AT ANCHOR.
We reached the shore this morning at 3 o'clock, and anchored in four fathoms water. The stern of the schooner was swung round and moored with our stoutest hawser to a rock; but a squall fell upon us soon afterward with such violence that, although the sails were all snugly stowed, the hawser was parted like a whip-cord; and we now lie to our "bower" and "kedge," with thirty fathoms chain.
And now, in apparent security, the ship's company abandon themselves to repose. Weary and worn with the hard struggle and exposure, we were all badly in need of rest. An abundant supply of hot coffee was our first refreshment. But, notwithstanding their fatigue, some of the more enthusiastic members of the party went ashore, so anxious were they to touch this far-north land.
8 o'clock, P. M.
I have just returned from a tedious climb to the top of the cliffs. At an elevation of twelve hundred feet I had a good view. The sea is free from ice along the shore apparently up to Littleton Island, from which the pack stretches out over the North Water as far as the eye will carry. There appears to be much open water about Cape Isabella, but I could not of course see the shore line. Above the cape the ice appeared to be solid. Although the prospect is discouraging, I have determined to attempt a passage with the first favorable wind.
VIEW FROM THE CLIFFS.
The journey was a very difficult one, and when I had reached the summit of the cliff I was almost blown over it. The force of the wind was so great that I was obliged to steady myself against a rock while making my observations. Knorr, who accompanied me, lost his cap, and it went sailing out over the sea as if a mere feather. The scene was but a broader panorama of that which I described in this journal yesterday. It was a grand, wild confusion of the elements. The little schooner, far down beneath me, was writhing and reeling with the fitful gusts, and straining at her cables like a chained wild beast. The clouds of drifting snow which whirled through the gorges beneath me, now and then hid her and the icebergs beyond from view; and when the air fell calm again the cloud dropped upon the sea, and the schooner, after a short interval of unrest, lay quietly on the still water, nestling in sunshine under the protecting cliffs.
There are yet some lingering traces of the summer. Some patches of green moss and grass were seen in the valleys, where the snow had drifted away; and I plucked a little nosegay of my old friends the poppies and the curling spider-legged Saxifraga flagelaris. The frost and snow and wind had not robbed them of their loveliness and beauty. The cliffs are of the same sandstone, interstratified with greenstone, which I have before remarked of the coast below.
McCormick has replaced the old foresail which was split down the centre, with the new one, and has patched up the mainsail and jib, both of which were much torn.
An immense amount of ice has drifted past us, but we are too far in-shore for any masses of considerable size to reach the vessel. Three small bergs have, however, grounded in a cluster right astern of us, and if we drag our anchors we shall bring up against them. A perfect avalanche of wind tumbles upon us from the cliffs; and instead of coming in squalls, as heretofore, it is now almost constant. The temperature is 27°.