“Calmly, though much moved, we faced this hard fact.”
There was not a minute’s time to lose; while one-half of the men stayed by the pumps, the others were busily engaged bringing the most necessary articles from the vessel to the floe. Gradually the ship filled with water, and by eight in the morning the men who were busy in the fore-peak getting out firewood came with anxious faces to say that the wood was already floating below. At three o’clock the water in the cabin had reached the table, and all movable articles were floating.
“Round about the ship lay a chaotic mass of heterogeneous articles, and groups of feeble rats struggling with death, and trembling with cold.”
On the morning of the 21st, a last trip was made to the Hansa for fuel and her masts sacrificed to the stress of need. She was then cut away from the ice that she might not endanger the lives of those on the floe when she sank.
WINTER
The shipwrecked crew, in the miserable shelter of the coal house, settled themselves to meet the exigencies of their frightful position. In the far distance Halloway Bay and Glasgow Island were distinctly visible, but nowhere a way through the icy labyrinth. Slowly, steadily, the ice-field drifted to the south. By November 3 the Liverpool coast had been passed, and the picturesque formation of the coast surrounding Scoresby Sound was distinctly visible.
The health of the party remained good; a monotonous routine of daily duties occupied officers and men. The capture of a walrus and bear gave a welcome supply of fresh meat. Christmas was cheerfully celebrated by these shipwrecked mariners in the coal-hut on their Greenland floe. A tree artistically manufactured of pine wood and birch broom was gayly decorated with paper rings and candles,—nor were gifts wanting, and finally, wrote Dr. Laube in his day-book:—
“In quiet devotion 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 were destined for a happy return home, the next will be a brighter one; may God grant it!”
The months of January and February were fraught with many anxious hours, owing to the numerous and severe storms which threatened destruction to the floe. The horrors of such an experience are vividly described as follows:—
On the 11th of January, “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 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 temperature of -9½°, and a heavy storm, was an arduous piece of work. The community were divided into two parts. We bade each other good-by 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 the 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 as 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.”