Chapter VIII

WINTER NIGHT. NOVEMBER, 1869, TO NEW YEAR’S DAY,
1870.[54]

Storm and snow-drift.--Boisterous night.--Damage to the
observatory.--Snow-wall on the ship.--The cold.--Tidings
from East Greenland.--Stormy weather again.--Increase of
darkness.--Establishment of a school of navigation.--Fresh
storm.--The shortest day.--Damage during the storm.--Force
and velocity of the wind.--Magnetic periods.--Celebration of
Christmas.--Singing and dancing on Christmas-eve.

The sun, that source of all light and life, had left us. The three months’ Arctic night had begun. There was enough daylight, however, to allow of our working in the open air; the cold too was not very great, so that we did not feel the transition much. On the 7th and 8th a storm raged surpassing any that we had hitherto felt; but after our experience it did not terrify us.

As the men seemed inclined to treat this change in our position too lightly, we, estimating the seriousness of the case more justly, thought it our duty to notice it in some way, and thus our entrance into this winter night was made somewhat solemnly. An arrangement was then made by Captain Koldewey settling the daily order of things, and on some points giving more stringent directions. Moreover, it was fortunate that Mr. Sengstacke had, on the 5th of November, returned on board with the sledge left behind by Payer; for the whole of the following days there were storms from the north, with thick drifting snow, thus putting a stop to all business in the open air. During the night the force of the squall seemed to increase, so that by the morning it was no longer possible to go on shore; but we hung a thermometer against the mainmast, in a place where no local influence could be brought to bear upon it, and during the storm it showed exactly the same temperature on land as on the ice.

Thus began Sunday, the 7th of November; but the prevailing quiet on board from the cessation of all work made the raging of the storm without more noticeable. Boreas did not acknowledge the day of rest, but gained strength hour by hour, and howled round us without the slightest intermission. From time to time there were perfect hurricane gusts, causing the ice-bound ship to quiver throughout: such weather we had never before experienced. If we ventured beyond the closely-shut hatchways on to the deck, we were nearly deafened by the blustering, roaring, and crashing with which the wind broke upon the ship and howled round it. Conversation was not to be thought of, for the loudest word of command could not be heard over the whole ship.

_Page 372._

ON DECK.]

Looking through the rifts of the tightly-closed opening, one could see nothing but the everlasting softly-falling thick masses of fine snowy particles. No trace of land; indeed, one could scarcely distinguish the next block of ice. It was no wonder, from the increasing violence of the storm, that our thoughts, too, should become stormy. What if the ship should break away from the ice? Could we then remain on the same spot? Land had apparently disappeared. A dreadful squall drove the sharp snow in our faces, and, shuddering, we quickly retreated under the tent-roof, which bent inwards more and more, the fastenings seeming to slacken. The chimney shook; even the mast above, which we could see through a slit in the roof, swayed. We feared the tent would split up if the storm lasted much longer. And then? then the whole of the deck would be swept clean, and we must resign ourselves to remain below until the storm had spent itself, and allowed us to make good all damage done. And on land? how could we tell whether this furious storm had not demolished our provision depôt, torn off the roof, or destroyed the chests, &c., and rolled them into the sea?

As we paced the deck on that Sunday morning we were grave, but still of good heart; we had done all that lay in our power. On deck it looked interesting enough. Through all existing or freshly-made holes, through the smallest breaks or rents, and even through the sail-cloth itself, the snow had forced its way; the atmosphere was filled with the smallest grains and needle-points, which fell on everything on deck, soon, in spite of all our trouble, forming a thick covering of snow.

The after-part of the ship presented the worst appearance: here was a perfect snow landscape. And in order to get at the provisions we were obliged every time to use the shovel, and at the wheel-house the drift was from six to seven feet high.

Later, the storm seemed to abate a little, allowing Mr. Sengstacke and Dr. Copeland to work their way with much difficulty through the still drifting snow to land. The observatory and its roof were still there, but they were both, as well as the thermometer-case, full of snow. It would have been most interesting could we have ascertained the actual force of the storm, as Robinson’s anemometer would give it. But what a disaster! the wings had been blown off. Breathless, without any result, and most picturesquely snowed over, did the gentlemen return,--and only just in time, for the storm rose again with undiminished strength; indeed, from nine a.m. until eleven p.m. it seemed trying to outdo itself.

We turned up our collars, and waded in our fur boots through the snow, looking carefully round on all sides. Everything was fast as yet. But the storm seemed to know no end, and at short intervals squall upon squall thundered down on to the ship: one could feel the deck quiver under one’s feet.

Attentively we listen to the raging concerts, to see if we can catch any signs of abatement. Every fresh squall seems to be the last, as it rumbles and dies away in the distance. We listen anxiously--one--two--three minutes! but again we can distinguish in the regular blustering and grumbling another tone, and before we have time to consider a fresh, and stronger tempest howls and roars, around us. With anxious glances at the threatened tent-roof we leave the deck and go below, seat ourselves at the table, and take a book. But reading is impossible. It is already late in the evening, and we can take refuge in our berths. But sleep will not come. Everything, about us is in a constant tremble; the stone and glasses clatter, and now and then a stronger shock rouses us from our half-slumber; until at length, as the storm lulls by degrees, fatigue conquers, and helps the weary one to rest. We commend ourselves to heaven, and sleep.

The following morning (8th November) we convince ourselves, to our great joy, that the tent is not split. The heavy squalls had ceased at midnight, but a violent storm was still raging; and, though lasting more than two whole days, seemed not yet likely to drop, although the barometer was rising energetically. Directly after coffee, every man goes to work with broom and shovel to get rid of the masses of snow that had gathered on deck. The cold is zero (F.), but after the inactivity of yesterday we find the air most agreeable.

Not until four p.m. did the snow cease and the storm give over; and by six o’clock a most unearthly stillness reigned, and the foul weather was over. We felt exactly as one does after standing for a long time by a waterfall or a glacier torrent, and then suddenly turning a rocky projection, when the roaring is no longer heard--so wonderfully still and quiet lay all around us.

The barometer had now reached the unusual height of 30.8 inches. During the night the equilibrium of the atmosphere was quite restored, and nature lay still and quiet as before; the veil of clouds parted, and with the same feelings as at home we greet the rainbow after a heavy storm, we watched the red rays of the Northern Lights shoot up in the southern sky.

The next day there was plenty of work; our greatest trouble was the observatory. Here melancholy discoveries awaited the astronomers.

The whole interior of the building was filled with dense masses of snow. Carefully we press through it to the stone on which the theodolite stood, covered over: the stone is empty! That was a severe blow. But we soon discovered the costly instrument lying on the floor quite unharmed. The telescope stand, too, was overturned. We were fortunate enough to find Robinson’s wings again; they had not suffered much, and Wagner’s clever hands soon succeeded in restoring the useful instrument.

The next days were calm, with a clear or slightly clouded atmosphere. The outline of the fog to the south was interesting, betokening open water, whilst before noon a thin veil hid the southern mainland. Later on, stretched at the same height a fog bank, from Walrus Island into Clavering Straits, which after a time disappeared. In this expanse Captain Koldewey saw open water, when at ten o’clock he went to the Germaniaberg to survey the condition of the ice. The line in which the ice had been torn asunder went from the south end of Walrus Island, through Clavering Straits to the west, past the small island to Cape Wynn; from the north end of Walrus Island to Cairn Point, then up the shore of our island to the south-east end of Klein Pendulum. South of Shannon, however, the old ice lay unaltered. Here we again recognized the great importance of Walrus Island, as affording a secure harbour.

In the neighbourhood of land there was but little snow on the ice; and on the mountains but little more than formerly. The condition of the vegetation had previously led us to the conclusion, which seemed to be correct, that the snowfall in winter was but small.

We were now able to make use of the large quantity of fallen snow, as it had hardened in the storm and the cold. Where the snow-drifts were deep enough, square pieces were cut out and brought to the ship. With these a high wall was built adjoining the ice-blocks, the space between being filled in with fragments.

From similar snow-stones a screen was built in front of the ventilator to keep out the cold. At the exit of the back path, which was twelve feet long, and higher than a man’s height, we put the door of the wheel-house, thus causing the warmth to be sometimes so intense that the snow began to melt and the walls to shrink.

By the second week of November the cold had increased to a mean daily temperature of from -2° Fahr. to -13°, reaching a minimum of -16°, a temperature which agreed with us in every respect.

This may be attributed to the force of habit; besides which, the cold was much more easily borne in a still atmosphere. Our bodies required no greater protection than the usual winter clothing; even this was a great deal too warm if we were busied in any active work.

In the cabin we mostly took off our coats, and yet we did not require fifteen pounds of coal a day to heat our Meidinger stove. Indeed, at first, the heat of this stove was our greatest trouble, and it required some experience and great care not to allow the temperature to rise beyond 68° Fahr.

On the 13th the first large wash was held, and the men were examined by the doctor from head to foot, when none of them showed the least sign of disease. After this proceeding the expedition clothing (coats, trowsers, waistcoats, and woollen underclothing) was given out.

The next day, the first really quiet Sunday, brought a slight interruption to the monotony of our daily life. The first number of the “East Greenland Gazette” appeared.

We thought that on this point too we ought to follow the example of our predecessors, although our prevailing state of mind had as yet in no way required such cheering and refreshing. Materials for the publication of such a number every fourteen days could never be wanting. Unfortunately, a small printing press, given by the printing-house at Bremerhaven, had not followed us on board. In order, therefore, to have two copies, one for the cabin and one for the forecastle, we had to take the trouble to write it. Already on the 10th had appeared “Invitation to assist in the publication.” Dr. Pansch was appointed editor, and a locked box was hung up, in which every one dropped his contribution anonymously.

At last, on Sunday at noon, the first number appeared “with a supplement,” sixteen pages in the whole. It contained all sorts of fun, some poems, “official proclamations,” and an address to the men by the doctor.

That afternoon merriment reigned in both rooms, and in the fore-cabin the well known “Volkslieder” were heard in the evening. Well might we enjoy this fine still day.

On the 15th, just eight days after the last catastrophe, it again began to blow a storm from the north, and that _crescendo_. The storm howled and sobbed, the squall crashed and thundered, the tent bent, and the poles cracked; dense, wildly-drifting snow without, and fine powdery drifts on deck. It is the same mighty spectacle of northern nature that we so vividly remembered the week before. And it raged thus unabated for quite eighty-one hours; as far as we could ascertain, the fall of snow lasted forty-five hours.

Of course the effects were misfortune upon misfortune. The snow walls of the observatory were for the most part blown away, and the interior snowed up. The snow walls of the ship had suffered too. Worse than all was the loss of the “Robinson,” which had again disappeared; and this time, in spite of all our search, was not to be found. From the direction of the snow-drifts we found that the storm came from the same quarter as before.

One thing was very plain to us, namely, that had our ship been larger, we could not have hauled it into the creek, and would most likely have had to stop on the same spot where Captain Clavering had anchored with the Griper, on the south side of the island, near the Esquimaux huts. In that case we must inevitably have been torn away with the ice by the storm and been destroyed.

We must mention that the temperature rose on the 18th to 16° Fahr.; the consequence of which was, that the screen on deck began to thaw considerably, sending much wet into the cabin. The following day, too, the temperature remained moderate, and even rose to 11.75°. To our feelings this “warmth” was anything but agreeable; it forced us, hardened as we were, when working in the snow, to relieve ourselves of nearly all clothing but our shirts.

On the 21st (Sunday) the second number of our paper appeared, as rich in contents, and with much that was interesting and funny. The following is an example of the official part:--

REWARD!!!

Whoever finds the body of Robinson (Crusoe), who has
disappeared from his island, shall receive a reward of one
bottle of wine and one dozen of cigars. Many may compete for
this prize at the same time.

Given from our winter quarters, Clavering Straits, Nov. 10.

C. KOLDEWEY.

The fine weather of the next days facilitated repairs of the damage done by the storm. The observatories received a new and thicker coating of snow, which sloped up to the roof, by which the whole obtained a uniform appearance; over this we poured water, which formed a crust of ice, apparently strong enough to defy any storm.

Noteworthy now was the increase of darkness. On the 22nd of November, at noon, all thermometers had to be read by the lamp; and on the 23rd, at noon, stars of the second magnitude (for example, the polar-star) could be distinctly seen. The whole morning the southern horizon from Walrus Island to Cape Borlase Warren was yellowish-red; and this twilight showed strong against the black line of open water. At the same time there was a strong refraction of the rays, and in the atmosphere appeared a glimmering undulating motion from west to east.

The evenings and nights too were beautiful; the moon shone without setting from the 19th to the 25th. At noon we still saw its pale light, and at night it was frequently surrounded with a halo, accompanied by a _paraselene_ or mock moon.

The Northern Lights again appeared in all their beauty, and when the magnetic observatory was in order, observations upon the fluctuation of the declination of the pole were made in connexion with notices upon the rapidly changing appearance of the Aurora. This work, upon which, and more especially upon the scientific work during the winter, a glance will be taken in the next chapters, was often difficult enough, as it had to be written down in the open air by the light of a lamp for hours together. The captain made use of the clear evenings to take a number of lunar calculations. The temperature and the thickness of the ice were also measured. The latter, at some distance from the ship, was thirty-six and a half English inches.

Thus our daily life passed pretty regularly, one day being much as another. Scientific work we had in plenty. Our leisure hours were spent agreeably in reading, playing at chess, and conversation.

One great evil we still had to contend with was the small room, and especially the small table, which we had to share. In any great zoological work, this was so considerable that Dr. Pansch had to make use of the night hours, when all but the watch had gone to rest.

A decided change had now taken place in the life of the men by the introduction of a navigation school. The captain’s suggestion for this object was received with great approbation; indeed, every one wanted to take a part in it. But on the 25th the school was opened with four scholars: P. Iversen, P. Ellinger, Th. Klentzer, and G. Herzberg. The captain taught navigation, Dr. Börgen undertook geography and astronomy, Dr. Copeland natural science.

An hour was given every day, and the men had enough to do to get through the work and impress it upon their minds; but they did it with great eagerness, and seldom in a forecastle was so much heard of plus and minus, of squares and square roots as with us on the Germania.

Christmas month was approaching, and the first week passed without any particular occurrence. The mean daily temperature remained moderate, 14° to -4° Fahr. The wind frequently blew violently from the north, and on the 4th brought heavy drifting snow. To the south and south-east we heard from time to time crashing and roaring, as of water and ice, but we were spared a real storm.

On the 3rd of December, in the afternoon, we were suddenly alarmed by a loud and violent breaking and cracking the whole length of the ship, followed by a slight shock. Hurrying out to see the cause, we soon found that the snow-wall on the port side had loosened itself from the ship and had sunk some inches against it, in consequence of which it was forced to the starboard side, and this crooked position increased later, and was at once perceptible in the cabin. The ice behind it showed some cracks and fissures, one of which reached to the land. The stern-post, however, of the Germania seemed not to have suffered; the rudder and the rudder-pin were uninjured. It seemed that the colossal burden of the snow masses heaped on the starboard side had caused the ice to sink, and, giving way, had loosened the wall from the ship.

Weeks passed without any unusual interruption. Everything went its usual way, the increasing darkness of the days turning our thoughts to Christmas and the new year.

But not very considerately did the old one intend to take leave of us. After some days of unsettled weather, on the 10th of December came an unsteady north wind, alternating with drifting snow, now rising to a storm, and now quite dying away. At the same time one could hear the mighty roaring and howling of the water and ice. From the 8th to the 15th it raged thus continually, when the mean force of the wind was thirty miles an hour. Without, little could be done; and at noon, even on deck, nothing could be distinctly seen without a lamp.

On the 16th it began suddenly to rage from the north so violently that in from three to four hours the “Robinson” had marked no less than sixty-three English miles. And this was the beginning of the worst and most lasting storm experienced. On the evening of the 16th it abated a little, so that the next morning we could with some trouble return to observations on land; but in the evening the wind roared with redoubled fury. In the later hours its speed was from sixty-five to sixty-seven English miles, and that of the real storm of course much greater.

It was Dr. Börgen who took these two readings at the observatory; and indeed that was no trifle. On land he was once taken bodily up and thrown at least ten paces forward, and not without great exertion did he reach the guiding rope, and then on his way to the ship he was lifted up several times and thrown aside. Our greatest help, indeed our actual preservation in such cases, was the row of ice-blocks with the rope stretched along it; for while the heavy drifting snow hid everything within a few paces, the rushing wind stopped the play of the lungs, and seemed to paralyze the brain, and all the attention and muscular power had to be directed to the keeping of one’s feet. Then it is almost impossible for the lonely wanderer to keep in one decided direction. Beaten and overpowered by the storm, the strongest man will soon in such a case be lost. Two of our men, having strayed far to the north, we should probably never have seen again had they not struck upon the ship’s anchor and thus retraced their steps.

Besides, such attempts were never carried to rashness. On the following stormy days, three different times we felt our way to land by the rope, but from the thickness of the falling snow dared not venture to let it go and mount. The danger of going the wrong way was so imminent in such cases that we always stood on the steps, in order to help, if necessary, as far as was possible. With the lantern in hand we tapped around on deck in the deep snow. The hurricane raged round the tent, so that the props cracked and the cordage creaked; mighty fiends seemed let loose upon us, and at one time we were seriously afraid for the preservation of our tent-roof.

The 18th dawned and ended: the storm raged on, and squall upon squall rushed over the ship without intermission or abatement; the falling snow being so dense that we could not see six steps before us.

The 19th was the same--the storm howled and raged unchanged, but we still lay firm in the ice. But for how long--who could tell? Destruction might be near, and perhaps the open water already splashing beneath us.

The long inactivity began to tell upon us. The food no longer tasted as usual, we had no heart to work, and here and there were signs of bad temper. In the forecastle something had happened. The snow-wall must have become relaxed, for on one side the cold wind whistled through the cracks of the planks, covering the cabin walls with ice. It cost us a whole day’s work to shut out the unwelcome guest.

To get some little motion we paced the deck by the melancholy light of a lantern; but that did not last long. The everlasting rushing noise deafened one, and the tent seemed to crush us, though spanned to its uttermost. In a few minutes we were thickly covered with snow, and had to be scraped down so as not to carry too much wet below.

On the 20th matters somewhat improved. The astronomers were in despair; for the 21st was a magnetic period, and the whole twenty-four hours must be passed in the observatory. But everything has an end, even an East Greenland winter’s storm. Towards evening we could get to land comfortably without danger, and the astronomers were able to arrange the instruments and the observatory to their satisfaction.

The icy case had lasted well this time; only through a few small holes had the snow penetrated. In the observatory, however, there was more. The “Robinson” was again wingless; the bar on which the wings worked was much worn and bent to the south. The provision depôt was unharmed. We, however, found the flood-pole broken and frozen firm in the thick ice, and the snow-walls of the ship were partly blown away, and partly eaten away, and riddled with holes.

But how had the storm dealt with the ice? this we must ascertain next. And soon, through the pale twilight, to the south we saw a dark strip shining--the open water. It must have come nearer to us than the last time; that was evident. We were, however, astonished to find that it was no longer 300 paces distant from the ship. It reached nearly to the observatory, and, upon trying to get to Cairn Point, we could not reach it; the ice was here torn into loose fragments. How about the ice-dam by Walrus Island, so important for our safety? We could not distinctly see whether it had been broken through, or whether it was still standing.

It was with peculiar feelings that on the 21st--both the shortest and the darkest day--we walked about on the ice and on the neighbouring land. At home, after such a convulsion of nature, everything bears the stamp of destruction; here nothing showed traces of the fury of the elements but the large and small snow-drifts. White and still all lay around, the polished walls of rock rising dark above them; gloomy and almost foggy was the atmosphere. After the nearly ten days’ roar of the storm this quiet had in it something refreshing; but, in spite of that, we this day felt the deep melancholy impress of the Arctic night. In troubled, unsteady twilight lay the landscape, so that we could only see a few steps before us, and could scarcely see to read fine print. A faint light under the dark clouds in the south was the only sign of day.

In looking back upon the storm, and reckoning the dates, we first realized what a mighty effort of nature it had been. Without reckoning the forerunners, the real storm had raged 103 hours, blowing with a mean strength on Beaufort’s scale[55] of more than 9. If we take the rate during these 103 hours to be sixty miles (= fifteen German miles[56]) per hour, and if it had continued straight in a southerly direction, this storm would not only have reached the equator, but have gone far beyond it even to the latitude of the south point of Africa; thus traversing more than a quarter of the earth’s circumference. Another peculiarity of this storm was, that, contrary to the sudden rising of the former, it seemed to increase by long preparatory stages. The barometer fell slowly, though not unusually low. The sky, too, at the beginning was perfectly clear; but most striking was the fact that the temperature remained low, -4° to -11° Fahr., until the end of the storm, when it rose by degrees.

The 21st of December, as has been said, was a magnetic period. The astronomers had prepared the room and the instruments at the right time, and the twenty-four hours of minute observation began. Two hours’ relief was allowed. The going backwards and forwards, the eating and drinking through the night, and the hot can of coffee on the stove all night was a welcome change from the uniformity of our life.

Thus Christmas-time drew near. That the beautiful festival should be kept was understood, small gifts being prepared on all sides for the purpose. We were the first Germans who had wintered here, and so it was clear to all that the Christmas-tree must not be wanting on the Germania. This was an unavailing wish, for fir-trees do not grow in Greenland. But Nature seemed to take pity on us in our distress; sparing as her growth is, she offered us a helping hand and some fresh green for our Christmas-tree. The stalks of the Andromeda retain their leaves in winter, which, although of a dark greenish-brown, are still fresh. The carpenter made a pedestal, on which stood a three-feet stem, with the chief branches representing a fir-tree. These were covered with the shoots of the Andromeda, and smaller sticks were fastened on to resemble the natural branches. In this way we obtained a “fir-tree” far surpassing our expectations. The overhanging slope of Germaniaberg was one of the few spots where the plant grew plentifully; our botanist knew how to find the spot under the snow, and in the dark noontide hour the plants were raked up and brought home triumphantly.

The after-cabin was warmed, and here the fir-tree was put together. The men persevered with the work, and there was not one among them but put some finishing touches to it; small wax-lights and golden-nuts were not wanting. We sat in the small room by a dimly-burning lamp; cheerful conversation went round, and pleasanter Christmas enjoyment than we had could not well be found. At four o’clock every one was to leave the cabin. The walls were decorated with flags, near the sofa the finest foxes’ skins were hung up, and the table by the help of some chests lengthened as far as the mast. By six all was ready. The ship’s bell gave the summons; under the ventilator was a small coloured transparency, and from the forecastle a Christmas hymn rose. Then all entered the cabin and ranged themselves round the table.

German Christmas in East Greenland ice! There stood the powerful forms of big “children,” serious but cheerful, and the finest Christmas-tree rose on deck, glittering with lights and gold and silver; and on the fresh white table-cloth lay the plates with the gifts upon them; they were but trifling things, but they gave much pleasure: small books, letter-cases, and so on. Near the tree lay a large harmonica “for the men;” this, with some balls of cord, in which were enclosed different small things, was a present from the ladies of Kiel. On the other side stood the complete model of a full-rigged ship, just finished by P. Iversen.

Somewhat later followed a hot supper, in which the cook astonished us with some delightful cakes. Healths were drunk in foaming wine of the Neckar, and at dessert a large chest, which had taken its place in the cabin since yesterday, was opened. It contained a valuable present from Mainz: a number of bottles of excellent Rhine wine. You should have seen the men of the Germania! Heart and mind were in a glow, they joked and chattered, speeches were made and healths drunk, and the ship resounded with many a hearty cheer. We thought of our loved ones at home, our brothers on the Hansa, and our ever dear country!

But we still wanted a song. Each one had his songbook, a gift from the publisher, G. Westermann, and--were we not Germans, “Vereint zur frohen Stunde”? So it was not long before we had a song. Was it a warning that the “Wacht am Rhein” should resound in the Arctic night?

As it was a wonderfully warm, soft air, the suggestion of a dance on the ice received universal approbation. Soon we were dancing merrily on the white snow, whilst the boatman, wrapped in a reindeer’s skin, played the new harmonica with an artist’s hand.

More bottles were opened, more healths drunk, and midnight had passed before we retired to rest.

The last week in the year passed without any particular event. Twice Boreas visited us again, but he seemed to have lost his energy, for he dropped after about ten hours, causing no further disturbance. The temperature remained high the whole time, and on the 27th even reached 28° Fahr.

Thus the year came to an end, and with brighter expectations could we look forward to the future.

St. Silvester’s Eve[57] passed in the usual manner; we sat cheerfully together over our wine, amusing ourselves with the innocent game of pouring the lead, and so on, while awaiting the twelfth hour, when with the clinking of the glasses we expressed reciprocal wishes for the fulfilment of our hopes and for the success of our expedition. The astronomers had calculated when the midnight hour would reach the different places in Germany; so each individual had a particular touch of the glasses, and “To what we love best” at home. The kind givers were not forgotten, nor our comrades of the Hansa, whom we believed had long since run into the Weser.

Quickly the hours passed, and one after the other sought his hard couch.