July 12th.
WAITING FOR A WIND. The swell has subsided, the storm clouds have cleared away, and the tide is scattering the ice out over the sea. We are fairly and truly afloat, and once more cannot leave the deck without a boat. It is just ten months to a day since we were locked up, during which time our little craft has been a house rather than a ship. We are glad to feel again the motion of the sea; and "man the boat" seems a novel order to give when one wants to go ashore. We await only a wind to send us to sea.
July 13th.
Still calm, and we are lying quietly among the ice which so lately held us prisoners. I have been ashore, taking leave of my friends the Esquimaux. They have pitched their tents near by, and, poor fellows! I am truly sorry to leave them. They have all been faithful, each in his way, and they have done me most important service. The alacrity with which they have placed their dogs at my disposal (and without these dogs I could have done absolutely nothing) is the strongest proof that they could give me of their devotion and regard; for their dogs are to them invaluable treasures, without which they have no security against want and starvation, to themselves and their wives and children. True, I have done them some good, and have given them presents of great value, yet nothing can supply the place of a lost dog; and out of all that I obtained from them, there were but two animals that survived the hardships of my spring journey. These I have returned to their original owners. I have given them high hopes of my speedy return, and in this prospect they appear to take consolation.
