CHAPTER VI.
ENTERING MELVILLE BAY.—THE MIDDLE ICE.—THE GREAT POLAR CURRENT—A SNOW STORM.—ENCOUNTER WITH AN ICEBERG.—MAKING CAPE YORK—RESCUE OF HANS.
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, atleast 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.
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 theDiscovery, 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.
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 SteamerFox, 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 abight 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.
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 concernsthe 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.
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 considerationwhether 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.
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.
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 galleyin 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.
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 thehorizon, 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.
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.
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!"
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 andall 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.
Seal on Cake of Ice