We lay secured to the iceberg until the 16th August, when the wind changed to the north-eastward, and the floes began to move off the land and to separate. Now or never were we to get through; for to lose this opportunity would have shut us out from crossing that year, and have left us no other resource than to return to Greenland for the winter. M‘Clintock was not the man to turn back from his work, but would rather risk everything than leave a chance of our thus passing an inactive winter. The Fox was therefore steered into a promising lead or lane of water, and all sail made to the breeze. We were in high spirits, and talked of getting into the west water on the morrow. But at night a dense fog came on, the wind shifted to the southward, and the floes again began to close upon and around us. There was no help for us—we were beset, and it appeared hopelessly so; for the season was fast passing away, and the new ice beginning to form. On the 17th the wind increased, and the weather was dark and dreary. We struggled on for a few ship’s lengths by the power of steam and canvas, and at night we unshipped the rudder, and lifted the screw, in anticipation of a squeeze.
During the three weeks following we lay in this position, endeavouring, by every means, to move the ship towards any visible pool or lane of water. Once only did our hopes revive. On September 7, the wind had again been from the north-westward; the ice had slackened, and we made a final and desperate attempt to reach some water seen to the northward of us. We were blasting with gunpowder, heaving, and warping during the whole day, but at night the floes again closed. We had not now even a retreat; the tinker had come round, as the seamen say, and soldered us in; and from that time until the 17th of April, 1858, we never moved, excepting at the mercy of the ice, and drifted by the winds and currents. We had lost all command over the ship, and were freezing in the moving pack.
Preparations for the winter were now made in earnest. We had thirty large dogs to feed besides ourselves, and we lost no opportunity of shooting seals. The sea-birds had all left for the southward; and the bears, which occasionally came to look at the ship, we could not chase, from the yet broken state of the ice. Provisions were got up upon deck, sledges and travelling equipages prepared, boats’ crews told off, and every arrangement made by the Captain in the event of our being turned out of the ship. As the winter advanced, the ship was housed over with canvas, and covered with snow; and we had made up our minds for a winter in the pack and a drift—whither? This we could not tell, but we argued from the known constant set to the southward, out of Baffin’s Sea and Davis’ Straits, that if our little ship survived through the winter, we should be released in the southern part of Davis’ Straits during the following summer.
We were then in latitude 75° 24′ north, longitude 64° 31′ west, and westward of us could be seen a formidable line of grounded bergs, towards which, by our observations, we were driving. Our next eight months were passed in a manner that would be neither interesting to read nor to relate; but a few extracts from a private journal will show our mode of life.
Sept. 16.—We passed the grounded bergs last night, after considerable anxiety, for we feared we might be driven against them. We saw the floes opening and tearing up as sod before the plough; and had we come in contact with them, the ship must have been instantly destroyed. We are out all day long, by the sides of the water-pools, with our rifles, and shoot the seals in the head when they come up to breathe; they are now getting fat, and do not sink so readily as in the summer.
Oct. 17.—We obtained good observations, and found that we have drifted north-west 65 miles, since the 15th inst. It has been blowing hard from the south-eastward, and we consider that we have thus been carried helplessly along by the effect of a single gale.
Nov. 2.—A bear came to look at the ship at night, and our dogs soon chased him on to some thin ice, through which he broke. All hands turned out to see the sport, and notwithstanding the intense cold many of the people did not wait to put on their extra clothes. The bear was dispatched with our rifles, after making some resistance, and maiming several of the dogs. We have not seen the sun to-day; he has now taken his final departure from these latitudes. It is getting almost too dark to shoot seals, and we employ ourselves with such astronomical observations as are necessary to fix our position, and to calculate our drift, with observations upon the thermometer, barometer, and meteorology generally.
Nov. 28.—After a zigzag drift out to the westward, until the 24th inst., into latitude 75° 1′ N., longitude 70° W., we have commenced a southern drift, and we trust now to progress gradually out of the straits, until released in the spring. We have had considerable commotion and ruptures in the ice-floes lately, but fortunately the nips have not come too close to us. We ascend the masthead, to the crow’s-nest, every morning, to look out for water, for our dogs are getting ravenous, and we want food for them.
December 4.—Poor Scott died last night, and was buried through the floe this evening, all hands drawing his earthly remains upon a sledge, and the officers walking by the side. It was a bitterly cold night, the temperature 35° below zero, with a fresh wind, and the beautiful paraselene (ominous of a coming gale) lighting us on our way. The ice has been more quiet lately, and we are becoming more reconciled to our imprisonment.
A reading, writing, and navigation school has commenced, and our Captain loses no opportunity of attending to the amusement and recreation of the men, so necessary in this dreary life. Besides the ordinary duties of cleaning the ship, the men are exercised in building snow houses, and preparing travelling equipage.