Works of Jules Verne/Adventures of Captain Hatteras/The English at the North Pole/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
DAVIS'S STRAITS
During the day the Forward bored her way easily through the loose ice. The wind was favorable, but the temperature very low, owing to the passage of the air currents over the ice-fields.
The night was the most trying time, requiring the utmost vigilance. The icebergs so crowded the narrow strait that upwards of a hundred could often be counted on the horizon at one time. They were constantly being shed off by the glaciers on the coast, through the combined action of the waves and the April weather, and either melted away or became engulfed in the depths of the ocean. It was necessary, also, to guard against coming into collision with the drift-wood, which was floating about in continuous heavy masses, so the "crow's-nest " had to be attached to the topgallant mast-head. This was a cask with a movable bottom, in which the ice-master took up his position, to keep a sharp look-out over the sea. Here he was partially sheltered from the wind, and could both give notice of any ice that came in sight and direct the course of the vessel through it when necessary.
The nights were short. The sun had reappeared since the close of January, and inclined more and more to show himself above the horizon; but the snow came between, and though not exactly causing darkness, made navigation a work of difficulty.
On the 21st of April Cape Desolation came in sight through the fog. The men were worn out with fatigue, for they had not a minute's rest since they got in among the ice. It was found necessary to have recourse to steam to bore a way through the close, heavy packs.
The Doctor and the boatswain were standing at the stern, having a chat, while Shandon was in his cabin, trying to get a few hours' sleep. Clawbonny was very fond of having a talk with the old sailor, for he had made so many voyages, and seen and heard so much, that his conversation was always sensible and interesting. The Doctor took quite a fancy to him, and Johnson heartily reciprocated his liking.
"How different this country is from all others," said Johnson. "It is called Greenland, but certainly it is only during a very few weeks in the year that it justifies its name."
"But who knows, my good fellow, whether in the tenth century it might not have been justly called so? More than one total change like that has taken place on our globe; and perhaps I shall astonish you considerably when tell you that, according to Icelandic chroniclers, there were two hundred flourishing villages on this continent eight or nine hundred years ago."
"You astonish me so much, Mr. Clawbonny, that I couldn't believe it, for it is a miserable country."
"Miserable it may be, but for all that it affords enough to satisfy the inhabitants, and even civilized Europeans, too."
"True enough. Both at Disko and Upernavik we shall find men who have taken up their abode in this inhospitable climate; but, for my own part, it has always seemed to me that their stay there must be a matter of necessity rather than of choice."
"I can quite think that, yet a man can get used to anything; and the Greenlanders don't appear to me so much to be pitied as the laboring classes in our great cities. They may be badly off, but one thing is certain, they are not unhappy. I say badly off; but that does not quite express my meaning. What I would say is, they lack many comforts to be found in the temperate zones, and yet their constitutions are so adapted to this rude climate, that they find a measure of enjoyment in it which we cannot even imagine."
"I suppose it is so, Mr. Clawbonny, since Heaven cannot be unjust; but I have been here many a time, and yet I never can see these dreary solitudes without a feeling of sadness coming over me. And then what names they have given to these capes, and bays, and headlands! Surely they might have found something more inviting than Cape Farewell and Desolation. They have not a very cheering sound to navigators."
"I have thought the same thing myself," replied the Doctor; "and yet these names have a geographical interest attaching to them which we must not overlook. They record the adventures of those who gave them. If I find Cape Desolation among such names as Davis, Baffin, Hudson, Ross, Parry, Franklin, and Bellot, I find soon afterwards Mercy Bay. Cape Providence is good company for Port Anxiety; Repulse Bay leads me to Cape Eden; and Turnagain Point to Refuge Bay. Here I have before me the whole succession of dangers and disappointments, obstacles, and successes, despairing failures, and accomplished results, linked with illustrious names of my countrymen; and as if on a series of ancient medals, I read in this nomenclature the whole history of these seas."
"You have certainly made out a very good case for it, Mr. Clawbonny. I only hope, in our voyage, we may oftener come to Success Bay than Cape Despair."
"I hope that, too, Johnson; but, tell me, have the crew got over their fears at all?"
"They have partly, sir; and yet, to speak frankly, since we entered the strait, their heads are full again of this eccentric captain of ours. More than one of them expected him to make his appearance the moment we reached Greenland, and there's no sign of him yet. Between ourselves, Mr. Clawbonny, are you not surprised?"
"I certainly am, Johnson."
"Do you believe in the actual existence of this captain?"
"Most assuredly."
"But what can possibly induce him to act in this manner?"
"Well, if I say what I really think, it is this—the captain wished to get the sailors too far on to be able to back out of the undertaking; and if he had shown himself on board ship when we were going to sail, I don't know how he would have managed at all, with everybody clamoring to know the destination."
"Why not?"
"My stars! if he is going to attempt some superhuman enterprise, and try to push his way where human feet have never trod, do you suppose he would have found a crew at all to go with him? But by going to work like this, he has dragged the men on so far, that going farther becomes a necessity."
"That's very possible, Mr. Clawbonny. I have known more than one bold adventurer, whose mere name would have been enough to prevent anyone from joining any expedition led on by them."
"Anyone except me," said the Doctor.
"And me, after you, Doctor," replied Johnson. "No doubt, then, our captain belongs to these daring adventurers. Well, we shall see, I suppose. When we reach Upernavik, or Melville Bay, I daresay our brave incognito will quietly install himself on board, and inform us where he has a fancy to drag the ship."
"I think that is very likely; but the difficulty is to get to Melville Bay. Just look at the ice all round us. There is hardly room for the ice to get through. See that immense plain stretching out yonder!"
"In our Arctic language, Mr. Clawbonny, we call that an ice-field—that is to say, a surface of ice which extends beyond the reach of sight."
"And what do you call this broken ice on the other side—those long pieces which keep so closely together?"
"That's a pack. If the loose masses assume a circular form, we call it palch; and if elongated, a stream."
"And all that floating ice, there—has that any particular name?"
"That is called drift ice. If it rose higher out of the water it would be icebergs or ice-hills. It is dangerous for ships to come into contact with them, and they have to be carefully avoided. Look! do you see that protuberance, or sort of ridge of broken ice on the surface of the field? That is called a hummock, and is formed by the collision of fields. If its base was submerged, it would be called a calf."
"Well, it is certainly a curious spectacle," said the Doctor, "and one that acts powerfully on the imagination."
"Yes, indeed," replied Johnson, "for the ice often assumes the most fantastic forms."
"For instance, Johnson," interrupted the Doctor, "look at that assemblage of huge blocks. Couldn't you fancy it was some eastern city, with its minarets and mosques glittering in the pale moonlight? And then a little way off is a long succession of Gothic arches, which remind one of Henry the Seventh's Chapel at Westminster, or the Houses of Parliament."
"Ay, Mr. Clawbonny, each man shapes those to his own fancy; but I can tell you both churches and towers are dangerous places to live in, or even to get too near. There are some of those minarets tottering at their base, and the smallest of them would crush our brig to pieces."
"And yet men have dared to venture here without having steam to fall back upon. It is difficult to imagine a common sailing ship being able to pick her way through those moving rocks."
"It has been done, however, Mr. Clawbonny. When the wind became contrary, which happened to myself more than once, we anchored our ship to one of those blocks, and waited patiently, drifting along with it more or less, till a favoring breeze allowed us to resume our course again. I must confess, however, it was a very slow fashion of sailing. We did not get on farther in a whole month than we should have done in a day, if we had at all a fair wind."
"It strikes me," said the Doctor, "that the temperature keeps getting lower."
"That would be vexing," said Johnson, "for we need a thaw to loosen these packs, and make them drift into the Atlantic. The reason they are so numerous in Davis's Straits is the narrowness of the space between Cape Walsingham and Holsteinberg; but after we get beyond the 67th degree, we shall find the sea more navigable during May and June months."
"Yes; but how to reach it is the question."
"That's it, Mr. Clawbonny. In June and July we should have found the passage open, as the whalers do; but our orders were positive—we were to arrive here in April. That makes me think that our captain is some thorough 'go-ahead' fellow who has got an idea in his head, and is determined to carry it out. He would not have started so soon if he had not meant to go a long way. Well, if we live we shall see."
The Doctor was right about the temperature. The thermometer was only 6° at mid-day, and a breeze was blowing from the southwest, which, though it cleared the sky, considerably impeded the course of the ship, as the strong current it produced drove the loose, heavy masses of ice right across her bows. Nor did all these masses move in the same direction. Some—and those the largest among them—floated in an exactly opposite direction, obeying a counter-current below.
It is easy to understand what difficulty this caused in navigation. The engineers had not a single moment's rest. Sometimes a lead or opening was discovered in an ice-field, and the brig had to strain her utmost to get into it. Sometimes she had to race with an iceberg to prevent the only visible outlet from being blocked up; while again some towering mass would suddenly overturn, and the ship must be backed in an instant to avoid being crushed. Should frost set in, all the accumulation of floe-pieces driven into the narrow pass by the north wind, would consolidate firmly, and oppose an insurmountable barrier to the progress of the Forward.
The petrels and other sea-birds were innumerable. They were flying about in all directions, filling the air with their discordant cries. Amongst them was also a great number of sea-gulls, with large heads, short necks, and compressed beaks, spreading their long wings, and disporting themselves in the loose snow. These feathered gentry quite enlivened the landscape.
The drift-wood was still abundant, and the logs came dashing against each other with great noise. Several cache-lots, or sperm whales, with enormous, swollen heads, approached the vessel; but it was out of the question to think of giving them chase, though Simpson the harpooner's fingers itched to try to spear them. Towards evening, seals were also seen swimming about between the floes, the tips of their snouts just above water.
On the 22d, the temperature became still lower. The steam had to be at high pressure to enable the Forward to gain any favorable lead whatever. The wind kept steadily northwest, and the sails were close-reefed. Being Sunday, the sailors had less work. After morning service, which was read by Shandon, the crew occupied themselves in shooting guillemots, a species of sea turtle-doves. They caught a great number, which were dressed according to Clawbonny's receipt, and furnished an agreeable addition to the ordinary fare of both officers and men.
At three o'clock in the afternoon the Forward reached the Kin of Zaal, and the Sukkertop, or Sugarloaf—a wild, lonely peak, rising 3000 feet above the shore. There was a heavy swell in the sea, and from time to time a dense fog would suddenly overspread the gray sky. However, at noon the observations had been taken, and it was found that the latitude was 65° 20', and longitude 54° 22'. Two degrees higher had therefore to be made before a more open sea could be reached.
For the three following days it was one continuous struggle with the floes. It was a fatiguing business to work the engine: the steam was stopped or driven back every minute, and escaped hissing from the valves.
While the fog lasted, the approach of icebergs could only be known by the hollow detonations produced by the avalanches. The brig had then to turn aside at once, for there was danger of coming into collision with fresh-water blocks, as hard as rock, and remarkable for their crystal transparency. Shandon took care to replenish his supply of water by shipping several tons of these every day.
The Doctor could never get accustomed to the optical illusions caused by refraction. For instance, an iceberg twelve miles off looked like a little white mass quite close; and his eye needed long training to enable him to judge objects correctly in a region where a phenomenon like this was of frequent occurrence.
At length, what with towing the brig along in fields, and driving back threatening blocks with long poles, the crew were completely worn out, and yet on Friday, the 27th of April, the Forward was still outside the Polar circle.