The Voyages and Adventures of Captain Hatteras

The doctor inhaled with pleasure the sea-air; he paced up and down the deck in spite of the fresh wind, and showed that for a student he had very good sea-legs.

“The sea is a fine thing,” he said to Johnson, as he went upon the bridge after breakfast; “I am a little late in making its acquaintance, but I shall make up for my delay.”

“You are right, Dr. Clawbonny; I would give all the land in the world for a bit of ocean. People say that sailors soon get tired of their business; but I've been sailing for forty years, and I like it as well as I did the first day.”

“What a pleasure it is to feel a stanch ship under one's feet! and, if I'm not mistaken, the Forward is a capital sea-boat.”

“You are right, Doctor,” answered Shandon, who had joined the two speakers; “she's a good ship, and I must say that there was never a ship so well equipped for a voyage in the polar regions. That reminds me that, thirty years ago, Captain James Ross, going to seek the Northwest Passage—”

“Commanded the Victory,” said the doctor, quickly, “a brig of about the tonnage of this one, and also carrying machinery.”

“What! did you know that?”

“Say for yourself,” retorted the doctor. “Steamers were then new inventions, and the machinery of the Victory was continually delaying him. Captain Ross, after in vain trying to patch up every piece, at last took it all out and left it at the first place he wintered at.”

“The deuce!” said Shandon. “You know all about it, I see.”

“More or less,” answered the doctor. “In my reading I have come across the works of Parry, Ross, Franklin; the reports of MacClure, Kennedy, Kane, MacClintock; and some of it has stuck in my memory. I might add that MacClintock, on board of the Fox, a propeller like ours, succeeded in making his way more easily and more directly than all his successors.”

“That's perfectly true,” answered Shandon; “that MacClintock is a good sailor; I have seen him at sea. You might also say that we shall be, like him, in Davis Strait in the month of April; and if we can get through the ice our voyage will be very much advanced.”

“Unless,” said the doctor, “we should be as unlucky as the Fox in 1857, and should be caught the first year by the ice in the north of Baffin's Bay, and we should have to winter among the icebergs.”

“We must hope to be luckier, Mr. Shandon,” said Johnson; “and if, with a ship like the Forward, we can't go where we please, the attempt must be given up forever.”

“Besides,” continued the doctor, “if the captain is on board he will know better than we what is to be done, and so much the better because we are perfectly ignorant; for his singularly brief letter gives us no clew to the probable aim of the voyage.”

“It's a great deal,” answered Shandon, with some warmth, “to know what route we have to take; and now for a good month, I fancy, we shall be able to get along without his supernatural intervention and orders. Besides, you know what I think about him.” “Ha, ha!” laughed the doctor; “I used to think as you did, that he was going to leave the command of the ship in your hands, and that he would never come on board; but—”

“But what?” asked Shandon, with some ill-humor.

“But since the arrival of the second letter, I have altered my views somewhat.”

“And why so, doctor?”

“Because, although this letter does tell you in which direction to go, it still does not inform you of the final aim of the voyage; and we have yet to know whither we are to go. I ask you now can a third letter reach us now that we are on the open sea. The postal service on the shore of Greenland is very defective. You see, Shandon, I fancy that he is waiting for us at some Danish settlement up there,—at Holsteinborg or Upernavik. We shall find that he has been completing the supply of seal-skins, buying sledges and dogs,—in a word, providing all the equipment for a journey in the arctic seas. So I shall not be in the least surprised to see him coming out of his cabin some fine morning and taking command in the least supernatural way in the world.”

“Possibly,” answered Shandon, dryly; “but meanwhile the wind's freshening, and there's no use risking our topsails in such weather.”

Shandon left the doctor, and ordered the topsails furled.

“He still clings to that idea,” said the doctor to the boatswain.

“Yes,” was the answer, “and it's a pity; for you may very well be right, Dr. Clawbonny.”

Towards the evening of Saturday the Forward rounded the Mull of Galloway, on which the light could be seen in the north-east. During the night they left the Mull of Cantire to the north, and on the east Fair Head, on the Irish coast. Towards three o'clock in the morning, the brig, passing Rathlin Island on its starboard quarter, came out from the North Channel into the ocean.

That was Sunday, April 8. The English, and especially sailors, are very observant of that day; hence the reading of the Bible, of which the doctor gladly took charge, occupied a good part of the morning.

The wind rose to a gale, and threatened to drive the ship back upon the Irish coast. The waves ran very high; the vessel rolled a great deal. If the doctor was not sea-sick, it was because he was determined not to be, for nothing would have been easier. At midday Malin Head disappeared from their view in the south; it was the last sight these bold sailors were to have of Europe, and more than one gazed at it for a long time who was doubtless fated never to set eyes on it again.

By observation the latitude then was 55°57', and the longitude, according to the chronometer, 7°40'.[1]

The gale abated towards nine o'clock of the evening; the Forward, a good sailer, kept on its route to the northwest. That day gave them all a good opportunity to judge of her sea-going qualities; as good judges had already said at Liverpool, she was well adapted for carrying sail.

During the following days, the Forward made very good progress; the wind veered to the south, and the sea ran high. The brig set every sail. A few petrels and puffins flew about the poop-deck; the doctor succeeded in shooting one of the latter, which fortunately fell on board.

Simpson, the harpooner, seized it and carried it to the doctor. “It's an ugly bird, Dr. Clawbonny,” he said. “But then it will make a good meal, my friend.”

“What, are you going to eat it?”

“And you shall have a taste of it,” said the doctor, laughing.

“Never!” answered Simpson; “it's strong and oily, like all seabirds.”

“True,” said the doctor; “but I have a way of dressing such game, and if you recognize it to be a seabird, I'll promise never to kill another in all my life.”

“So you are a cook, too, Dr. Clawbonny?” asked Johnson.

“A learned man ought to know a little of everything.”

“Then take care, Simpson,” said the boatswain; “the doctor is a clever man, and he'll make us take this puffin for a delicious grouse.”

In fact, the doctor was in the right about this bird; he removed skilfully the fat which lies beneath the whole surface of the skin, principally on its thighs, and with it disappeared all the rancid, fishy odor with which this bird can be justly charged. Thus prepared, the bird was called delicious, even by Simpson.

During the recent storm, Richard Shandon had made up his mind about the qualities of his crew; he had tested his men one by one, as every officer should do who wishes to be prepared for future dangers; he knew on whom he could rely.

James Wall, who was warmly attached to Richard, was intelligent and efficient, but he had very little originality; as second officer he was exactly in his place.

Johnson, who was accustomed to the dangers of the sea, and an old sailor in arctic regions, lacked neither coolness nor courage.

Simpson, the harpooner, and Bell, the carpenter, were steady men, obedient and well disciplined. The ice-master, Foker, an experienced sailor, who had sailed in northern waters, promised to be of the greatest service.

Of the other men, Garry and Bolton seemed to be the best; Bolton was a jolly fellow, always laughing and joking; Garry, a man about thirty-five years old, had an energetic, but rather pale and sad face.

The three sailors, Clifton, Gripper, and Pen, seemed to be the least enthusiastic and determined; they were inclined to grumbling. Gripper had even wished to break his engagement when the time came for sailing, and only a feeling of shame prevented him. If things went well, if they encountered no excessive dangers, and their toil was not too severe, these three men could be counted on; but they were hard to please with their food, for they were inclined to gluttony. In spite of their having been forewarned, they were by no means pleased with being teetotalers, and at their meals they used to miss their brandy or gin; but they made up for it with the tea and coffee which were distributed with a lavish hand.

As for the two engineers, Brunton and Plover, and the stoker, Warren, they had been so far well satisfied with having nothing to do.

Shandon knew therefore what to expect from each man. On the 14th of April, the Forward crossed the Gulf Stream, which, after following the eastern coast of America as far as Newfoundland, turns to the northeast and moves towards the shore of Norway. They were then in latitude 51°37', and longitude 22°37', two hundred miles from the end of Greenland. The weather grew colder; the thermometer fell to 32°, the freezing-point.

The doctor, without yet putting on his arctic winter dress, was wearing a suit of sea-clothes, like all the officers and sailors; he was an amusing sight in his high boots, in which he could not bend his legs, his huge tarpaulin hat, his trousers and coat of the same material; in heavy rain, or when the brig was shipping seas, the doctor used to look like a sort of sea-monster, a comparison which always flattered him.

For two days the sea was very rough; the wind veered to the northwest, and delayed the Forward. From the 14th to the 16th of April there was still a high sea running; but on Monday there fell a heavy shower which almost immediately had the effect of calming the sea. Shandon called the doctor's attention to it.

“Well,” said the doctor, “that confirms the curious observations of the whaler Scoresby, who was a member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, of which I have the honor to be a corresponding member. You see that while the rain is falling the waves are hardly to be noticed, even when the wind is strong. On the other hand, in dry weather the sea would be rougher even with a gentler wind”

“But what is the explanation of it, Doctor?”

“It's very simple; there is no explanation.”

At that moment the ice-master, who as on watch in the topmast cross-trees, cried out that there was a floating mass on the starboard quarter, about fifteen miles to windward.

“An iceberg in these latitudes!” cried the doctor.

Shandon turned his glass in that direction, and corroborated the lookout's words.

“That's strange,” said the doctor.

“Are you surprised?” asked the commander, laughing. “What! are we lucky enough to find anything that will surprise you?”

“I am surprised without being surprised,” answered the doctor, smiling, “since the brig Ann Poole, of Greenspond, was caught in the ice in the year 1813, in the forty-fourth degree of north latitude, and Dayement, her captain, saw hundreds of icebergs.”

“Good,” said Shandon; “you can still teach us a great deal about them.”

“O, not so very much!” answered Clawbonny, modestly, “except that ice has been seen in very much lower latitudes.”

“That I know, my dear Doctor, for when I was a cabin-boy on the sloop-of-war, Fly—”

“In 1818,” continued the doctor, “at the end of March, or it might have been the beginning of April, you passed between two large fields of floating ice, in latitude forty-two.”

“That is too much!” exclaimed Shandon.

“But it's true; so I have no need to be surprised, now that we are two degrees farther north, at our sighting an iceberg.”

“You are bottled full of information, Doctor,” answered the commander; “one needs only draw the cork.”

“Very well, I shall be exhausted sooner than you think; and now, Shandon, if we can get a nearer view of this phenomenon, I should be the gladdest of doctors.”

“Exactly, Johnson,” said Shandon, summoning the boatswain; “I think the wind is freshening.”

“Yes, Commander,” answered Johnson, “we are making very little headway, and soon we shall feel the currents from Davis Strait.”

“You are right, Johnson, and if we mean to make Cape Farewell by the 20th of April, we must go under steam, or we shall be cast on the coast of Labrador.—Mr. Wall, give the order to light the fires.”

The mate's orders were obeyed; an hour later the engines were in motion; the sails were furled; and the screw, turning through the waves, was driving the Forward rapidly in the teeth of the northwest wind.

Chapter VI.

The Great Polar Current.

Soon more numerous flocks of birds, petrels, puffins, and others which inhabit those barren shores, gave token of their approach to Greenland. The Forward was moving rapidly northward, leaving behind her a long line of dark smoke.

Tuesday, the 17th of April, the ice-master caught the first sight of the blink[2] of the ice. It was visible at least twenty miles off to the north-northwest. In spite of some tolerably thick clouds it lighted up brilliantly all the air near the horizon. No one of those on board who had ever seen this phenomenon before could fail to recognize it, and they felt assured from its whiteness that this blink was due to a vast field of ice lying about thirty miles farther than they could see, and that it came from the reflection of its luminous rays.

Towards evening the wind shifted to the south, and became favorable; Shandon was able to carry sail, and as a measure of economy they extinguished the furnace fires. TheForward under her topsails, jib, and foresail, sailed on towards Cape Farewell.

At three o'clock on the 18th they made out an ice-stream, which, like a narrow but brilliant band, divided the lines of the water and sky. It was evidently descending rather from the coast of Greenland than from Davis Strait, for the ice tended to keep on the western side of Baffin's Bay. An hour later, and the Forward was passing through the detached fragments of the ice-stream, and in the thickest part the pieces of ice, although closely welded together, were rising and falling with the waves.

At daybreak the next morning the watch saw a sail; it was the Valkyria, a Danish corvette, sailing towards the Forward, bound to Newfoundland. The current from the strait became perceptible, and Shandon had to set more sail to overcome it.

At that moment the commander, the doctor, James Wall, and Johnson were all together on the poop-deck, observing the force and direction of the current. The doctor asked if it were proved that this current was felt throughout Baffin's Bay.

“There's no doubt of it,” answered Shandon; “and sailing-vessels have hard work in making headway against it.”

“And it's so much the harder,” added James Wall, “because it's met on the eastern coast of America, as well as on the western coast of Greenland.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “that serves to confirm those who seek a Northwest Passage. The current moves at the rate of about five miles an hour, and it is hard to imagine that it rises at the bottom of a gulf.”

“That is very likely. Doctor,” answered Shandon, “because, while this current flows from north to south, there is a contrary current in Behring Strait, which flows from south to north, and which must be the cause of this one.”

“Hence,” said the doctor, “you must admit that America is completely separated from the polar regions, and that the water from the Pacific skirts its whole northern coast, until it reaches the Atlantic. Besides, the greater elevation of the water of the Pacific is another reason for its flowing towards the European seas.”

“But,” said Shandon, “there must be some facts which support this theory; and if there are,” he added with gentle irony, “our learned friend must be familiar with them.”

“Well,” answered the latter, complacently, “if it interests you at all I can tell you that whales, wounded in Davis Strait, have been found afterwards on the coast of Tartary, still carrying a European harpoon in their side.”

“And unless they doubled Cape Horn, or the Cape of Good Hope,” answered Shandon, “they must have gone around the northern coast of America. There can be no doubt of that, Doctor.”

“And if you were not convinced, my dear Shandon,” said the doctor, smiling, “I could produce still other evidence, such as the floating wood with which Davis Strait is filled, larch, aspen, and other southern kinds. Now we know that the Gulf Stream could not carry them into the strait; and if they come out from it they must have got in through Behring Strait.”

“I am perfectly convinced, Doctor, and I must say it would be hard to maintain the other side against you.”

“See there,” said Johnson, “there's something that will throw light on this discussion. It's a large piece of wood floating on the water; if the commander will give us leave, we can put a rope about it, hoist it on board, and ask it the name of its country.”

“That's the way!” said the doctor; “after the rule we have the example.”

Shandon gave the necessary orders; the brig was turned towards the piece of wood, and soon the crew were hoisting it aboard, although not without considerable trouble.

It was the trunk of a mahogany-tree, eaten to its centre by worms, which fact alone made it light enough to float.

“This is a real triumph,” exclaimed the doctor, enthusiastically, “for, since the Atlantic currents could not have brought it into Davis Strait, since it could not have reached the polar waters from the rivers of North America, as the tree grows under the equator, it is evident that it must have come direct from Behring Strait. And besides, see those sea-worms which have eaten it; they belong to warm latitudes.”

“It certainly gives the lie to those who deny the existence of a Northwest Passage.”

“It fairly kills them,” answered the doctor. “See here, I'll give you the route of this mahogany-tree: it was carried to the Pacific Ocean by some river of the Isthmus of Panama or of Guatemala; thence the current carried it along the coast of America as far as Behring Strait, and so it was forced into the polar waters; it is neither so old nor so completely water-logged that we cannot set its departure at some recent date; it escaped all the obstacles of the many straits coming into Baffin's Bay, and being quickly seized by the arctic current it came through Davis Strait to be hoisted on board the Forward for the great joy of Dr. Clawbonny, who asks the commander's permission to keep a piece as a memorial.”

“Of course,” answered Shandon; “but let me tell you in my turn that you will not be the only possessor of such a waif. The Danish governor of the island of Disco—”

“On the coast of Greenland,” continued the doctor, “has a mahogany table, made from a tree found in the same way; I know it, my dear Shandon. Very well; I don't grudge him his table, for if there were room enough on board, I could easily make a sleeping-room out of this.”

On the night of Wednesday the wind blew with extreme violence; drift-wood was frequently seen; the approach to the coast became more dangerous at a time when icebergs are numerous; hence the commander ordered sail to be shortened, and the Forward went on under merely her foresail and forestay-sail.

The thermometer fell below the freezing-point. Shandon distributed among the crew suitable clothing, woollen trousers and jackets, flannel shirts, and thick woollen stockings, such as are worn by Norwegian peasants. Every man received in addition a pair of water-proof boots.

As for Captain, he seemed contented with his fur; he appeared indifferent to the changes of temperature, as if he were thoroughly accustomed to such a life; and besides, a Danish dog was unlikely to be very tender. The men seldom laid eyes on him, for he generally kept himself concealed in the darkest parts of the vessel.

Towards evening, through a rift in the fog, the coast of Greenland longitude 37°2'7". Through his glass the doctor was able to distinguish mountains separated by huge glaciers; but the fog soon cut out this view, like the curtain of a theatre falling at the most interesting part of a play.

On the morning of the 20th of April, the Forward found itself in sight of an iceberg one hundred and fifty feet high, aground in this place from time immemorial; the thaws have had no effect upon it, and leave its strange shape unaltered. Snow saw it; in 1829 James Ross took an exact drawing of it; and in 1851 the French lieutenant, Bellot, on board of thePrince Albert, observed it. Naturally the doctor wanted to preserve a memorial of the famous mountain, and he made a very successful sketch of it.

It is not strange that such masses should run aground, and in consequence become immovably fixed to the spot; as for every foot above the surface of the water they have nearly two beneath, which would give to this one a total height of about four hundred feet.

At last with a temperature at noon as low as 12°, under a snowy, misty sky, they sighted Cape Farewell. The Forward arrived at the appointed day; the unknown captain, if he cared to assume his place in such gloomy weather, would have no need to complain.

“Then,” said the doctor to himself, “there is this famous cape, with its appropriate name! Many have passed it, as we do, who were destined never to see it again! Is it an eternal farewell to one's friends in Europe You have all passed it, Frobisher, Knight, Barlow, Vaughan, Scroggs, Barentz, Hudson, Blosseville, Franklin, Crozier, Bellot, destined never to return home; and for you this cape was well named Cape Farewell!”

It was towards the year 970 that voyagers, setting out from Iceland, discovered Greenland. Sebastian Cabot, in 1498, went as high as latitude 56°; Gaspard and Michel Cotréal, from 1500 to 1502, reached latitude 60°; and in 1576 Martin Frobisher reached the inlet which bears his name.

To John Davis belongs the honor of having discovered the strait, in 1585; and two years later in a third voyage this hardy sailor, this great whaler, reached the sixty-third parallel, twenty-seven degrees from the Pole.

Barentz in 1596, Weymouth in 1602, James Hall in, 1605 and 1607, Hudson, whose name was given to the large bay which runs so far back into the continent of America, James Poole in 1611, went more or less far into the straits, seeking the North-west Passage, the discovery of which would have greatly shortened the route between the two worlds.

Baffin, in 1616, found in the bay of that name Lancaster Sound; he was followed in 1619 by James Monk, and in 1719 by Knight, Barlow, Vaughan, and Scroggs, who were never heard of again.

In 1776, Lieutenant Pickersgill, sent to meet Captain Cook, who tried to make his way through Behring Strait, reached latitude 68°; the next year. Young, on the same errand, went as far as Woman's Island.

Then came James Boss, who in 1818 sailed all around the shores of Baffin's Bay, and corrected the errors on the charts of his predecessors.

Finally, in 1819 and 1820, the famous Parry made his way into Lancaster Sound. In spite of numberless difficulties he reached Melville Island, and won the prize of five thousand pounds offered by act of Parliament to the English sailors who should cross the meridian at a latitude higher than the seventy-seventh parallel.

In 1826, Beechey touched at Chamisso Island; James Ross wintered, from 1829 to 1833, in Prince Regent's Inlet, and, among other important services, discovered the magnetic pole.