Another reason for our coming to Hopedale was to secure our old interpreter, Abram Bromfield, who had been with the Commander on numerous previous trips. Abie lived about thirty miles from Hopedale at the head of a large bay known as Jack Lane’s Bay. Therefore, after we had obtained our clothing, we set our course for his home. While on the way we noticed that the vessel was not turning up her customary speed, but as the engine was functioning perfectly we decided that it must have been an illusion created by the effects of tide or wind.
On our arrival at Jack Lane’s Bay, the Commander and McDonald took one of the small boats and started up the Bay for Abie’s house. Early the next morning they returned accompanied by the whole Bromfield family who brought us several thick, tender, juicy venison steaks and a large mess of fresh-caught trout. Old Sam Bromfield, Abie’s father, aged seventy, also brought his accordion and gave us a rare treat by dancing the good old folk dances and playing some of the songs of yesteryear.
The following morning at two o’clock sharp, the mate slid back the forecastle hatch and uttered the familiar cry, “All hands on deck!” In spite of sleep-numbed brains and the well-nigh irresistible desire to return to the alluring arms of Morpheus, we snapped back, “Yes, sir,” and hit the deck with despatch.
In getting under weigh my particular job was to stow the chain in the chain locker, and in a few moments my ears were greeted with: “Stand by the chain!” I made a dash over Dick’s bunk and dived into the locker just in time to grab the chain as the great electric winch by my ear was beginning its raucous clatter, and the muddy chain was commencing its rapid descent. A few minutes later there lay at my feet a huge mound of rusted links, and I heard the creak of the tackle with which the anchor is brought to the cat-head. The engine-room telegraph jangled; a sudden vibration indicated the throwing in of the clutch, and I prepared to go on deck. Suddenly I noticed the absence of the customary ripple which can be heard from the chain locker when the vessel is under weigh. I listened intently, but no murmur of gurgling water greeted my straining ears. Could the engineer have mistaken the signal? No, the engine was running as usual. I dashed on deck wondering what could be the trouble. The Commander stood by the wheel, on his face a puzzled expression. The rest of the crew were bending over the stern, vainly endeavoring to fathom the trouble.
Maynard Williams (left), photographer, National Geographic
Society, Lieut. Benjamin Rigg (right), U. S. Coast and Geodetic
Survey.
It was still nearly as dark as midnight; just a faint touch of red in the east. In a moment more the Peary came sliding along through the morning vapors like a great, grey ghost, her black smoke flickering across the face of the waning moon like a dark forerunner of disaster. Shortly our ears were assailed by a shrill blast from her siren. The Commander realizing that there was something radically wrong with our propulsive apparatus, ordered a boat lowered to take him over to the Peary that he might acquaint them with our predicament. In a few moments he had spanned the intervening stretch of water, and we saw the vessel stop as she came down on the boat. The Commander then told Commander McDonald of our trouble and instructed him to continue the voyage to Greenland and await our arrival at Disko Island, where we would rejoin him as soon as our trouble had been adjusted. In the meanwhile we had again let go the anchor to keep the Bowdoin from drifting; then we pulled a small boat under the stern for a closer inspection. There the Commander joined us and took part in the investigation. As we had surmised, the propeller was sadly damaged. There was no other recourse but to beach the vessel and change the propeller. With this end in view, the Commander despatched Dick Salmon with one of our motor boats to enlist the aid of the Bromfields and their staunch motor boat. It was decided that it would be advisable to return to Hopedale where there were better facilities.
The Bowdoin passing an iceberg off west coast of Greenland.