Though all around nothing was visible but ice and icebergs, the scene had a certain beauty of its own—a strange weird beauty, like that of a dream-picture. When the sun shone on the bergs, and lighted up their massive or fantastic forms, all the prismatic colours of the rainbow flashed through the “crystal pendants” or “projecting peaks.” The interest of the scene was enhanced by the variety of its forms. Every berg appeared to have had its individual history, and its broken outline and furrowed surface bore witness to the experiences it had undergone—storm and rain, wind and water. Some rose up around the castaways like solid ramparts; others represented the spire of a Gothic cathedral, the pinnacle of a Turkish minaret, the glittering walls of a palace: all were beautiful, yet terrible in their beauty, conveying a profound feeling of might and destructive power.
SHOOTING NARWHAL.
On the 5th, and again on the 7th, a seal was caught, and the little company enjoyed a plentiful meal. On the latter day a couple of narwhals were shot, but both sank before they could be reached. These narwhals are sometimes called sea-unicorns, or monodons, in allusion to the long horn, six to eight feet in measurement—or, rather, the elongated tooth—which projects from the upper jaw; a formidable weapon, tapering from base to point, with a spiral twist from left to right. Strange stories were told of these sea-unicorns by the early navigators; but science has made short work of legend and fable.
Day after day, the history of our navigators was the same; no stirring romance, but harsh reality:—wind and snow, snow and wind—a wind which almost froze the life-blood of those exposed to it, and snow which fell so fast and thick as to wrap the scene in the gloom of desolation. Still, the ice-raft drifted southward; slowly but surely drifted through the darkness of the night and the twilight obscurity of the day; while the little company it carried suffered much from increasing weakness, though better provided with food than formerly, owing to the frequent capture of narwhal and seal. Occasionally the mists cleared off, and the sun streamed out in meridian splendour, lighting up every feature of the “ice-scape”—may we coin the word?—around them. But, too frequently, “snow and blow, blow and snow,” was, as Tyson remarks, “the order of the day.”
Hope lives eternal in the human breast; and though it had sunk very low in the hearts of our adventurers, it suddenly rekindled on the 19th of February, when they caught sight of the west coast, at no greater distance than thirty-eight or forty miles. Its flame was kept alive on the 21st by the discovery that the thermometer had risen to 3° above zero. Next day it had risen to 20°, or within 12° of freezing-point; and men inured to the rigour of an Arctic winter spoke of such weather with cheeriness as “very comfortable.” The cloud upon the prospect now was the want of food, for the game had begun to fail. The hunters went forth every morning, but returned empty-handed. The feebleness of the party increased in an alarming degree. It took several men to carry a light Eskimo kayack, which for an ordinary man is not even a burden. What was to be done? The only chance of life seemed to lie in reaching the shore; but how were these gaunt, frail skeletons to convey their boat across the rugged ice until they reached the open water?
DRAGGING THE OOGJOOK (SEE PAGE [295]).
