From the Arctic Ocean to the Yellow Sea

by Julius M. Price

It would take too long to describe the wearisome attempts we made during the next few days while trying to break through the immense barrier which lay between us and the mouth of the Yenisei River, and during all this time we experienced every variety of Arctic climate, from hot sunshine to sudden and icy cold fogs. This delay was trying to our patience, for time was precious, as we had to get up the river, discharge cargo, and get the ship off again on her return journey to England before the winter ice set in, otherwise it meant her being fixed in the Kara Sea till the late spring of next year. At length from the mast-head one evening came the long-expected and joyful intelligence that there was clear water visible ahead, and our ice-master reported having discovered what he thought looked like a passage to it. This was good news indeed, as the monotony of the last few days was beginning to pall on us, and we were none of us grieved when, after a few more hours of slow steaming, the intelligence proved correct, and we at last saw a clear horizon before us. Even then a new and unexpected danger presented itself. A gale had been blowing, and, although inside the ice-floes all was calm as in a lagoon, outside a heavy sea was running, and the enormous masses of loose ice were being tossed about like corks. It was an awful sight, and one of the utmost danger to the Biscaya, as it was most difficult to steer clear of the huge heaving masses which threatened at any moment to smash into us. Fortunately, however, we managed to pass through them without the slightest injury to the ship, and we gave a hearty cheer for our skipper when we found ourselves once more out in the open sea, and the order was given, for the first time for many days, “Full speed ahead!”

Before quite leaving the ice behind, I must tell you of a very funny practical joke our captain played on us while we were at anchor. One morning, at about three o’clock, when we were all fast asleep, we were aroused by the captain rushing into our cabin in a state of great excitement, and calling out to us that there was a bear on the ice close by. To jump out of one’s bunk and make for one’s rifle was the work of a moment, while the captain, who appeared to be in a frantic state of excitement at the chance of such capital sport, was rushing about looking for his ammunition. In a few seconds, and without waiting to put on coat or slippers, I was out on the deck, with nothing on but my pyjamas, in order to get the first shot if possible. I found all the crew looking over the bulwarks. It was broad daylight, a cold, raw sort of morning, with a dense fog enveloping everything a few yards ahead. About a hundred yards away, on a huge piece of ice which was slowly drifting towards us, was a large animal looming out through the mist. It was too far away to be distinctly made out, but there it was undoubtedly—a Polar bear. It would make for the water before I could get a shot, so without the slightest hesitation I commenced blazing away. It was so cold standing out in the frosty air, with scarcely anything on and coming straight from one’s warm bed, that I could scarcely hold my rifle, still less distinguish the dim outline in the distance at which I fired four rounds in rapid succession, as I expected every minute the other fellows would turn up before I could hit it. All at once, the mass of ice having by this time drifted nearer, the animal turned slowly round towards us, and started a plaintive bleating. “Why, it’s only a sheep!” I fairly yelled, as I now made out its form quite distinctly. Immediately there rose from all sides such shrieks of laughter as were never heard before in the Arctic regions, I imagine; the crew simply rolled about the deck in convulsions. As to the captain and the others, they nearly went into fits. To my astonishment, I then saw one of the ship’s boats which had been waiting on the other side put off to fetch back the pseudo-bear—which was only one of our own sheep, after all, and which the captain, as a joke, had himself put on the ice, rightly guessing that in our half-awakened state none of us would hit it. The others, however, did not turn out quickly enough, so I was the sole beneficiary of what was one of the funniest practical jokes I ever heard of, and I laughed as heartily as any of them when I “twigged” it all. It was no use going back to bed again directly, so, to show I could appreciate a good bit of fun, and to keep out the cold, we opened a bottle of whiskey, and spent a pleasant hour, while laughing again and again at the description of how I looked, rushing out on deck in my pyjamas, half asleep, and firing wildly over the side of the ship. The sheep (which had been condemned for mutton), in recognition of its valour while under fire, was reserved as our very last victim for the flesh-pot.

We were once more fairly on our way towards the Yenisei, and, although we sighted a great deal more ice, we encountered none which formed any serious obstacle; we evidently had passed the worst. On August 11 we got as far north as it was necessary for us to go (our position being at the time 75 deg. north), and probably very few of us will ever get so near the North Pole again. It was a real Arctic day, as I take it, wretchedly cold, with heavy rain and a dense fog, so there was nothing for it but to remain in the cabin all day. In the afternoon we crossed the estuary to the river Ob, and—curious phenomenon—passed through fresh water for some hours. We got some on deck, and found it drinkable though brackish.

It was now only a question of making up for lost time, as it had been arranged that the river steamer, the Phœnix, should come from Yeniseisk and meet us at the mouth of the river about August 12, which would give us ample time to get out from England, allowing for delays. We reached our place of rendezvous on the 13th—wonderful time, all things considered—and brought up opposite the little station of Golchika, without seeing anything of the ship which ought to have been waiting for us. The river here was about ten miles wide, and the coast on either side was as bare and desolate as that we had seen when passing through the Waygatch Straits. It was profanely though graphically described by one of our party, who remarked that it looked as if it were “the last place God had made, and He had forgotten to finish it!”

THE HANDSOMEST MEMBER OF HIS FAMILY.

In reply to our gun, which we fired as a signal, a boatful of men put off from the land, and soon reached the ship, and then we had before us our first visitors from the kingdom of the White Czar. There were six of them—two Russians, and the rest Samoyede natives. Good specimens of the Mongolian race, they were dressed in what looked like undressed sheepskin of great age, judging from its colour, the fur being worn inside next their bodies. The two Russians were dressed in the usual peasant costume of the country. We could none of us make ourselves understood, although I got out my guide-book and vainly tried to pronounce some jaw-dislocating words; so we stood grinning at each other for several minutes, till some one thought of offering them a cigarette. This time no interpreter was necessary. What we wanted to find out from them was whether they had seen anything of the Phœnix, but could not make them understand; in fact, our difficulty now was to get rid of them—to let them know we were pleased to have had the pleasure of meeting them, but that “enough was as good as a feast.” As they did not understand a hint, we simply pointed down to their boat, waving our hands to them as a sign for them to depart; this they acted on, but not before they had insisted on shaking hands with us all round—rather a trying ordeal. After their departure, it was decided to anchor in mid-stream and wait a few hours for the Phœnix before we attempted reaching the next station without a pilot.

SAMOYEDE BOATMEN.

[To face [p. 34].