Chapter VI

DRIFTING TO THE SOUTH. CHRISTMAS. A HARD JANUARY.
NOVEMBER, 1869, TO THE END OF JANUARY, 1870.

View of the coast.--Settling the daily order of our life on the
floe.--Good health of all.--Revolving of our ice-field.--We
come within four miles of the coast (Egede’s Land).--Christmas
festival.--An iceberg passes us.--Danger of the breaking up of
the floe.--Preparations for decamping.--Portions of the floe
destroyed.--The dangerous bay.--Coast scenery.--Impossibility
of reaching the coast.--The Arctic night.--Catastrophes of
the days 11th to 15th of January.--Destruction of the Hansa
house.--Escape in the boats, and passing the night in the
same.--Comfortless quarters.--Erection of new habitations.--In
the channel between Iceland and Greenland.--Snow-wall on the
floe.--Hope of reaching the settlements of West Greenland.

Slowly but steadily our ice-field drifted to the south. By the 3rd of November we had passed the Liverpool coast, and had reached Scoresby’s Sound, sometimes being near the firm land ice, and sometimes far from it, a movement which would no doubt originate in the ebb and flow off this large, deep sound. We could distinctly see the picturesque formation of the rocky coast; and in two plains lying between two rugged mountain-tops we thought we could distinguish glaciers covered with snow. Since the ship had sunk fourteen days before, the ice had closed in upon us, and even the blocks which had broken away from our field had frozen to it again. Our eyes often rested with sorrow on the spot where the Hansa went down. Now there was room enough for her between the field and the land-ice!

At the end of October the sun rose at half-past nine a.m., and set behind the rocky coast at three p.m. In the coal-house we could only see to read and write under the dormer-windows for a few hours each day. We grew more and more accustomed to the daily round of things, which so much resembled that on board. The last night-watch woke us at seven. We rose, threw on our woollen clothing, washed in melted snow, and enjoyed our morning coffee with hard bread. Then we all betook ourselves to the ever-plentiful stock of work; the finishing of all sorts of useful and still wanting furniture, sail-sewing, wood-chopping, replacing clothes from the clothes-store, keeping the diaries, and study. In clear weather astronomical observations were taken, and all necessary calculations recorded. At one we dined. Strong meat-soup formed the substantial part of this meal; and as we were in no want of preserved vegetables, we had plenty of changes prepared for us. Of salt meat and bacon we eat little. Of all spirits we had to be very sparing, only allowing ourselves one glass of strengthening port-wine on Sundays. Our state of health all through the winter was good. Except the sailor Schmidt’s attack of fever when the ship went down, which was soon over, and a frost-bitten toe of the sailor Büttner, we had no sickness or other bodily discomfort. We were always actively employed, and daily order and regularity were rigidly kept up.

Our floe was by degrees thoroughly investigated in every quarter. We cleared roads, and set up marks for short tours. The mass of ice was about seven nautical miles in circumference, and seemed in all directions to have a diameter of about a little more than two miles.

An excellent picture of the monotony of the landscape which surrounded us at the end of the year (end of December and January), can be formed by imagining a uniform plain, or field, covered with snow. The term “_field_” indicates the size of a connected floating mass of ice. Smaller pieces are called “floes,” and still smaller ones “drifts.” The ice-raft, on which (as Dr. Laube aptly remarked) “we were as the Lord’s passengers,” drifting for months together between the sea and the coast, was a solid field composed of these drifts and floes compacted together. The average thickness of this was about five feet above the water; a fact which, according to experience, would allow a submergence of at least forty feet. Soundings from the edge of the ice were not possible, as the line was lost in the shipwreck. The piled-up snow, which was often eight feet high, had at this time, the beginning of January, filled up every hole and crack on the field; so that, without one single resting-point, the eye wandered over the wearying uniform white desert. If we were at any distance from the hut, so deeply buried in the snow, every visible sign had disappeared except the dark spot or line of the chimney, the boats, and the staff with the fluttering flag, which after every whirlwind of snow was again unfurled. Later in the spring, when the greater part of our field had disappeared, the plain looked, owing to the pushed-up pieces of ice and snow-wall, almost like animated blocks of ice. Upon closer inspection these “ramparts” seemed to be the fragments of the pushed-up walls of small ice-masses, to which our field had been knitted by the frost. Here and there were snow-mounds, which the change from thawing weather to frost had almost turned into glaciers, forming a firm massive whole. The side of our field lying to the west and north-west presented a wild and discouraging view. The grating and pressing of the driving ice-floes had there heaped up walls ten feet high, the snow-crystals glittering in the sun like millions of diamonds. The morning and evening Aurora turned the white flakes to pale green. The nights were beautifully light, the light streaming downwards from the heavens; and the snow, with its receptive and reflective powers glittered so radiantly, that one could read the finest writing without trouble, and see far out into the distance. Amongst other things, on such nights, we always saw the Aurora borealis. As an instance, on the 5th of December, it shone so intensely that the starlight waned, and objects on our field cast shadows. The coast, according as it was near or far away, was recognizable now as a dark streak of fog, and now as a rocky form in all its details.

Our settlement at the beginning of November, when we were not yet snowed up, might be seen from the most distant point of our field. Near the chief building lay two snow-houses, which served for washing and drying ourselves. Boats, heaps of wood, barrels containing coals and bacon, surrounded this heart of our colony.

To prevent the entrance of the snow and wind into our coal-house, we built an entrance-hall with a winding path, and a roof constructed in the same way as that of the house.

At the beginning of November we observed two strange natural phenomena. We were about eight nautical miles from the Liverpool coast, when, as we were walking along, a number of small willow-like leaves whirled around us, which had evidently been carried from the land by the wind; at another place the snow was, for a considerable distance, covered with a red-stone dust. Dr. Laube thought it must be of volcanic origin, and that it had been carried through the air from Iceland, which was about 180 nautical miles distant.

In November, upon a neighbouring floe, separated from us by a small piece of frozen water, we saw the shapeless body of a large walrus lying motionless as a rock. The steersmen, Hildebrandt and Bade, with some others, started for the chase as soon as the boat could be got into the water, which was done with much trouble, they being obliged to carry it for some distance over the young ice. Here, too, the needle-gun proved its value, the ball passing through the monster’s inch-thick hide. A few shots killed him, after being badly wounded, and in a fury trying to smash the young ice on which the hunters stood, and seize them when once in the water. The further moving of the colossal carcass for our own purposes was, besides, no small matter. With the united strength of ten men and the help of a powerful pulley, it was several hours before we got the walrus out of the water on to the ice.

Skinning the specimen, too, was dreadfully difficult, for it soon froze in a cold of -20° Fahr. to a hard, stony mass, over which we had no power. Under the skin lay a coating three inches thick of fat, which afforded us very acceptable fuel. The tongue was excellent; indeed, amongst the whale-fishers of the Behring’s Straits, salted walrus tongues are a favourite dish. Late that same evening a white bear, the first of our winter campaign, was attracted to the house by the smell of our walrus’ fat. Three shots greeted him, the effect of which could not be seen until the following morning. About 100 yards distant lay the bear, hit in the side by the bullet, as if asleep, though quite dead, upon the snow. It was a fine, handsome beast; its well-developed head lay upon its front paws; the red drops of blood stood sharply out against the clean white snow: a gift from heaven in our present position, as an addition of fresh meat was greatly to be desired. The four hams, weighing 200 lbs., would form a delicate roast for a succession of Sundays; at the same time that the skin was a further protection for the still sometimes leaking roof. Some days later we had another visit from master “Bruin.” As we left the house on the 23rd of November, we noticed several traces of his presence; he had been at the boat Bismarck, and standing on his hind feet had sniffed the provisions lying there, when he had met with the misfortune of falling through the tightly-spread, stiffly-frozen sail-cloth. Terrified by this from the investigation of the contents of the boat, he had turned to the house, at the entrance of which we found his marks. The brightness of the lamp, always burning in the snow path, had then (we supposed) frightened him.

In the beginning of November our drifting was considerable; from the 5th to the 13th of November it amounted daily to eight nautical miles; from 70° N.L. and 21° W.L. to 69° 4·5′ N.L. and 22° 44′ W.L. At this time the bright northern lights afforded us daily an agreeable matter for conversation. The dazzling-coloured rays stretched perpendicularly over the whole horizon, sometimes undulating like the folds of a giant curtain set in motion by the wind. The down-shooting colours seemed to touch our field, emitting such a blinding light that our shadows were sharply defined, and the light of the stars greatly weakened. When, as was oftentimes the case, the beautiful appearance was suddenly manifested, it went slowly through different forms to the height of its glory.

The rotatory motion of our field was, up to the 22nd of November, rather slow, as from the 10th it had only turned once round. The quicker drift-current had been more effectual in its working, and had brought about this revolution in the short space of four days.

Moreover, until the beginning of January our ice-mass had experienced no damage. On the 14th of November we passed in our southward journey the most southerly point, according to Scoresby, of this stretch of coast, Cape Barclay, lying in 69° 14′ N.L. and 24° 30′ W.L. From this time to the most northerly point of Graah’s coast-journey, Cape Dan, lying in 65° 37′ N.L. and 37° 20′ W.L., we saw an unknown land, the so-called “Egede’s Land.” We succeeded at least in determining some points of this coast, which we approached within four miles. Unfortunately the very time we found ourselves nearest to it our lives were in great danger, our ill fate following us here, and we were obliged to allow the favourable moment for serving science to pass by unheeded.

From the 2nd to the 4th of November we floated past Scoresby’s Sound. The discoverer of this rather considerable Fjord relates that by the strength of a submarine current icebergs are frequently driven from it. And, indeed, whilst up to this time we had been unable to catch sight of one, we saw on the 5th (after having evidently passed through the current and out of the Sound, being about ten to fifteen nautical miles from the coast some days later) for the first time a great iceberg in the north-west towards Scoresby’s Sound, about four nautical miles from us.

Icebergs are known to be broken portions of glaciers. That seen by us was rather long but not high, allowing us to conclude that the original had considerable breadth but no great height.

The temperature in November and December showed great variations: 6th November, -20° Fahr., fine weather with a west wind; 20th, 32° Fahr. with driving snow to the south-west, and, later, fine rain; evening of the 1st December, 32.2° Fahr.; 3rd December, 35° Fahr., our snow-buildings began to thaw; 18th December, -20° Fahr. with a light sou’-wester, and the lowest temperature we ever had, being then in 67½° N.L.

On the 16th of December, we greeted a white Arctic fox as a messenger from land. Its appearance was indisputable evidence that the ice reached to the coast. The fox, white with a black-tipped tail, was particularly confiding, even bold. He scratched up the bear’s flesh buried in the snow, and had carried it off to eat as we approached him. He then quite unconstrainedly took a walk on the roof of our house, and through the small window convinced himself as to what was going on within. Should we shoot it? No! It was a long time since we had seen such a fearless creature. At times we placed nets with a meat-bait to teaze him; but he always managed to get clear of them at the right time. November and December passed without anything particular happening. On the 13th of December strong northern lights. On the 18th the full moon and spring tide occurred, and with them, the usual ice pressure which, in the night of the 20th to the 21st, destroyed “Sinai,” the locality of one of our walks. On the afternoon of the 6th, a small white bear showed himself near our house. We fired, and it fled over the young ice, leaving traces of blood behind it.

Thus we had passed the shortest day without any serious danger. Christmas, that beautiful domestic festival, drew near, and we felt inclined, as we were all in good health, to keep it right festively in the proper spirit. During the last few days we had had violent storms. On Christmas Eve there was a heavy fall of snow which buried our house so completely, that in the morning we could walk over the roof as over a flat surface. In the night from the first to the second day of the holiday, showers of rain fell, followed by a south-westerly breeze. Then another whirlwind of snow. The mass of falling snow whirled over the field by the rushing wind was so great, that in the open air we could scarcely keep our eyes open, and in spite of our exertions, it was impossible to keep the front of our house clear.

In the afternoon, whilst we went for a walk, the steersmen put up the Christmas-tree; and on our return the lonely coal-hut shone with wonderful brightness. Keeping Christmas on a Greenland floe! Made of pinewood and birchbroom, the tree was artistically put together. For the lights, Dr. Laube had saved some wax candles. Paper-chains and home-baked gingerbread were not wanting. The men had made a knapsack and a revolver case for the captain; we opened the leaden box of Christmas gifts from Professor Hochstetter, and the other from the Geological Reichsanstalt, which caused much merriment. Then we had a glass of port-wine, and fell upon the old newspapers in the boxes, and distributed the gifts, which consisted of small musical instruments, such as whistles, Jew’s-harps, and trumpets, also little puppets and games of roulette, cracker bonbons, &c. In the evening, chocolate and gingerbread-nuts. “In quiet devotion” (says Dr. Laube in his day-book), “the festival passed by; the thoughts which passed through our minds (they were much alike with all), I will not put down. If this should be the last Christmas we were to see, it was at least bright enough. If, however, we are destined for a happy return home, the next will be a brighter one; may God grant it!”

Early on the 26th, we were awoke by a shout from the sailor on the watch. We were drifting to land! an island straight ahead of us! Amid universal consternation, all rushed out. The air was not clear, but about three nautical miles distant we could distinguish a dark mass, which looked like an island. The steersmen went somewhat in advance to reconnoitre the distance, and the nature of the appearance. The mass gave no indication whatever, and we soon made out that what we saw was an enormous iceberg. The next day we passed the drifting mass, moving much slower than our field, and soon lost sight of it. Saint Sylvester we kept up exactly as they do at home, with salvos of fire-arms and punch; and at midnight we did not forget mutual good wishes for the “New Year,” with the loud clink of the glasses.

These good wishes, so often nothing but a polite formula, came here from the heart. Wonderful as our preservation in great dangers had been up to this time, we each felt how greatly we needed God’s support for the future, in strength, endurance, and health.

The new year, at 16° Fahr., brought us the first clear, fine weather we had had for a long while. The land between north-east and south-west, was beautifully in sight; high sharp mountains and small glaciers. In the west-sou’-west we saw the dark outline of an island, the position of which was about 66° 14′ N.L. and 33° 45, W.L. as near as could be determined. The 2nd of January brought frightfully bad weather; storm from the northnor’-east and continual driving snow at 16° to 14° Fahr. In the morning, we thought we heard a peculiar rustling noise as if some one was shuffling his feet on the floor; but as it was soon over we took no further notice. In the afternoon, as we were resting after dinner, we suddenly heard the same rustle, but much louder. It was a scraping, blustering, crackling, sawing, grating, and jarring sound, as if some unhappy ghost was wandering under our floe. Perplexed we all jumped up, and went out; we thought that our store-house had fallen in. Some of the sailors going in front with the lamp carefully searched the path to it. But in whatever direction the light fell on the sparkling and glittering ice-walls, we saw nothing. Immovable hung the rigid icicles often a foot long; evidently nothing was amiss here. We rummaged in the snow-path before the house. Although completely snowed up (indeed, the whole house was buried more than a foot deep in ice), we all rushed out, but of course we could not see more than ten steps, nor hear anything but the howling of the storm. Still, between whiles, we could detect the same rubbing and grinding. For a change, we laid ourselves flat down with our ears to the floor, and could then hear a rustling like the singing of ice when closely jammed, and as if water was running under our great floe. There could be no doubt but that it stood in great danger of being smashed to pieces, either from drifting over sunken rocks and bursting up, or breaking against the ice border; perhaps both at once.

We packed our furs, and filled our knapsacks with provisions. Our position, if the floe should be destroyed, seemed hopeless. Certainly ropes were fastened from the house to the boats lying about fifteen steps from us, so that, in case of a catastrophe, we might be able to reach them. But the driving snow was so terrible, that we could not have moved them from the spot, and we should no doubt, soon have sunk in the depths. At eight, we set a sharp watch of two men in the pathway. The remainder stretched themselves on the sacks to sleep, as the unearthly rustling was no longer heard. It was a long, stormy, fearful night, allowing no one to sleep. At nine the longed-for twilight appeared and an hour later the wind abated a little. Some of us went out in the direction of the quay; for thus we had christened the spot, 500 steps from the house, where the sunken Hansa lay. They there found a new wall of ice, and recognized to their horror that this wall was now the boundary of our floe, whilst on all sides of it large pieces had been broken off, and rose in dark shapeless masses out of the drifted snow. The bad weather lasted with undiminished violence till two in the afternoon. On the morning of the 4th of January it had completely worn itself out; the air was clear, and allowed an open view over the ice-field to the coast. Our floe had lost considerably in circumference, and changed its round form into a long one. The diameter which before was two nautical miles, was now at the utmost but one. On three sides, our house was only 200 steps from the edge of the floe. On the fourth it was about 1000 where before it had been 3000. The distance to the coast amounted to scarcely two nautical miles. Besides the island seen on the 1st of January, we caught a glimpse of several others with different pyramidically rising cliffs in the north-west. We named them the “New Year’s Islands,” as we had seen the first on the 1st of January. They lay near the east cape of a deep bay which, from the never-to-be-forgotten danger we had passed through, we christened “Bay of Horrors.” In the background rose snow-covered mountains, which by the rising sun were lit up with a beautiful Alpine glow, and here and there in the bay were small glaciers visible. The extreme land to the south-west stood out as a steep cape, which we called Cape Buchholz; another to the west (Hildebrandt) was close to us, only two nautical miles off; that is the nearest land. We thus found ourselves in the mouth of the bay. After the dangers gone through, and as our ice-raft seemed to afford us less security than formerly, it was proposed that we should make an attempt to get to the coast with the boats, and sufficient provisions, so as to have some prospect of reaching the inhabited part of Greenland, the south-westerly side, in the mild time of year. But unfortunately, we found that we could get no further than the edge of our field. Short broken fragments succeeded, so covered over with snow, that one could see neither the gaps or crevasses. To get to the coast from here seemed impracticable, and, as before, our ice-field was our only means of deliverance.

The following days were pretty good. We got the boats out of the snow, dug out the firewood, and made swimming jackets and snow-shoes out of cork, to prevent ourselves sinking up to the hips as we used to do.

As we had already observed, and it now was confirmed, the pressing and the quick drifting of the ice depended on the spring-tides, which happen here from ten to fifteen hours after the new and full moon.

On the 8th of January, we once more obtained an observation for position, and found we were in 66° 47·2′ N.L., and 34° 1·5′ W.L., so that from the 27th of December, that is in twelve days, we had travelled 52½ nautical miles south-west to west three-quarter west. As we lay almost still in the bay, great and small icebergs floated out to sea coming from the north, on the highway from East Greenland to the south.

On the 9th of January one of the sailors writes thus in his day-book:--

“Thursday, 9th of January, 1870. Northern Hotel.

“The weather in the past night was calm and clear. The moon
shone brilliantly; the northern lights and the stars glittered
upon the dead beauty of a landscape of ice and snow. Listening
at night, a strange, clear-sounding tone strikes the ear, then
again a sound as of some one drawing near with slow and measured
steps. We listen--who is it? All still! not a breath stirring!
Once more it sounds like a lamentation or a groan. It is the
ice; and now it is still, still as the grave, and from the pale
glance of the moon the ghastly-outlined coast is seen, from
which the giant rocks are looking over to us. Ice, rocks, and
thousands of glittering stars. O thou wonderfully ghost-like
night of the north!”

The days from the 11th to the 15th of January were destined to bring us new horrors. On the 11th, heavy storm from the north-east with driving snow. At six in the morning Hildebrandt, who happened to have the watch, burst in with the alarm, “All hands turn out!” An indescribable tumult was heard without. With furs and knapsacks all rushed out. But the outer entrance was snowed up; so to gain the outside quickly we broke through the snow-roof of the front hall. The tumult of the elements which met us there was beyond anything we had already experienced. Scarcely able to leave the spot, we stood huddled together for protection from the bad weather. Suddenly we heard, “Water on the floe close by!” The floe surrounding us split up; a heavy sea arose. Our field again began to break on all sides. On the spot between our house and the piled-up store of wood which was about twenty-five paces distant, there suddenly opened a huge gap. Washed by the powerful waves, it seemed as if the piece just broken off was about to fall upon us; and at the same time we felt the rising and falling of our now greatly reduced floe. All seemed lost. From our split-up ice-field all the firewood was drifting into the raging sea. And in like manner we had nearly lost our boat Bismarck; even the whale-boat was obliged to be brought for safety into the middle of the floe. The large boat, being too heavy to handle, we were obliged to give up entirely. All this in a temp. of -9½°, and a heavy storm, was an arduous piece of work. The community were divided into two parts. We bade each other good-bye with a farewell shake of the hands, for the next moment we might go down. Deep despondency had taken hold of our scientific friends; the crew were still and quiet. Thus we stood or cowered by our boats the whole day, the fine pricking snow penetrating through the clothes to the skin. It was a miracle that just that part of the floe on which we stood should from its soundness keep together. Our floe, now only 150 feet in diameter, was the 35 to 40 feet nucleus of the formerly extensive field to which we had entrusted our preservation. Towards evening the masses of ice became closely packed again. At the same time the heavy sea had subsided and immediate danger seemed past. Relieved, we partook of something in the house and lay down, after setting a good watch. It was past midnight, when we were roused from our sleep by a cry of terror; the voice of the sailor on watch exclaiming, “Turn out; we are drifting on to a high iceberg!” All rushed to the entrance; dressed we always were; we had no time to run through the long snow passage, but burst open the roof, climbed on to the door, and so out. What a sight! Close upon us, as if hanging over our heads, towered a huge mass of ice, of giant proportions. “It is past,” said the captain. Was it really an iceberg, or the mirage of one, or the high coast? We could not decide the question. Owing to the swiftness of the drift, the ghastly object had disappeared the next moment.

On the 12th and 13th, the weather was good. The boats, now that the masts and sails were thrown out, so that we could move them more easily, were put in order, and the snow shovelled up. On the 12th, we were able to ascertain our latitude by a lunar altitude. We found ourselves in 65° 50·7′ N.L., so that in four days we had drifted fifty-six miles southward.

_Page 132._

ICEBERGS.]

_Page 133._

BIVOUAC IN BOATS.]

It was on the evening of the 14th of January, at ten o’clock; outside blew a frightful storm; the watch came in with news that the ice was once more in motion. In the immediate neighbourhood of the house, our floe burst; and the broken ice flew high around us. It was high time to bring the boat Bismarck and the whale-boat more into the middle. This we did; but they were far too heavily laden to bring further. On this account, furs, sacks of bread, and clothing were taken out and packed on two sledges, which were, however, soon completely snowed up. All our labour was rendered heavier by the storm, which made it almost impossible to breathe. About eleven we experienced a sudden fissure which threatened to tear our house asunder; with a thundering noise an event took place, the consequences of which, in the first moments, deranged all calculations. God only knows how it happened that, in our flight into the open, none came to harm. But there in the most fearful weather we all stood roofless on the ice, waiting for daylight, which was still ten hours off. The boat King William lay on the edge of the floe, and might have floated away at any moment. Fortunately the fissure did not get larger. As it was somewhat quieter at midnight, most of the men crept into the captain’s boat, when the thickest sail we had was drawn over them; some took refuge in the house. But there, as the door had fallen in, they entered by the skylight, and in the hurry broke the panes of glass, so that it was soon full of snow. This night was the most dreadful one of our adventurous voyage on the floe. The cold was -9½° Fahr. Real sleep, at least in the boat, was not to be thought of; it was but a confused, unquiet, half-slumber, which overpowered us from utter weariness, and our limbs quivered convulsively as we lay packed like herrings in our furs. The cook had, in spite of all, found energy enough in the morning to make the coffee in the house, and never had the delicious drink awakened more exhausted creatures to life. The bad weather raged the whole day. We lay in the boat, half in water, half in snow, shivering with the frost, and wet to the skin. We also passed the night of the 15th to the 16th, in the same comfortless position, and only on the morning of the 16th did the weather begin to mend, allowing us to leave the shelter of our asylum.

At four in the morning, the second officer, to whom a longer stay in the boat was painful, caught sight of a star, and with a thankful heart brought us news of the good sign. The driving snow had not quite left off, but one could at least take breath. Our first steps were directed to the boat King William, which lay on the other side of the half-foot-broad fissure running through the house. It was brought to the flagstaff near the two other boats, which were fast frozen in, in spite of all the storm. We provided this conveyance with a roof of boards, covered with sail-cloth, and six of the men made it their sleeping apartment, whilst the house was cleared from the snow.

For five nights we slept in the boats. The days to the 19th were employed, it being tolerable weather, in raising our settlement from its ruins, and laying the foundations of a necessary and satisfactory abode. Soon a wooden kitchen was built. A new dwelling-house, exactly like the one destroyed, but only half as big (14 feet long, 10 broad, 6½ high in the middle), was built, with all requisite arrangements, store room, wooden beds, stove and window, and so on. Unfortunately the first night we moved in being stormy weather, the roof flew off; the inside was at once filled with snow, and we had to migrate to the boats once more. The mischief was repaired on the following day. As there was only sleeping room in our new house for six men, the rest from this time had to sleep in the boats. Throughout all the discomfort, want, hardship, danger of all kinds, the frame of mind among the men was good, undaunted, and exalted. The cook kept a right seamanlike humour, even in the most critical moments. As long as he had tobacco he made no trouble of anything. On the 3rd of January, during the frightful pressure of the ice which destroyed our floe, and threatened every minute to sink our house, the cook happened to be repairing the coffee-kettle. “If the floe would only hold together until he had finished his kettle! he wished so to make the evening tea in it, so that, before our departure, we might have something warm.”

Toilet and cleanliness have long since become uncertain ideas with us. Washing is a luxury, which at the uttermost we can only allow ourselves twice a week, and which the scientific men have quite given up. The coal-walls of our house, smoke from the lamp, and dust from the stove have so blackened us, that we might be taken for some of the choicest Esquimaux. Hair and beard were intact from the time we left Bremen. Weeks have passed since the clothes have left our bodies. The temperature in the first three weeks of the new year, so pregnant with interest for us, may on the whole be thus characterized:--that, with northerly and north-easterly winds, which were generally accompanied by violently drifting snow, it was tolerably mild, between 23° F. and 9° F., whilst the few clear days with a south and west wind brought us zero and 6° below. One of the weightiest causes of the powerful ice-pressure we had undergone, seemed to be, together with the temporary influence of the spring-tides, the fact that at this time we were in the narrow sea-passage between Iceland and Greenland, where the ice, carried on by the current (chiefly on account of the numerous prominent capes on the east coast of Greenland), must necessarily be pressed close. This movement, in its greatest strength, reached as far as Cape Dan, where the coast falls considerably backwards to the west; and on the east the boundary of Iceland recedes, thus causing the ice stoppage to cease. Later we met, farther southward from Cape Dan, a whole chain of icebergs drifting in a southerly direction. These had evidently been affected by the advance of successive masses of ice.

On the 23rd, we could distinguish a hawk and a raven which flew over us, greeting them as messengers of our return to life. A remarkable phenomenon appeared about the end of January, in the snow-walls which rose around our floe. During the calm, the floating ice had become loosened, and the fissures and openings had been filled up with snow as fine as sand, in gigantic masses “like sheaves;” and when, on the 25th, another close pressure of the ice began, the masses of snow rose in walls of from twenty to twenty-five feet high, changing the whole face of our settlement into that of a ravine. Of course, these snow enclosures were but of short duration; they broke up on the 1st of February, as soon as the spring-tide set the ice once more in motion, and soon melted quite away. On this occasion, a piece of our floe, which had been divided by a great fissure, broke off and drifted slowly away. We could then pretty well estimate the strength of it, as the water was very transparent, and the shining ice was perceptible at thirty to thirty-five feet deep. So we might hope, unless another crisis overtook us, that our floe’s firmness might last until it brought us into a latitude from which, by the boat, we might be able to reach the nearest West Greenland settlement.