By keeping well inside the islands, which almost everywhere form a barrier along the Greenland coast, we managed to escape, in a great measure, the ice which had so much annoyed and alarmed us when we first “made” the Land of Desolation. Towards evening, our pilot, who had been on the bridge most of the day, approached the captain, and said:
“Captain, you see?”
“Yes,” said the captain.
“Two icebergs there—go between.”
“Yes,” said the captain.
“Starboard then”—explaining further the route into the port—“no, hit rock—go for iceberg—port, no deep water—starboard, plenty ice—port, small—starboard, plenty—let go—Kraksimeut—you see?”
“Yes, pilot,” said the captain, “certainly, clear as mud;” then, addressing himself to another quarter, he cried out, “For’ad, there!”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Lay out on the jib-boom and keep a sharp look-out for rocks. Stand by to heave the lead.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”