CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY.—A FALL OF TEMPERATURE.—ITS EFFECT UPON THE MEN.—CAMPED IN A SNOW-HUT.—THE SECOND DAY'S JOURNEY.—AT CAIRN POINT.—CHARACTER OF THE ICE.—THE PROSPECT.—STORM-STAYED.—THE COOKS IN DIFFICULTY.—SNOW-DRIFT.—VIOLENCE OF THE GALE.—OUR SNOW-HUT.

April 4th.

THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY.

Buried in a snow-bank, and not over well pleased with my first day's work. The temperature of the air has tumbled down to -32°, and inside the hut it is now, two hours after entering it, a degree above zero, and steadily rising. Three of the party succumbed to the cold on the march, and I had much difficulty in keeping them from being seriously frozen. We got on finely until we reached Sunrise Point, where the ice was very rough, and we were bothered for more than two hours in getting over it with our long and cumbersome boat and sledge. It was probably only a little foretaste of what is to come when we strike across the Sound. Once over this ugly place, we halted to melt some water, for the men had become very warm and thirsty. Unluckily, just at this time a smart breeze sprung up, chilling us through and through, for we had been perspiring freely with the violent exercise. The first cold blast put an extinguisher upon the enthusiasm which the party had carried along with them from the ship, and it was singular to observe the change which came over their spirits. It was the contrast of champagne and sour cider. Someof them looked as if they were going to their own funerals, and wore that "My God! what shall I do?" look that would have been amusing enough had it not been alarming. One of these, without sufficient energy to keep himself in motion, crouched behind a snow-drift, and when discovered he had squarely settled himself for a freeze. In half an hour his inclination would have been accomplished. When I came up to him he said very coolly, and with a tone of resignation worthy a martyr, "I'm freezing." His fingers and toes were already as white as a tallow-candle. There was no time to be lost. I rubbed a little circulation back into them, and, placing him in charge of two men with orders to keep him moving, I saved him from the serious consequences which would otherwise have resulted from his faint-heartedness. Without waiting for more of the coveted drops of water, I pushed on for the first snow-bank, and got my party out of the wind and under cover. But this was not done without difficulty. It seemed as if two or three of them were possessed with a heroic desire to die on the spot, and I really believe that they would have done it cheerfully rather than, of their own accord, seize a shovel and aid in constructing, if not a place of comfort, at least a place of rest and safety. This sort of thing at the start is not encouraging, but I cannot say that I am much surprised at it; for my former experience has shown the hazard of exposing men in the wind in such low temperatures. This, however, is one of those things against which no foresight can provide. No serious consequences appear to have resulted from the event, and the sufferers are growing more comfortable as the temperature of the hut rises. We have had our rude camp supper, andI have started an alcohol lamp; the door is closed tightly; the party are all drawn under the sleeping-furs; the plucky ones smoke their pipes, and the balance of them shiver as if they would grow warm with the exercise. The chattering of teeth is not pleasant music.

April 5th.

Under the snow again near Cape Hatherton. Our halt at the last camp was continued for eighteen hours, until the men had got fairly thawed out, and the wind had entirely subsided. The short march hence was made slowly and steadily, as I do not wish at first to urge upon the men too much work, nor to keep them long exposed to the cold. There are no frost-bites of consequence resulting from the exposure of yesterday. The spirits of the party have somewhat revived. The temperature has risen, and the hut is warmer than that of last night,—that is, my thermometer, hanging from the runner of the sledge over my head shows 10° above zero.

April 6th.

AT CAIRN POINT.

We have reached Cairn Point, and are comfortably housed. The men have come up to the work reasonably well. The depression of spirits which followed the blast of cold wind that overtook us above Sunrise Point has passed away, and all hands are gay and lively. I had no need to urge or instruct or use the snow-shovel myself at this camp. The weak in spirit have profited by their lessons, and have learned that in providing for one's comfort and safety on the ice-fields the shovel materially assists appeals to Heaven,—a very wholesome change, and, as a result of it, instead of being upward of two hours in constructing our hut, as on the first night, we have this time accomplishedthe task in less than one, and everybody seemed ambitious of doing the work in the shortest possible space of time.

THE PROSPECT.

The traveling to-day has been very fair for the dog-sledges, but very bad for the boat. It runs easily enough on the smooth surface, but dragging its long length over a snow-drift even four feet deep, or, worse still, over hummocks even half as high, is a troublesome task; and we have crossed many strips of rough ice to-day which could not be passed until we had broken a track. In consequence of this we were obliged to leave some of the load behind, especially as I wished to reach Cairn Point before camping. Knorr and Jensen had already cached one of their cargoes of March at Cape Hatherton, and this was left with it. It will cost us a day's labor to bring it up.

The difficulties in transporting the boat among the hummocks, and the very light load which either the men or dogs can carry over the broken ice, as shown by this day's experience, convince me that the boat and cargo can hardly be transported to the west coast at one journey; and I have therefore concluded to leave the boat here for the present, at least until the track is further explored, and set out with the two dog-sledges and a foot party dragging the other sledge, laden with such stores as they can carry, for a depot on Grinnell Land. I can at any time send the party back for the boat; and if it should turn out that the boat cannot be got across the Sound, then I shall, in any event, have a depot of supplies for my explorations over the ice with the dog-sledges, before the thaw of June and July shall have put an end to that species of traveling.

STORM-STAYED.

The track before me looks unpromising enough. After the party was housed, I climbed up to a considerable eminence, and have had the melancholy satisfaction of looking out over the ugliest scene that my eye has ever chanced to rest upon. There was nothing inviting in it. Except a few miles of what has evidently, up to a very late period of the fall, been open water, which has frozen suddenly, there is not a rod of smooth ice in sight. The whole Sound appears to have been filled with ice of the most massive description, which, broken up into a moving "pack" in the summer, has come down upon this Greenland coast with the southerly setting current, and has piled up all over the sea in a confused jumble. I know what it is from having crossed it in 1854; and if it is as bad now as then (and it appears to be much worse) there is every prospect of a severe tussle.

April 7th.

Did anybody ever see such capricious weather as this of Smith Sound? It is the torment of my life and the enemy of my plans. I can never depend upon it. It is the veriest flirt that ever owned Dame Nature for a mother.

THE COOKS IN DIFFICULTY.

We camped in a calm atmosphere, but in the middle of the night—bang!—down came a bugle-blast of Boreas, and then the old god blew and blew as if he had never blown in all his life before, and wanted to prove what he could do. We could hardly show our noses out of doors, and have lain huddled together in this snow den all day,—a doleful sort of imprisonment. It is with much difficulty that we have got any thing to eat, and we never should if I had not turned cook myself, and shown these innocentsof mine how to keep the furnace-lamp from being blown out; for we can use only lard for fuel, and the smoke is so great that we cannot have the cooking done inside. It seems to me that nothing takes the wits out of a man so quickly as the cold. The cooks had not sense enough left to inclose themselves in a snow wall, and I had to teach them how to keep up the proper proportion of lard and rope-yarns in the lamp to prevent the flame from smothering on the one hand, and from being whiffed out on the other. We were more than two hours in making a pot of coffee, and came in out of the pelting snow-drift with our furs all filled with it; and now it melts, and the clothing is getting damp, for we do not change our dress when we crawl in between our buffalo-skin sheets.

April 8th.

Could any thing be more aggravating? The gale holds on and keeps us close prisoners. My people could no more live in it than in a fiery furnace. I never saw any thing like it. Last night it fell warmer, and snowed, which gave us encouragement; but the wind blew afterward more fierce than ever, and human eye never beheld such sights. There was nowhere any thing else but flying snow. The sun's face was blinded, and the hills and coast were hidden completely out of sight. Once in a while we can see the ghost of an iceberg, but that is rarely. We tried to brave it yesterday, and again to-day, for I wanted to go down to Cape Hatherton to bring up our cargo there. So we commenced tearing down the hut to get at the sledge; but ten minutes convinced me that half the party would freeze outright if we undertook to face the storm, and I sent the flock again undercover, and went behind the snow wall to help the cooks with their fire.

IN A SNOW BANK.

The poor dogs were almost buried out of sight. They had all crouched together in a heap; and as the drift accumulated over them they poked their heads further and further up into it; and when I came to count them to see if any had left us and run back to the ship or been frozen to death, it was truly counting noses. There were fourteen of them.

It seems rather strange to be writing on at this rate in a snow-hut, but the truth is I have no more trouble in writing here than if I were in my cabin. The temperature has come up almost to the freezing point, and it is a great relief to write. What else should I do? I have two small books which I have brought along for just such emergencies as this, and while my companions play cards and bet gingerbread and oyster suppers and bottles of rum to be paid in Boston, I find nothing better to do than read and write; and, since I cannot remain unoccupied, but must kill time in some manner, or else sleep, suppose I describe this den in the snow-bank.

THIRTEEN IN A BED.

THE SOURCE OF HAPPINESS.

"ALL IS VANITY."

It is a pit eighteen feet long by eight wide and four deep. Over the top of said pit are placed the boat-oars, to support the sledge, which is laid across them; and over the sledge is thrown the boat's sail; and over the sail is thrown loose snow. In one end of the den thus formed there is a hole, through which we crawl in, and which is now filled up tightly with blocks of snow. Over the floor (if the term is admissible) there is spread a strip of India-rubber cloth; over this cloth a strip of buffalo-skins, which are all squared and sewed together; and over this again another just like it. When we want to sleep wedraw ourselves underneath the upper one of these buffalo strips, and accommodate ourselves to the very moderate allowance of space assigned to each person as best we can. The post of honor is at the end furthest from the door; and, except the opposite end, this post of honor is the least desirable of all other places, for, somehow or other, the twelve sleepers below me manage to pull the "clothes" off and leave me jammed against the snow wall, with nothing on me but my traveling gear; for we go to bed without change of costume except our boots and stockings, which we tuck under our heads to help out a pillow, while what we call "reindeer sleeping stockings" take their place on the feet. And, furthermore, there is not much that I can say. This can hardly be called comfort. I have a vague remembrance of having slept more soundly than I have done these last four nights, and of having rested upon something more agreeable to the "quivering flesh" than this bed of snow, the exact sensations communicated by which are positively indescribable,—a sort of cross between a pine board and a St. Lawrence gridiron. And yet the people are busy and merry enough. Harris, one of my most energetic and ambitious men, is sewing a patch on his seal-skin pantaloons, stopping "a hole to keep the winds away;" Miller, another spirited and careful man, is closing up a rip in his Esquimau boot; and Carl, who has a fine tenor voice, has just finished a sailor's song, and is clearing his throat for "The Bold Soldier Boy." Several packs of cards are in requisition, and altogether we are rather a jolly party,—the veriest Mark Tapleys of travelers. We are leading a novel sort of life, and I can imagine that the time will come when I shall turn over the pages of this diaryand be amused at the strangeness of the contrast of these events with the humdrum routine of ordinary existence. I have no doubt that I shall then wonder if this is not all set down in a dream, so singular will it appear; and yet so quickly do the human body and the human mind accommodate themselves to the changing circumstances of life that, in every thing we do, the events seem at the time always natural, and cause us no astonishment; still, when we review the past, we are continually amazed that we have undergone so many transformations, and can scarcely recognize ourselves in our chamelion dresses. If it should ever again be my luck to eat canvas-back at Delmonico's I shall no doubt very heartily despise the dried beef and potato hash which now constitute, with bread and coffee, my only fare; and yet no canvas-back was ever enjoyed as much as this same hash; and no coffee distilled through French percolator was ever so fine as the pint pot which is passed along to me, smoking hot, in the morning; and the best treasures of Périgord forest were never relished more than are the few little chips of ship's biscuit which the coffee washes down. In fact, our pleasures are but relative. They are never absolute; and happiness is quite probably, as Paley has wisely hinted, but a certain state of that "nervous net-work lining the whole region of the præcordia;" and, therefore, since this cold pencil only gives me pain in the fingers, while nothing disturbs the harmony of the præcordia, I do not know but that I am about as well off as I ever was in my life. True, I have not the means which I expected to have for the execution of my designs, and I am beset with difficulties and embarrassments; but if happiness lies in that quarter, pleasure lies inthe future, for we willingly forget the present in the anticipations,—in the delights to come from the contests and struggles ahead; and it is well that this is so; for that which we spend most time in getting is often not worth the having. The Preacher tells us that "All is vanity;" and what says the Poet?—

"——pleasures are like poppies spread;You seize the flower—its bloom is shed;Or like the snow-fall in the river—A moment white, then melts forever;Or like the borealis race,That flits ere you can point the place."

"——pleasures are like poppies spread;

You seize the flower—its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow-fall in the river—

A moment white, then melts forever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flits ere you can point the place."

Camping in a Snow-Bank

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