It need scarcely be explained that lack of exercise and fresh vegetables had brought scurvy on Munck’s crew. In accordance with the spirit of the age, the pestilence was ascribed not to man’s fault but to God’s Will.
January 23—This day died my mate, Hans Brock, who had been in bed five months. The priest sat up in his berth to preach the sermon, which was the last he ever gave on this earth.
January 25—Had the small minute guns discharged in honor of my mate’s burial, but so exceedingly brittle had the iron become from frost that the cannon exploded.
February 5—More deaths. I again sent to the surgeon for God’s sake to do something to allay sickness, but he only answered as before, if God did not help there was no hope.
February 16—Nothing but sickness and death. Only seven persons now in health to do the necessary work. On this day died a seaman, who was as filthy in his habits as an untrained beast.
February 17—Twenty persons have died.
February 20—In the evening, died the priest. Have had to mind the cabin myself, for my servant is also ill.
March 30—Sharp frost. Now begins my greatest misery. I am like a lonely wild bird, running to and fro waiting on the sick.
April 1st—Died my nephew, Eric Munck, and was buried in the same grave as my second mate. Not one of us is well enough to fetch water and fuel. Have begun to break up our small boats for fuel. It is with great difficulty I can get coffins made.