The town itself is otherwise not unlike Karsuk, and has about the same number of native inhabitants, an equal number of yelping dogs (I should say about a hundred), and the average proportion of the filth and stench inseparable from a town of such description. Among it all the trader’s little whitewashed house loomed up cheerily, and, like a light-house in a dirty fog, it was a pleasant thing to look upon. It was late at night when we dropped our anchor, but the photographers had time to get out their camera and bath; and as the clock struck twelve they made a picture of it—the most northern house upon the globe, photographed by the light of the midnight sun! a feat well suited to the place and the romantic circumstances of our situation. We carried the picture off as a pleasant souvenir.
But, unhappily, the proprietor of this house was not there, nor his family. They had all gone off reindeer-shooting—the entire family camping out in the open air—a circumstance which I regretted the more that the man had served me before as interpreter and dog-manager in 1860-’61, and I was naturally desirous to see him. We sent off a native courier, but the courier missed him, and after remaining twelve hours, and the case appearing hopeless, the Panther was headed once more northward, and over the classic ground of the whalers we were soon passing Wedge Island and Cone Island, and Horse’s Head, and Cape Shackleton; and finally we fetched up at the Duck Islands, sixty miles beyond Tessuisak.
The Duck Islands were in former years a sort of whalemen’s rendezvous. To this point they fought their way among the great ice-fields along the Greenland coast; and here they are beyond the Danish colonies, and beyond the reach of human succor if misfortune happens them. Ahead of them lies Melville Bay, and the “middle ice” or “pack,” which they are bold to enter, and if lucky enough, in the end, to pass, they are pretty sure to find an ample reward in the cargo of whale blubber and whalebone which they will gather in the northern and western waters of Baffin’s Bay. In former times this fleet numbered something like a hundred sail; but now about a dozen steamers do the work of the noble old sailing ships, of which the recently destroyed True Love was the last. As the fleet “take the ice” here early in June or late in May, we were of course too late for them.
When a little more than half-way between the first and second of the Duck Islands we ran, at nearly full speed, upon a sunken rock not laid down on the charts—perhaps for the reason that nobody ever hit it before, but more probably, as it seemed, because of the disposition of our mate to allow no opportunity to be lost for sounding Baffin’s Bay with the keel of the Panther. We struck it first with the stem, and fortunately glanced off to port, thus easing the shock, and, by somewhat deadening the headway of the steamer, the better enabled us to take the rock again and get fast aground.
The shock was, I need hardly say, rather startling. The worst results were, not without reason, anticipated. The timber-heads were of course, as everybody supposed, started and glaring wide open; of course the ship had sprung a leak; of course we would have to take to our boats, and make our way as best we could to Tessuisak and Upernavik, and there meet the Danish ship, and reach home by way of Copenhagen, leaving the Panther to go to pieces on the rocks. It was not a pleasant prospect, but there was no help for it. The artists were in a great stew about the “negatives.” Our special artist (the very lively young gentleman, much given to caricature, already mentioned, who, for short, bore the cheering name of “Blob”) was much alarmed for the safety of his numerous sketches. “The Professor” bemoaned the fate of his collection of specimens. But to every body’s great surprise, and to the utter destruction of every body’s well-laid plans of misfortune, a careful examination proved that no harm had been done whatever, except to the cabin furniture. The shock set our cups and plates shying about the deck in a very fragmentary state, and sent our cabin-boy, who was, as usual, asleep in the pantry, head foremost through the door, where he tripped up the steward, who was bringing in a pot of boiled mush, all of which the unhappy boy received on the abdominal region, and for the first, last, and only time during the cruise got thoroughly waked up.
It was none of our (that is to say, the passengers’) business whether the Panther got off the rocks or not. That was the captain’s affair; and therefore, when we learned that no hole had been made in her bottom, we were eager to get ashore, and after the birds. “The Professor” was easy in his mind about the specimens; “Blob” was relieved about his caricatures, and the “negatives” were safe. What was to prevent us? Nothing but the settlement of the question of responsibility as to whose fault it was that we hit the rock. The mate said it wasn’t his. Oh no! who ever was at fault when any mischief was done? But the captain declared it was; and the mate, with equal zeal, repeated that it was not. But the second mate was against him, and every body else appeared to be; so he protested very loudly that it was no part of his duty to keep the run of all the rocks in Baffin’s Bay; which was rather hard upon the captain, who kept the charts, and, if there were any rocks lying around loose, should know about it.
This home-thrust incensed the captain greatly; and, without making any secret of it, he advised the mate to go home to his mother (which he would, no doubt, have been glad enough to do), and, with a consistency peculiar to maritime people, told him, with the same breath, that he had better go and scrape the rust off the anchor, as that was all he was fit for. This settled the matter; and the matter being settled, a calm followed on the heels of the storm; and, upon the first lull, we got a boat off the davits, and got ourselves and our guns and heavy shot, for the promiscuous slaughter of ducks, landed on the beach. Then we all filed off to left and right, and marched inland, the ducks very obligingly getting up before us as we went along, and hurrying away with a terrible flapping of wings and quacking with fright—at least, such as we did not bring down—and, since they rose superbly, any body with half a hand could have knocked over his bird. The sport was good, and by all odds the best we had yet enjoyed.
EIDER-DUCKS.
The islands proved, indeed, to have been well named. The birds were the famous eider-duck, close kindred of our much prized canvas-back, though much larger, and, feeding on shrimps, their flesh is not so well flavored.