The Esquimaux gave them supplies of meat at critical periods, and they were able to do as much for them. In one word, without the natives, Kane and his companions would most likely have succumbed to the winter, and the Esquimaux on their part learned to look on the strangers as benefactors, and mourned their departure bitterly.
On December 12 the party which had abandoned the ship returned, having been unable to penetrate to the south, and was received, as had been promised, with a brotherly welcome. They had suffered bitterly from the cold, want of food, and the fatigues of their march among the hummocks.
“The thermometer,” says Kane, “was at -50°; they were covered with rime and snow, and were fainting with hunger. It was necessary to use caution in taking them below; for, after an exposure of such fearful intensity and duration as they had gone through, the warmth of the cabin would have prostrated them completely. They had journeyed three hundred and fifty miles; and their last run from the bay near Etah, some seventy miles in a right line, was through the hummocks at this appalling temperature. One by one they all came in and were housed. Poor fellows! as they threw open their Esquimaux garments by the stove, how they relished the scanty luxuries which we had to offer them! The coffee, and the meat-biscuit soup, and the molasses, and the wheat bread, even the salt pork, which our scurvy forbade the rest of us to touch—how they relished it all! For more than two months they had lived on frozen seal and walrus meat.”
Thus Kane, by his determination not to abandon the ship, proved the saviour of all his comrades; for what would have become of them had he been less firm in his resolution, or if his courage had failed him during the trials of that dreadful winter?
“February closes,” says the heroic explorer; “thank God for the lapse of its twenty-eight days! Should the thirty-one of the coming March not drag us farther downward, we may hope for a successful close to this dreary drama. By April 10 we should have seals; and when they come, if we remain to welcome them, we can call ourselves saved. But a fair review of our prospects tells me that I must look the lion in the face. The scurvy is steadily gaining on us. I do my best to sustain the more desperate cases, but as fast as I partially build up one, another is stricken down. Of the six workers of our party, as I counted them a month ago, two are unable to do out-door work, and the remaining four divide the duty of the ship among them. Hans musters his remaining energies to conduct the hunt. Petersen is his disheartened, moping assistant. The other two, Bonsall and myself, have all the daily offices of household and hospital. We chop five large sacks of ice, cut six fathoms of eight-inch hawser into junks of a foot each, serve out the meat when we have it, hack at the molasses, and hew out with crowbar and axe the pork and dried apples; pass up the foul slop and cleansings of our dormitory, and, in a word, cook, scullionize, and attend the sick. Added to this, for five nights running I have kept watch from 8 P.M. to 4 A.M., catching such naps as I could in the day without changing my clothes, but carefully waking every hour to note thermometers.”
With March came an increase of sufferings. Every man on board was tainted with scurvy, and there were seldom more than three who could assist in caring for the rest. The greater number were in their bunks, absolutely unable to stir. Had Kane’s health given way, the whole party, deprived of its leading spirit, must inevitably have perished.
To abandon the ship was now an absolute necessity, for a third winter in Rensselaer Bay would have been certain death to all; but before the boats could be transported to the open water, many preparations had to be made, and most of the party were still too weak to move. The interval was employed by Kane in an excursion with his faithful Esquimaux to the Great Glacier.
At length on May 20, 1855, the entire ship’s company bade farewell to the “Advance,” and set out slowly on their homeward journey. It was in the soft, subdued light of a Sunday evening, June 17, that after hauling their boats with much hard labor through the hummocks, they stood beside the open sea-way. But fifty-six days had still to pass before they could reach the port of Upernavik. Neither storms nor drift-ice rendered this long boat-journey dangerous, but they had to contend with famine, when they at length reached the open bay, and found themselves in the full line of the great ice-drift to the Atlantic, in boats so unseaworthy as to require constant bailing to keep them afloat. Their strength had decreased to an alarming degree; they breathed heavily; their feet were so swollen that they were obliged to cut open their canvas boots; they were utterly unable to sleep, and the rowing and bailing became hourly more difficult.
It was at this crisis of their fortunes that they saw a large seal floating—as is the custom of these animals—on a small patch of ice, and seemingly asleep. “Trembling with anxiety,” says Kane, “we prepared to crawl down upon him. Petersen, with a large English rifle, was stationed in the bow, and stockings were drawn over the oars as mufflers. As we neared the animal, our excitement became so intense that the men could hardly keep stroke. He was not asleep, for he reared his head when we were almost within rifle-shot; and to this day I can remember the hard, careworn, almost despairing expression of the men’s thin faces as they saw him move; their lives depended on his capture. I depressed my hand nervously, as a signal for Petersen to fire. M’Gary hung upon his oar, and the boat slowly, but noiselessly surging ahead, seemed to me within certain range. Looking at Petersen, I saw that the poor fellow was paralyzed by his anxiety, trying vainly to obtain a rest for his gun against the cut-water of the boat. The seal rose on his fore flippers, gazed at us for a moment with frightened curiosity, and coiled himself for a plunge. At that instant, simultaneously with the crack of our rifle, he relaxed his long length on the ice, and, at the very brink of the water, his head fell helpless to one side. I would have ordered another shot, but no discipline could have controlled the men. With a wild yell, each vociferating according to his own impulse, they urged their boats upon the floes. A crowd of hands seized the seal and bore him up to safer ice. The men seemed half crazy. I had not realized how much we were reduced by absolute famine. They ran over the floe, crying and laughing, and brandishing their knives. It was not five minutes before every man was sucking his bloody fingers, or mouthing long strips of raw blubber. Not an ounce of this seal was lost.”
Within a day or two another seal was shot, and from that time forward they had a full supply of food.