Chapter I (3)

The next thing was to seek a suitable vessel, and fortunately the _Fox_ was in the market. Built for a yacht of some 180 tons register, with auxiliary steam-power applied to a lifting screw, the _Fox_ appeared in every way adapted for the service. She was at once purchased, and the necessary alterations and fortifying commenced; and such was the feeling of confidence in Captain M‘Clintock’s sincerity of purpose, his daring and determination, combined with eminent talent, and every qualification for command, that numbers sought the honour of serving with him. The few who were so fortunate as to be selected were soon appointed in their different capacities, and by the exertions of Lady Franklin and Captain M‘Clintock everything that could possibly conduce to the comfort or recreation of the ship’s company was supplied, and the _Fox_ was ready for sea by the end of June.

We intended first to touch at some of the Danish settlements in Greenland, to purchase sledge-dogs; then to proceed to Beechey Island, and there to fill up stores from the depôt left by Sir E. Belcher. We were next to endeavour to sail down Peel Sound (supposed to be a strait), but failing by that channel, to try down Regent’s Inlet, and by the supposed Bellot Straits to reach the neighbourhood of the Great Fish River; and having in the summer of 1857 and following spring searched the adjacent country, we should return home either westward by Behring’s Straits, or by our outward route, according to circumstances. If we failed to reach King William Land or the Fish River, it was our intention to winter as near the desired position as possible, and by means of sledge journeys over the ice, to complete the search in the following spring. We hoped to finish the work in one year; but in this we were to be disappointed, as the narrative will show.

We left Aberdeen on July 1, 1857; and after a favourable run across the Atlantic, we made our first acquaintance with the Arctic Seas when near the meridian of Cape Farewell, by falling in with the drift-wood annually brought from Arctic Asia by the great current known as the Spitzbergen current--the shattered and mangled state of these pine logs bearing evidence of their long water-and-ice-borne drift. This great Arctic current brings masses of ice from the Spitzbergen seas, at seasons completely filling up the fiords, harbours, and indentations on the south coast of Greenland, and often in a pack extending for 100 miles southward of Cape Farewell. A whole fleet of whale ships were, in June, 1777, beset in lat. 76° north, and nearly in the meridian of Spitzbergen, and were drifted southward by the current, until one by one they were crushed. The last and only surviving ship arrived in October, in latitude 61°, in Davis’ Straits, and the crew escaped to the land near Cape Farewell, 116 in number, out of 450 men, who only a few short months before were looking forward to a happy return to their homes.

Late in the summer, the weather mild and the nights short, and with steam-power at command, we had no occasion for much anxiety about this ice, but determined to push direct for Frederickshaab, and with a fair wind we steered to pass within sight of Cape Farewell. On the night of the 13th July, we were becalmed, and on the following day we steamed slowly to the north-westward, amidst countless numbers of sea-birds. At daylight the coast of Greenland showed out in all its wild magnificence. Cape Farewell bore north 45° east, distant twenty-five miles; but from the peculiar formation of the adjacent land the actual cape is difficult to distinguish. Hitherto we had not seen the Spitzbergen ice; and we hoped that we might follow the coast round to Frederickshaab without obstruction; but in the course of the forenoon a sudden fall in the temperature of the sea, with a haziness in the atmosphere to the northward, indicated our approach to ice. Straggling and water-washed pieces were soon met with, and in the evening the distant murmur of the sea, as it broke upon the edge of ice-floes, warned us of our being near to a pack.

We made but little progress during the two following days, the winds being from the northward, and a dense ice-fog rolling down from the pack. On the 17th, Frederickshaab bearing N. 28° E., distant fifty miles, we determined upon endeavouring to push through the pack; and after being at times completely beset, and with a constant thick fog, we escaped into the inshore water, with a few slight rubs, having been carried by the drifting body of ice nearly thirty miles northward of our port. We sounded upon the Tallert bank; and on the fog lifting, the great glacier of Frederickshaab was revealed to us, and we bore away for the harbour, which we reached on the 19th. We had a little difficulty at first in making out the entrance to Frederickshaab; but a native kyack coming out to meet us, we were soon escorted in by a fleet of these small canoes.

We found the natives busily breaking up the wreck of an abandoned timber ship, which had drifted to their harbour, with a few of the lower tiers of cargo still in her; and another wreck was said to be lying upon the Tallert bank--the same wreck, it is said, which Prince Napoleon had boarded on his homeward passage in the _Atlantic_ the previous year, and had left a record on her to prove the currents round Cape Farewell.

The Danish authorities, ever ready to assist vessels entering the Greenland ports, supplied us with everything in their power, and after purchasing some cod-fish from the natives, we proceeded on our voyage. On leaving Frederickshaab, we experienced strong north winds, and had to beat up between the pack and the land, until off the settlement of Fiskernaas, on July 23rd. The temperature of the sea then rose from 35° to 46° Fahrenheit; and seeing no ice, we considered that we were past the limits of the Spitzbergen stream. Finding that our foretop masthead was sprung, we ran into Fiskernaas, to repair it. We purchased more cod-fish at Fiskernaas, at an almost nominal price. These fish are very plentiful, and the Danish authorities annually collect about 30,000 from the Esquimaux, to be dried, and again served out to them in the winter, the habits of the natives being so improvident, that they will not make this provision for themselves. Having made a few magnetic and other observations, we sailed for Godhaab to procure a passage home for one of our seamen, who, it was feared, was too ill in health to stand the rigours of an Arctic winter. We met the Danish schooner coming out, and the captain kindly received our invalid on board, and took our letters for home. Outside Godhaab lie the Koku Islands, upon which Egede first landed in 1721, and commenced recolonizing Greenland. The mainland here is divided into four fiords, the largest being Godhaab Fiord (or Baal’s River on old charts), which extends up to the inland ice, and upon the shores of which are still to be seen many ruins of the ancient Scandinavians. Upon the Koku Islands we were near leaving the _Fox_, for in coming out, the wind fell suddenly calm, and the steam being down, we were drifting with a strong tide fast upon the rocks, and we only just towed the ship clear with all our boats. We now steered for Diskoe, and after passing some magnificent icebergs, one of which we found by measurement to be 270 feet above the sea, we saw the precipitous cliffs of the island, entered the harbour of Godhavn at night, and sailed on the following day for the beautiful fiord of Diskoe, where a smart young Esquimaux, Christian, by name, was received on board, as dog-driver to the expedition. We had not time to examine this fine fiord, which has never been explored, and which is thought to be of great extent; nor had we time to visit the Salmon River; but our guide brought us a few fish, and with salmon-trout and ptarmigan for breakfast, and a bouquet of flowers from the ladies of Godhavn upon the gun-room table, we had no cause to complain of the Arctic regions so far.

We next steered for the Waigat Straits, intending to take in coals from the mines there. As we passed Godhavn, the Esquimaux guide seated himself in his kyack on the deck, and, notwithstanding a rough sea, he was launched out of the gangway at his own request; a feat wonderful to us, but evidently not strange to him, as he paddled away to the shore without further notice. The native kyack is so small and crank, that the natives cannot get in or out of it alongside a ship; but are generally pulled up or lowered with it in the bight of two ropes’ ends.

As we approached the Waigat, thousands of eider ducks covered the water, and we shot many of the younger ones, but the old birds were too crafty for us, and kept out of range. We now never lost an opportunity of adding to our stock of fresh provisions, which already began to make a show in the rigging, where we could feast our eyes upon salmon, eider ducks, looms, cod-fish, ptarmigan, and seal beef, besides two old goats, that we had purchased at Frederickshaab. We entered the Waigat on August 3rd, on a beautiful day; and for wild and desolate grandeur, I suppose these straits have no equal--lofty, rugged mountains here abruptly facing the sea, or there presenting a sloping moss-covered declivity--mountain torrents, and the small streams, which, leaping over the very summits, at an elevation of 3,000 to 4,000 feet, appear from beneath like threads of spun glass. In some places may be seen the foot of a glacier high up a ravine, as if there arrested in its course, or not yet grown sufficiently to fill up the valley, and bring its blight down to the sea; in other places beautiful valleys, green and grass-clothed, where the hare and ptarmigan love to pass their short summer with their young broods. The sea itself is scarcely less picturesque than the land; for thousands of icebergs, of every size and fantastic form, cast off from the ice-streams of the mainland, sail continually in these beautiful straits.

We found the coal mine without difficulty, the seams of coal cropping out of the cliffs under which we anchored. It was a very exposed position, and the ground hard; the only safe way to lie would be by making fast to a piece of grounded ice, if one can be found, as anchors will not hold.

In the early spring the ice-foot forms a natural wharf, and the coals may be collected, and at high water the boats can go alongside to receive the sacks. Now that steam has been introduced into the whale fishery, these coal mines must sooner or later become much frequented, and it is to be hoped that so valuable a resource will be taken advantage of. If moorings could be laid down, and natives from the opposite settlement of Atenadluk employed to collect coals in readiness for embarkation, a ship might readily fill up in a few hours.

We had scarcely completed our coaling, when the weather began to threaten, the barometer fell, and shortly after noon it blew almost a gale from the southward. Our anchors soon began to jump over the ground, and the drift ice to set in. Steam was immediately got ready, and we ran through the straits to the north-westward. Passing the magnificent headland of Swarten Huk, we touched at the settlement of Proven to purchase dogs and seal-beef, and then bore away for Upernavik, steering close along the coast, and intending to attack the breeding-place of looms, at Saunderson’s Hope; but a strong south-west wind and high sea prevented our sending in the boats. Arrived off Upernavik, we obtained more dogs, and having left our last letters for home, we bore away, on the afternoon of August 6, to try to cross Baffin’s Bay.

We were now fairly away from the civilized world, and all that we could look forward to, or hope for, was a speedy passage through the middle pack of Baffin’s Bay, a satisfactory finish of the work before us on the other side, and a return the following year to England. We had a fine ship and a fine crew, all eager to commence the more active duties of sledge travelling; and, indeed, on looking at our thirty large and ravenous dogs that crowded our decks, we could not but think that our sledge parties would solve, in the following spring, the extraordinary mystery of Franklin’s fate. How these hopes were to be disappointed that year the sequel will show. It is well for us that we cannot know what the morrow may bring forth. During August 7 and 8, we steered out due west from Upernavik to try to cross in that parallel of latitude; but on the evening of the latter day, the keenness of the air, the ice-blink ahead, and the fast increasing number of bergs, prepared us for seeing the Middle Pack. In the evening and during that night we passed streams of loose sailing ice, and on the morning of the 8th further progress was stopped by impenetrable floes. This was in lat. 72° 40′ north, long. 59° 50′ west.

Getting clear of the loose ice in the pack edge, we steered to the northward, to look for an opening in any place where we could attempt a passage. The ice, however, presented an impenetrable line, and having reached, on August 12, latitude 75° 10′ north, longitude 58° west, we made fast to an iceberg aground under the glacier. It was a lovely evening; the sky bright and clear, and the thermometer standing at 36° in the shade. Seals were playing about the ship, and we added to our stock of beef. But a dreary prospect rather damped our pleasure. The ice extended in one unbroken mass right into the land, and pressed hard upon the very coast; not a drop of water could be seen from the masthead, in the direction in which we desired to go. The southerly winds, before which we had been running, appeared to have driven the whole pack into the head of Melville Bay. The season was passing away, and without an early change to wind and a continuance of it from the northward, we were almost without a hope.

In the evening we visited the glacier, but the _débris_ of shattered ice, and the innumerable bergs and floe pieces, prevented our getting close to its base. It was a beautifully calm night; not a sound to be heard, save the crashing of some enormous mass rent from the face of the glacier, or distant rumbling of the vast inland ice, as it moved slowly down towards the sea. Far away over the continent, nothing but the surface of glacier could be seen, excepting here or there a mountain peak, showing up through the ice; and the bright glare of the ice-blink shot up into the sky, giving a yellow tinge to the otherwise deep blue vault of heaven. Flights of ducks winged their way to the southward, reminding us that it was the season when those desolate regions were deserted, and that we should be left alone. Our distant ship was lying so surrounded with huge and lofty bergs, that only her masthead could be seen through an opening; and a low melancholy howling (such as an Esquimaux dog alone knows how to make) occasionally broke upon the ear--for our dogs had all gone up to the very top of a lofty berg, and were thus expressing their home-sick longings, and, perhaps, a foreboding of the unhappy fate that awaited many of them.

We lay secured to the iceberg until the 16th August, when the wind changed to the north-eastward, and the floes began to move off the land and to separate. Now or never were we to get through; for to lose this opportunity would have shut us out from crossing that year, and have left us no other resource than to return to Greenland for the winter. M‘Clintock was not the man to turn back from his work, but would rather risk everything than leave a chance of our thus passing an inactive winter. The _Fox_ was therefore steered into a promising lead or lane of water, and all sail made to the breeze. We were in high spirits, and talked of getting into the west water on the morrow. But at night a dense fog came on, the wind shifted to the southward, and the floes again began to close upon and around us. There was no help for us--we were beset, and it appeared hopelessly so; for the season was fast passing away, and the new ice beginning to form. On the 17th the wind increased, and the weather was dark and dreary. We struggled on for a few ship’s lengths by the power of steam and canvas, and at night we unshipped the rudder, and lifted the screw, in anticipation of a squeeze.

During the three weeks following we lay in this position, endeavouring, by every means, to move the ship towards any visible pool or lane of water. Once only did our hopes revive. On September 7, the wind had again been from the north-westward; the ice had slackened, and we made a final and desperate attempt to reach some water seen to the northward of us. We were blasting with gunpowder, heaving, and warping during the whole day, but at night the floes again closed. We had not now even a retreat; the tinker had come round, as the seamen say, and soldered us in; and from that time until the 17th of April, 1858, we never moved, excepting at the mercy of the ice, and drifted by the winds and currents. We had lost all command over the ship, and were freezing in the moving pack.

Preparations for the winter were now made in earnest. We had thirty large dogs to feed besides ourselves, and we lost no opportunity of shooting seals. The sea-birds had all left for the southward; and the bears, which occasionally came to look at the ship, we could not chase, from the yet broken state of the ice. Provisions were got up upon deck, sledges and travelling equipages prepared, boats’ crews told off, and every arrangement made by the Captain in the event of our being turned out of the ship. As the winter advanced, the ship was housed over with canvas, and covered with snow; and we had made up our minds for a winter in the pack and a drift--whither? This we could not tell, but we argued from the known constant set to the southward, out of Baffin’s Sea and Davis’ Straits, that if our little ship survived through the winter, we should be released in the southern part of Davis’ Straits during the following summer.

We were then in latitude 75° 24′ north, longitude 64° 31′ west, and westward of us could be seen a formidable line of grounded bergs, towards which, by our observations, we were driving. Our next eight months were passed in a manner that would be neither interesting to read nor to relate; but a few extracts from a private journal will show our mode of life.

_Sept. 16._--We passed the grounded bergs last night, after considerable anxiety, for we feared we might be driven against them. We saw the floes opening and tearing up as sod before the plough; and had we come in contact with them, the ship must have been instantly destroyed. We are out all day long, by the sides of the water-pools, with our rifles, and shoot the seals in the head when they come up to breathe; they are now getting fat, and do not sink so readily as in the summer.

_Oct. 17._--We obtained good observations, and found that we have drifted north-west 65 miles, since the 15th inst. It has been blowing hard from the south-eastward, and we consider that we have thus been carried helplessly along by the effect of a single gale.

_Nov. 2._--A bear came to look at the ship at night, and our dogs soon chased him on to some thin ice, through which he broke. All hands turned out to see the sport, and notwithstanding the intense cold many of the people did not wait to put on their extra clothes. The bear was dispatched with our rifles, after making some resistance, and maiming several of the dogs. We have not seen the sun to-day; he has now taken his final departure from these latitudes. It is getting almost too dark to shoot seals, and we employ ourselves with such astronomical observations as are necessary to fix our position, and to calculate our drift, with observations upon the thermometer, barometer, and meteorology generally.

_Nov. 28._--After a zigzag drift out to the westward, until the 24th inst., into latitude 75° 1′ N., longitude 70° W., we have commenced a southern drift, and we trust now to progress gradually out of the straits, until released in the spring. We have had considerable commotion and ruptures in the ice-floes lately, but fortunately the nips have not come too close to us. We ascend the masthead, to the crow’s-nest, every morning, to look out for water, for our dogs are getting ravenous, and we want food for them.

_December 4._--Poor Scott died last night, and was buried through the floe this evening, all hands drawing his earthly remains upon a sledge, and the officers walking by the side. It was a bitterly cold night, the temperature 35° below zero, with a fresh wind, and the beautiful paraselene (ominous of a coming gale) lighting us on our way. The ice has been more quiet lately, and we are becoming more reconciled to our imprisonment.

A reading, writing, and navigation school has commenced, and our Captain loses no opportunity of attending to the amusement and recreation of the men, so necessary in this dreary life. Besides the ordinary duties of cleaning the ship, the men are exercised in building snow houses, and preparing travelling equipage.

_December 21._--The winter solstice. We have about half an hour’s partial daylight, by which the type of _The Times_ newspaper may be just distinguished on a board facing the south, where, near noon, a slight glimmer of light is refracted above the horizon, while in the zenith and northward the stars are shining brilliantly. In the absence of _light and shade_ we cannot see to walk over the ice, for the hummocks can scarcely be distinguished from the floe; all presents a uniform level surface, and, in walking, one constantly falls into the fissures, or runs full butt against the blocks of ice. We must now, therefore, be content with an hour or two’s tramp alongside, or on our snow-covered deck under housing; and, during the remainder of the day, we sit below in our little cabin, which has now crystallized by the breath condensing and freezing on the bulkheads, and we endeavour to read and talk away the time. But our subjects of conversation are miserably worn out; our stories are old and oft-repeated; we start impossible theories, and we bet upon the results of our new observations as to our progress, as we unconsciously drift and drift before the gale. At night we retire to our beds, thankful that another day has passed; a deathlike stillness reigns around, broken only by the ravings of some sleep-talker, the tramp of the watch upon deck, a passing bear causing a general rousing of our dogs, or a simultaneous rush of these poor ravenous creatures at our cherished stores of seal-beef in the shrouds; and, as we listen to the distant groaning and sighing of the ice, we thank God that we have still a home in these terrible wastes.

_December 28._--During Divine service yesterday, the wind increased, and towards the afternoon we had a gale from the north-westward, attended with an unusual rise of temperature; to-day the gale continues, with a warm wind from the N.N.W.

“The Danish settlers at Upernavik, in North Greenland, are at times startled by a similar sudden rise of temperature. During the depth of winter, when all nature has been long frozen, and the sound of falling water almost forgotten, rain will fall in torrents; and as rain in such a climate is attended with every discomfort, this is looked upon as a most unwelcome phenomenon. It is called the _Warm South-east Wind_. Now, if the Greenlanders at Upernavik are astonished at a warm _South-east Wind_, how much rather must the seamen, frozen up in the pack, be astonished at a warm _North-west Wind_. Various theories have been started to account for this phenomenon; but it appears most probable that a rotatory gale passes over the place, and that the rise in temperature is due to the direction from which the whole _mass of air_ may come, viz. from the southward, and not to the direction of _wind_ at the time.”

Let us now return to the narrative, for our days were now becoming mere repetitions of each other. We saw no change, nor did we hope for any until the spring. Gale followed gale; and an occasional alarm of a disruption in the ice, a bear or seal hunt, formed our only excitement; indeed, we sometimes hoped for some crisis, were it only to break the dreadful monotony of our lives. Our walks abroad afforded us no recreation; on the contrary, it was really a trying task to spin out the time necessary for exercise. Talk of a dull turnpike-road at home! Are not the larks singing and the farm boys whistling? But with us what a contrast! Our walks were without an object; one had literally nothing to see or hear; turn north, south, east, or west, still snow and hummocks. You see a little black mark waving in the air: walk to it--it is a crack in a hummock. You think a berg is close to you; go to it--still a hummock, refracted through the gloom. The only thing to do is to walk to windward, so as to be certain of returning safe and not frostbitten, to pick out a smooth place, and form imaginary patterns with your footprints. Philosophers would bid us think and reflect; but if philosophers were shut up with us amid the silence and darkness of an Arctic winter, they would probably do as we did--endeavour to get away from their thoughts.

By the 29th of January, we had drifted into latitude 72° 46′ north, longitude 62° west, and by the aid of refraction we saw the sun for the first time since November 2. We ought indeed to have greeted him on a meridian far westward of our present position, but it had been out of power to do more this year, and we could only hope for more success in the next. The weather had now become intensely cold, the mercury was frozen, and the spirit thermometer registered 46° below zero. We had great difficulty in clearing our bed-places of ice, and our blankets froze nightly to the ship’s side; but we had the sun to shine upon us, and that made amends for all. What a different world was now before our eyes! Even in those dreary regions where nothing moves, and no sounds are heard save the rustling of the snowdrift, the effects of the bright sun are so exhilarating that a walk was now quite enjoyable. If any one doubt how necessary light is for our existence, just let him shut himself up for three months in the coal-cellar, with an underground passage into the ice-house, where he may go for a change of air, and see if he will be in as good health and spirits at the end of the experiment as before. At all events, he will have obtained the best idea one can form at home of an Arctic winter in a small vessel, save that the temperature of the Arctic ice-house is -40°, instead of +32°, as at home; only 72° difference!

On the 14th of February some of us walked out to where the ice was opening to the northward, and saw a solitary dovekie in winter plumage. These beautiful little birds appear to winter on the ice. The water, appearing deep black from the long absence of any relief from the eternal snow, was rippled by a strong wind, and the little waves, so small as to be compared to those of the Serpentine at home, sending forth to us a new, and, consequently, joyous sound, induced us to linger long by the side of the small lake--so long, that we were only reminded, by our faces beginning to freeze, that we were at least three miles from the ship, a gale blowing with thick snow-drift--besides no chance of getting anything for the pot.

A memorable day was the 26th of February, when we opened the skylight and let in daylight below, where we had been living for four months by the light of our solitary dips. The change was indeed wonderful, and at first uncomfortable, for it exposed the manner in which we had been content to live. With proper clothing you may laugh at the climate, if not exposed too long without food. It is not the cold outside that is to be feared, but the damp, and plague-engendering state of things below. This can only be guarded against by having good fires and plenty of light.

Towards the latter end of March, the ice was getting very unquiet, and we had frequent disruptions close to the ship. On the night of the 25th of March, a wide fissure, which had been opening and closing during the previous fortnight, closed with such force as to pile up tons and tons of ice within forty yards of the ship, and shattered our old floe in a line with our deck. The nipping continued, and on the following night a huge block was hurled within thirty yards from us. Another such a night and the little _Fox_ would have been knocked into lucifer matches, and we should have been turned out upon the floe.

April was ushered in with a continuance of heavy northerly gales; we were constantly struggling with the ice. We were three times adrift, and expecting to see our ship destroyed; and on the night of the 5th, the floes opened, and as their edges again came together, they threatened to tear everything up. We were on deck throughout the night; our boats and dogs were cut off from us, but with great exertion we managed to save the dogs, although we nearly lost some of our men who went in search of them. We that night secured the ship by the bower chains, and we afterwards had a few days’ quiet. On the 10th we saw the mountain peaks about Cape Dyer, on the west side of Davis’ Straits, the first land seen since the previous October. We had drifted into lat. 66° 5′ N., and long. 58° 41′ W.; and we hoped that after passing Cape Walsingham, the pack would open out.

On April 17, in a heavy storm, a general breaking-up of the ice took place, and we were turned completely out of our winter dock, and into an apparently open sea. A scene of wild confusion ensued; the floes were driving against each other in all directions, and the whole ocean of ice appeared in commotion, while a blinding snow-drift distorted and magnified every surrounding object. Our first care was to save our dogs; but as an Esquimaux dog always expects either a thrashing or to be put in harness when approached by a man, and the poor creatures were terror-stricken with the storm, they ran wildly about over the ice, and many of them were obliged to be abandoned to their fate, after sharing the perils of the winter with us. On board the ship, preparations were made to get her under command; for we were driving down upon the lee, and into loose ice, where our men could not have rejoined us with the boats. We shipped the rudder, and soon got some canvas upon the vessel, and having got the men and boats safely on board, we steered to the eastward, and really thought that we were released. A dark water-sky hung over the eastern horizon, and we thought that we were not far from the open ocean. But we had not proceeded more than some seventeen miles, when at midnight we came to a stoppage. It was fearfully dark and cold, and with the greatest difficulty we cleared the masses of ice. The water space in which we worked the ship became gradually less and less; we flew from side to side of this fast decreasing lake, until at last we had not room to stay the vessel. By 4 A.M. we were again beset.

We now commenced a second drift with the pack, which took us down to latitude 64° north, and longitude 57° west, on the 25th April, when, towards midnight, a swell entered into the pack, and gradually increased, until the ice commenced churning up around the vessel, and dashing against her sides. These violent shocks continued throughout the morning, and really seemed as if they would soon destroy the ship. However, by the power of steam, we got the vessel’s head towards the swell, and with a strong fair wind, we commenced pushing out. After many narrow escapes from contact with the icebergs, we were by night in comparatively open water. We were free! and steered a course for the settlement of Holsteinborg, in Greenland, to recruit, and to prepare for another attempt. What a change on the following morning! Not a piece of ice could be seen, save a few distant bergs. We once more had our little vessel dancing under us upon the waters, innumerable sea-birds flew around us, and the very sea, in contrast to its late frozen surface, appeared alive with seals and whales. All nature seemed alive, and we felt as if we had risen from the dead! In the evening, the snow-covered peaks of Sukkertoppen were seen, and on the 28th of April, we moored in Holsteinborg harbour. Our anchors had not been down, nor had our feet touched the land since the 3rd of August. Ice-bound and imprisoned, we had drifted upwards of 1,200 miles. Need it be added how thankful we were to that kind Providence who had watched over us, and under Him to our gallant Captain, to whose unremitting attentions to our comforts and safety we owed our health and deliverance!

The winter in Greenland had been very severe, and the country was still snow-covered, and without an indication of spring. The natives were scarcely aroused from their winter’s sleep, and all our expectations of venison and ptarmigan feasts soon vanished. Very few reindeer had yet been taken, the season not commencing before July, when the hunters go up the fiords and kill them by thousands for the sake of their skins alone, leaving their carcasses to be devoured by the wolves.

Our men, however, were bent upon enjoying themselves, and as Jack’s wants are few, with the aid of a couple of fiddlers and some bottles of grog, they kept up one continuous ball--patronized by all the fair Esquimaux damsels--in the dance-house on shore. The whole population had turned out to meet us. We were entertained by the kind-hearted dames upon stockfish and seal-beef, and such luxuries as they could afford, with a hearty welcome to their neat and cleanly houses; and we in our turn endeavoured to do the hospitalities on board the _Fox_ with pickled pork and preserved cabbage. It was new life to us, who had been confined so long in our little den, thus to mingle with these friendly people. Never was sympathy more needed. We arrived hungry and unshaven, our faces begrimed with oil-smoke, our clothes in tatters; the good women of Holsteinborg worked and washed for us, repaired our sadly disreputable wardrobes, danced for us, sang to us, and parted from us with tears and a few little presents by way of _souvenirs_, as if we could ever forget them. We wrote a few hasty letters, hoping that they would reach home in the autumn, and sailed once more upon our voyage.

We wished to call at Godhavn for another Esquimaux and some more dogs, besides a few stores, of which we stood in need; so, sailing up the coast, we arrived off the harbour on the night of May 10, but an impenetrable stream of loose ice blockaded the entrance. It was a wild night, and snowing heavily; sea, air, ice islands and icebergs seemed all mingled in one common haze. We endeavoured to haul off the land, and near midnight we narrowly escaped destruction upon an island, which, seen suddenly on the lee-beam, was at first taken for a berg. We all thought our ship must be dashed upon the rocks, and we were only saved by the presence of mind and seamanship of our Captain, who never left the deck, and wore the ship within a few yards of the shore. We anchored next day at the Whale-fish Islands, and fell in there with the _Jane_ and _Heroine_ whalers, whose captains gave us a true Scotch welcome, and ransacked their ships to find some little comforts for us. We again tasted the roast beef of old England. From the islands, we crossed to Godhavn, where finding the harbour still full of ice, we hauled into a rocky creek outside, a perfect little dock just capable of holding the ship, but exposed to southerly winds.

By the 25th of May we were prepared for another and final attempt to accomplish our mission, and to try our fortunes in the ice. We were certainly sobered down considerably by our late severe lesson; but although less confident in our own powers, a steady determination to do our best prevailed throughout the ship. Passing again through the Waigat, we stopped at the coal-deposits to fill up with fuel, and we shot a few ptarmigan while thus detained. We next stopped at Saunderson’s Hope, “the Cape where the fowls do breed,” but it was yet too early for eggs, and as the looms had no young to protect, they flew away in thousands at every discharge of a gun; we got but few of these, in our opinion, delicious birds. On the 31st, we made fast to an iceberg off Upernavik, to await the breaking up of the ice in Melville Bay. When we were in these latitudes the previous year, all things living were migrating southward, but now constant flights of sea-birds streamed northward, night and day, towards their breeding-places and feeding-grounds, and by sitting on the rocky points, and shooting them as they passed, we could generally make a fair bag. We were now almost subsisting on eider ducks and looms.

On June the 6th, we commenced our ice-struggles in Melville Bay, endeavouring, according to the usual mode of navigation, to push up, between the main pack and the ice still attached to the land, on all occasions when the winds moved the pack out, and left a space or lane of water. While thus following up the coast, on the 7th, we ran upon a reef of sunken and unknown rocks, and, on the tide falling, we lay over in such a manner as to threaten to fill upon the water again rising. We succeeded, however, in heaving off without damage.

After many escapes from being squeezed by the ice closing upon the land, and after three weeks of intense labour, we reached Cape York on June 26th. We there communicated with the natives who had so much assisted Dr. Kane, when he wintered in Smith Sound. These poor creatures live upon the flesh of the bear, seal, and walrus, which they kill upon the ice with bone spears. They are, perhaps, the only people in the world living upon a sea-coast without boats of any kind, and are so completely isolated, that, previous to their being first visited in 1818, they considered themselves to be the only people in the world. Dr. Kane left among them a Greenland Esquimaux, “Hans,” with his canoe. They told us that Hans was married, and was well, but that they had eaten the boat, besides many of their dogs, when hungry, during the last winter. We invited them on board, and they saw all our treasures of wood and iron; but they appeared to covet more than all, our dogs, and a few light pieces of wood, fit for spear-handles. We sent them away rejoicing over a few presents of long knives and needles, and they continued to dance and brandish the knives over their heads until we were out of sight.

Passing Cape Dudley Diggs, we landed at a breeding-place of rotges (little auks); the birds were sitting in myriads upon the ledges of the cliffs, and we shot a great many; but our time was too precious to wait long, even for fresh food, and so we bore away. We were considerably baffled with ice-floes in crossing over towards Lancaster Sound, and we did not reach that side until July 12.

Near Cape Horsburgh we found a small and enterprising family of natives, who had crossed over to this barren land from Pond’s Bay, two years previously, in search of better hunting ground. These poor people could give us no information of the missing ships; so we merely stopped to give them a few presents; we then steered for Pond’s Bay, from whence we had heard rumours of wrecks and wreck-wood being in the possession of the natives. In crossing Lancaster Sound, we were completely beset in the pack, and were even threatened with another drift out to sea like that of last year; we fortunately escaped, however, from the grip of the ice, after being carried for seven days in a helpless state, and as far as Cape Bathurst, before we could regain command over our ship.

At the entrance to Pond’s Bay, we found an old woman and a boy living in a skin tent, their tribe being some twenty-five miles up the inlet, at a village on the north side. This village, called Kapawroktolik, could not be reached by land, on account of the precipitous cliffs facing the sea. The inlet was, however, yet full of ice, and Captain M‘Clintock endeavoured to reach the natives by sledge. In the meantime, we on board were employed in collecting sea-birds from the neighbouring breeding cliffs of Cape Grahame Moore. We also frequently visited the land to collect cochlearia, or scurvy-grass, which grew luxuriantly about the old Esquimaux encampments. A trade was commenced with the old lady on shore; for we found that, concealed among the stones, she had a number of narwhales’ horns, teeth, and blades of whalebone, of which she would only produce one at a time, by way of enhancing the value by its apparent scarcity. Around her tent were snares set in all directions for catching birds, and she had a large quantity of putrid blubber lying _en cache_, which was her principal food and fuel. The boy brought us a hare, which he had shot with his bow and arrow. Captain M‘Clintock having failed to reach the village, owing to the ice being all adrift in the inlet, he determined to take the ship there if possible, and to take the old woman as pilot.

We ran alongside her tent, which she soon packed up with all her worldly riches, and came on board thoroughly drenched with the rain, which had poured in torrents all day. Our people managed to rig her out in some dry clothes; the poor boy was made snug in the engine room, and the old lady voluntarily took her station as pilot upon the deck throughout the night, and was very anxious to point out the beauties of her country, and the “pleasant sleeping places.”

We could only get within eight miles of the village, owing to there being fast ice in the inlet; so, securing the ship to it, the Captain and Hobson started over the ice. On board the ship we hoped to have a quiet Sunday, but a number of right-whales playing round the vessel, and pushing their backs under the ice, constantly broke away the rotten edge to which we lay. We were thus kept constantly beating up again to it; and in the evening, about six or seven miles of the ice coming away in one floe, and turning round upon us, we were forced upon the south shore of the inlet, and momentarily expected being driven upon the rocks; but after blasting the ice with gunpowder for nearly two hours, in order to gain every inch, we got clear just as we were touching the ground.

The next morning (August 2) the Captain and party returned. They had a most interesting trip, and described the village as situated in a most romantic spot, close upon the shore, at the foot of a deep valley filled with a glacier, which completely overhung the settlement, and threw jets of water almost to the tents. The natives were delighted to see them, and, in answer to the inquiries through the interpreter (Mr. Petersen), they said that two old wrecks were lying four days’ journey southward of Cape Bowen--probably in Scot’s Inlet. These two ships came on shore together many years ago. They also confirmed an account from our lady pilot of an old wreck lying to the northward in Lancaster Sound, one day’s journey from Cape Hay, or, as they call it, Appak (breeding-place of birds). The wood in their possession was now accounted for, as also their great anxiety to procure saws, which they always asked for in barter. These wrecks were not those we sought, and we had no occasion to delay our voyage by looking at them. The natives drew a rough chart of the interior of this unknown country. They especially pointed out the salmon rivers, and the hunting and sleeping places, and gave a few general ideas of the profile of the land, and the main directions of the different channels which intersect it; describing North Devon as an island, and showing a water communication with Igloolik, where Parry wintered. We had now set at rest all rumours of Franklin’s ships being in the neighbourhood of Pond’s Bay; and having made a few observations for the survey of the place, we departed for Beechey Island, regretting that the whaleships had not been with us to profit by the number of fish we had seen. As we entered Lancaster Sound, five huge bears sat watching a dead whale; they sat upon different pieces of ice, apparently taking turns to feed, and evidently afraid of each other. We shot a couple of them, but one escaped over the ice after a long chase, although desperately wounded.

The next morning (August 7) the wind increased to a perfect storm from the eastward; the fog was, as seamen say, as thick as pease-soup; we could see nothing; and compasses being here useless, we had to trust to our luck rather than good guidance for keeping in the fairway. We saw very little ice, but the sea ran so high upon the 8th, that we thought it prudent to lie-to for some hours. On the 10th, a herd of walrus was seen off Cape Felfoot, upon a piece of sailing ice, and lying so close as to completely cover it. The ship was run close alongside, and several were shot, but we did not succeed in getting one; for, unless instantaneously killed, they always wriggle off the ice and sink. The only practical method of getting a walrus is with a gun-harpoon from a boat; as yet we had shot only one during our voyage. Steering round Cape Hurd in a thick fog, we struck on an unknown shoal, but soon backed off again, and let go the anchor, as we could not see our position. About midnight the fog lifted, and we proceeded. A large bear was seen swimming round a point, and was shot; and shortly after, one of the men fell overboard: he was picked up rather exhausted with his cold bath, and perhaps a little alarmed at bathing in company with polar bears. We anchored next day off Cape Riley, where the _Bredalbane_ was lost, after Captain Inglefield had landed some of her stores and coals. We found that the bears had been amusing themselves with the provisions, and had eaten out the bilges between the hoops of many of the casks. They evidently had a particular relish for chocolate and salt pork (we hoped they liked it), and had taken the greatest trouble to throw everything about. We visited the stores at Beechey; they had been stored and housed with extreme care. A violent gale had passed over the place, for the door of the house was blown in and the entrance full of snow, but nothing was damaged excepting some biscuit. We also visited the graves, so often described, yet ever interesting, of the poor fellows who died in Franklin’s first winter quarters, and whose comrades we were now seeking.

Our coaling from Cape Riley was completed by the 15th, and we were glad to leave that exposed and dangerous place. We had been considerably troubled with drift ice, and on the 13th we drove half across the bay, with both anchors down, and had to moor to a piece of ice grounded close to the ship. We crossed to the house at Beechey, and there landed a handsome tombstone (sent out by Lady Franklin), in memorial of Sir John Franklin and his companions. It was placed close to the monument erected by their shipmates to the memory of poor Bellot and those who had died in the previous searching expeditions. Taking in such stores as were actually necessary, and having repaired the house, we crossed over to Cape Hotham for a boat (left there by Penny), to replace one of ours which had been crushed by the ice. Wellington Channel appeared to be clear of ice, and a jumping sea, from the southward, gave us promise of clear water in that direction. On the 17th, we were sailing down Peel Sound with a fresh wind, and carrying every rag of canvas. Passing Limestone Island and Cape Granite, we began to think that we should go right through, for as yet no ice could be seen ahead; but the southern sky looked bright and icy, while, in contrast, a dark gloom hung over the waters we had left in the northward. Still we sailed on merrily, and were already talking of passing the winter near the Fish River, and returning the following year by Behring’s Straits, when “Ice ahead!” was reported from the crow’s-nest; and there it certainly was, a long low white barrier, of that peculiar concave form always indicating fast-ice. The Straits had not broken up this season, and we could not pass that way. We were bitterly disappointed, but not disheartened, for we had yet another chance of getting to our longed-for destination by way of Bellot Straits. Not an hour was to be lost; the season was passing away; and thither our captain determined to go at once. We reluctantly ran out of this promising channel, and sailed close along the north shores of Somerset, without seeing any ice of consequence. The night of the 18th set in dark and squally, but in the absence of ice we were quite at our ease. We steamed close under the magnificent castellated cliffs of Cape Clarence, and entered Leopold Harbour to land a boat, in the event of our having to abandon our ship and fall back this way.

We found Regent’s Inlet clear, excepting a few streams of loose ice, through which we easily sailed. We passed Elwin and Batty Bays, and everything, as an old quartermaster expressed it, looked “werry prosperious.” Poor fellow! he knew that every mile sailed in the right direction would save him a hard pull at the sledge ropes.