Still, every man, woman and child was got aboard safely, and the
boats were then cast adrift and smashed themselves to pieces against
the ice-pack to leeward.
Thirty-two ships lost, and everyone saved! How was it done? The answer
is, pluck and good seamanship. Those whaling men possessed both, and
one of the surest tests of the latter is the bringing a boat alongside
a big vessel in a jumpy seaway. There they came, some under oars, some
under dipping lug, others rigged with jib and spritsail; in each case
with the steersman controlling her standing with his oar at the stern
as if going after a whale. Yes, the organization and handling of that
open-boat flotilla is something to be remembered.