When, as was often the case, they had to anchor on account of bad weather, Nansen and his companions would go ashore, either for the purpose of taking observations or for sport. One day they shot two bears and sundry reindeer; but, when they started to row back to the Fram in the evening, they had a severe task before them. For a strong breeze was blowing, and the current was dead against them. “We rowed as if our finger-tips would burst,” says Nansen, “but could hardly make any headway. So we had to go in under land again to get out of the current. But no sooner did we set out for the Fram again than we got into it once more, and then the whole manœuvre had to be repeated, with the same result. Presently a buoy was lowered from the ship: if we could only reach it, all would be right. But no such luck was in store for us yet. We would make one more desperate effort, and we rowed with a will, every muscle of our bodies strained to the utmost. But to our vexation we now saw the buoy being hauled up. We rowed a little to the windward of the Fram, and then tried again to sheer over. This time we got nearer her than we had been before, but still no buoy was thrown over—not even a man was to be seen on deck. We roared like madmen,” writes Nansen, “for a buoy—we had no strength left for another attempt. It was not a pleasing prospect to have to drift back, and go ashore again in our wet clothes,—we would get on board! Once more we yelled like wild Indians, and now they came rushing aft, and threw out the buoy in our direction. We put our last strength into our oars. There were only a few boat-lengths to cover, and the lads bent flat over the thwarts. Now only three boat-lengths. Another desperate spurt! Now only two and a half boat-lengths—presently two—then only one! A few more frantic pulls, and there was a little less. ‘Now, my lads, one or two more hard pulls—keep to it!—Now another—don’t give in—one more—there we have it!’ And a joyful sigh of relief passed round the boat. ‘Keep her going, or the rope will break—row, my lads!’ And row we did, and soon they had hauled us alongside the Fram. Not till we were lying there, getting our bearskins and flesh hauled on board, did we realize what we had had to fight against. The current was running along the side of the ship like a millstream. At last we were on board. It was evening by this time, and it was a comfort to get some hot food, and then stretch one’s limbs in a comfortable, dry berth.”
The Fram proceeded on her course the next day, passing a number of unknown islands, to which Nansen gave names. Among these were Scott-Hansen’s Islands, Ringnes, Mohns, etc.
On Sept. 6, the anniversary of Nansen’s wedding, they passed Taimar Island, and after a prosperous passage through open water reached Cape Tscheljuskin on Sept. 9.
Nansen was sitting in the crow’s nest that evening. The weather was perfectly still, and the sky lay in a dream of gold and yellow. A solitary star was visible; it stood directly over Cape Tscheljuskin, twinkling brightly, though sadly, in the pale sky overhead. As the vessel proceeded on her course it seemed to follow them. There was something about that star that attracted Nansen’s attention, and brought him peace. It was as it were his star, and he felt that she who was at home was sending him a message by it. Meanwhile the Fram toiled on through the gloomy melancholy of the night out into the unknown.
In the morning, when the sun rose up, a salute was fired, and high festival held on board.
A few days later a herd of walrus was sighted. It was a lovely morning, and perfectly calm, so that they could distinctly hear their bellowings over the clear surface of the water, as they lay in a heap on an ice-floe, the blue mountains glittering in the sunlight in the background.
“My goodness, what a lot of meat!” ejaculated Juell, the cook. And at once Nansen, Juell, and Henriksen set out after them, Juell rowing, Nansen armed with a gun, and Henriksen with a harpoon. On getting to close quarters Henriksen threw the harpoon at the nearest walrus, but it struck too high, and glanced off the tough hide, and went skipping over the rounded backs of the others. Now all was stir and life. Ten or a dozen of the bulky animals waddled with upraised heads to the extreme edge of the floe, whereupon Nansen took aim at the largest, and fired. The brute staggered, and fell headlong into the water. Another bullet into a second walrus was attended with the same result, and the rest of the herd plunged into the water, so that it boiled and seethed. Soon, however, they were up again, all around the boat, standing upright in the water, bellowing and roaring till the air shook. Every now and then they would make a dash toward the boat, then dive, and come up again. The sea boiled like a cauldron, and every moment they seemed about to dash their tusks through the side of the boat, and capsize it. Fortunately, however, this did not occur. Walrus after walrus was shot by Nansen, while Henriksen was busy with his harpoon to prevent them sinking.
At last, after a favorable journey through open water, the Fram finally reached firm ice on Sept. 25, and allowed herself to be frozen in; for winter was fast approaching, and it was no longer possible to drive her through the ice.
[1] Fram means onward.