Life with the Esquimaux/Volume 1/Chapter VII
CHAPTER VII.
Boat Incident—Life hanging on a Shoe-string—Courage of Esquimaux Boys—Arrival of the "Georgiana"—Author's Sickness and Recovery—Attention of the Natives—A fearful Gale—The "Rescue" and the Expedition Boat wrecked—The "Georgiana" on Shore—The "George Henry" in great Danger.
The incidents connected with my every-day life for some time at this period, though never without novelty to myself, would, I fear, seem to present a sameness of character if too often brought forward in the disjointed form in which they occurred. I will, therefore, occasionally throw together several matters that refer to the same subject, though scattered over the next two or three weeks.
Of these not the least interesting to me were the native habits and customs as displayed in their beautiful villages. I was never tired viewing them, and at every opportunity was on shore among their tupics—summer tents.
At other times I would make an excursion to some of the many islands around the ship, for the purpose of exercise and collecting specimens. I took one or more of the natives with me generally, and, on a certain occasion, the following incident occurred:—
In the morning of September 8th, I went over in a boat to an island. I had with me a little "one-eyed" Esquimaux companion, and, after about three hours' ramble, we returned to the landing only to find the boat entirely out of our reach. The tide had risen so much that approach to it was quite out of the question. The fastening of the boat was to a rock now far out, and beneath the waters! Here was a dilemma. What was I to do? The dashing waves threatened every moment to surge away the boat; and if that went, and we were left upon that solitary, barren island for a night, the probability was we should both suffer greatly. There was no other way of getting off but by the boat, and the tide was still fast rising. For a time I was puzzled what to do. But, as "necessity is the mother of invention," I at length bethought me of a plan. If I had a line long enough to allow of a stone attached to it being thrown into the boat, all would probably be right. But I had no line. What then could I do? Presently an idea struck me. The telescope-case, containing a spy-glass (which swung to my side), had a long leathern strap. My marine (opera) glass was also pendent from my neck by a piece of green curtain-cord. The native boots on my feet were made fast by strong thongs of sealskin. Quickly these were tied together and made into a line some twenty feet long. To this a moderately heavy stone was attached, and with a good throw I managed to cast it into the boat. With a steady, gentle pull, the boat was once more within reach, and my Esquimaux companion and myself able to rejoin the living world!
It is said that "our lives often hang upon a brittle thread!" True, indeed. Certainly it was something like it in the present case, and I believe there can be no impropriety in saying that mine and my little Esquimaux's depended for once upon a strong shoestring!
Another boat adventure may be here worth narrating. About a month after the previous occurrence I went on "Look-out" Island to spend the day making observations, &c. Two young Esquimaux accompanied me; but, though the place where I landed was only about half a mile south of the ship, we were some time getting there, and on arrival I found, from the high breakers ashore, it would be better to send the boat back. The troubled sea was such that in a little time the boat, if left there, would have been pounded to pieces. I wrote a note to the ship, asking for one of the working boats to call for me at evening. As the two boys went off in the boat, no small anxiety was caused by witnessing the difficulty and delay they experienced in reaching the ship. And no wonder. The boat they had to manage was twenty-eight feet long and six feet beam, and this to take across a channel where the sea is often very considerable. However, the tide helped them, and in time they got alongside.
In the evening one of our whale-boats came for me under charge of Mr. Rogers, who also found much difficulty in approaching any place where I could get on board. He neared a rock upon which I stepped, but instantly found myself slipping. I had in hand and about my person sextants, artificial horizon, nautical and surveying books, tape measurer, &c. &c., and there I was, poised upon the edge of a precipitous rock, fixed in deep water, with furious surf around it! I felt alarmed, more, perhaps for my instruments than myself, for the former would be lost, while I might readily be saved. All of the boat's crew were anxiously bending their eyes upon me as I kept slipping, and for a moment unable to help myself. But, thanks to my Esquimaux boots, which had been well "chewed" by the native women, I was able, by a great effort, to press my feet and toes upon the ice-covered rock, until Keeney, the "boat-header," managed to spring on shore to my assistance, and in another moment I was in the boat. Thus I was saved on this occasion simply by the flexibility of Esquimaux boots!
One Sunday after dinner I took the dingey, a small boat belonging to the ship, and, accompanied by four Esquimaux boys, directed it to the foot of the mountains north of our harbour. The mountains are God's temples; to them I like to bend my steps on Sundays.
"God, that made the world and all things therein, seeing that He is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands."
I used, therefore, to say, "To what place shall I go where I can better worship my God than on the mountains? How can I so well learn His power as looking upon and contemplating His almighty works?"
After leaving the boat in a safe little harbour, we began our upward tramp, and I was much interested in a pile of rock which seemed nearly undermined by old Father Time. The remaining stone was feldspar; that which had been eaten out—a stratum of five feet thick—was composed of mica and a small proportion of quartz. The distance excavated in some places could not have been less than three or four fathoms! At first it seemed decidedly venturesome to go under this rock shed; but, on witnessing the firmness of the feldspar, its immense height, length, and breadth, it restored my confidence.
I greatly enjoyed my walk, and returned on board without mishap by the evening.
On the 10th of September we were visited by some newcomers—an Esquimaux called Tes-su-win, and his family and boat's crew. They had left Ookoolear—Cornelius Grinnell Bay—on the previous day, bringing a letter from Captain Allen, of the Black Eagle, which vessel was still where we had left her on the 16th of August, when sailing for this place. The number in Tessuwin's boat was eleven, including four females. He had with him his wife, Neu-er-ar-ping, and a sister's child called Og-big, meaning whale. Tessuwin and his wife had both been to Fox Channel from Kemmisuite, in Northumberland Inlet, and the information they gave me concerning those parts, and all around the Frobisher waters, was very interesting, fully confirming the other reports. Tessuwin had often seen, and, with many others, visited in his kia the Hudson's Bay Company's ships, as they passed up Hudson's Strait. He said that very few Innuits now dwelt on Kingaite (Meta Incognita), and nearly all the native inhabitants were fast dying off.
Soon after Tessuwin's arrival another boat from Captain Tyson's ship, then at the same place as the Black Eagle, came on board, and after a stay of two days returned, taking back several of the natives, among whom was Kookoodlear, the young wife of one of the George Henry's hired Esquimaux crew. Tessuwin left us on the 15th, he having engaged himself and family to Captain Allen for the whaling season.
A few days after this, on the 18th, we were much surprised at the sight of a vessel coming up the bay, and soon afterward we ascertained she was the Georgiana, Captain Tyson. It was evening when she neared, passing on the opposite side of some small islands that inclosed us in our harbour. As she was going along about three or four knots an hour, suddenly I perceived her upon a rock, and in another moment her bow was raised some four feet higher than the stern. All was then confusion. A boat was seen to take a line out, but the increasing darkness prevented much being observed, and I felt great anxiety as to her fate. Fortunately, the tide was on the flood, and in less than an hour I had the satisfaction of seeing her again free. In ten minutes more she dropped anchor about two cable lengths from us.
The following days an interchange of visits took place, and new life was diffused by the friendly spirit of emulation created between the two ships' companies in whaling. One day, when the boats were out, it was seen by those of us who remained on board that a whale had been captured, but at first we could not tell which ship's company were the victors. By-and-by it was ascertained to be the George Henry's, and I here mention it to relate an instance of generous feeling on the part of Captain Tyson.
When Smith, who was the lucky captor, had fastened to the whale, and was looking for means to secure his prize, Captain Tyson, in his boat, came up, and, without a word, proceeded to lance the huge monster so as to render him incapable of further resistance. Directly this was done, Tyson left, to go cruising for others; nor did he once make any proposition in reference to a claim for a share, as customary among whalers. His act was most friendly, especially so where whaling has so much to create strife.
About this time I was very sick—indeed, had been quite prostrated for several days by severe rheumatic pains. The cause originated with myself in consequence of needless exposure. I had experienced no material illness before since leaving home; and I believed, even as I now believe, that what Governor Elberg, of Holsteinborg, said to me about the healthy condition of all who reside in the arctic regions, as compared with other parts of the world, was true. But I had neglected even the commonest precautions during wet, cold, and fogs, and thus I now suffered. I allude to it for the purpose of showing the great sympathy evinced for me by the Esquimaux whenever they came on board. In moving about near my cabin they would walk on tiptoe, as though instructed in our customs at home; and on one occasion, two little girls, Ookoodlear and a companion, were so careful lest they should disturb me, that they would hardly turn over the leaves of an illustrated atlas that had been placed before them for their amusement.
This sickness of mine continued, with intermissions, for several days; but eventually I triumphed over it, and was able to move about again as I had been accustomed to. During my sickness various dishes were prepared for me from game that was captured, but I well remember the joy I felt on eating a portion of a reindeer's tongue, brought on board by some of the Esquimaux after a successful hunt. The previous day all hands had been eating (and relishing it too) some soused "black skin" of the whale, and I had freely taken of my share, but the satisfaction was nothing compared to that produced by the reindeer tongue. Nevertheless, I still assert that the black skin is good, either raw or cooked; and when prepared as pigs' feet are in the States, it is luxurious.
At this time the George Henry was feeding and employing in the whaling service thirteen Esquimaux—that is, two boats' crews and one over. They got three meals a day in the cabin. The ration to each was one sea-biscuit, a mug of coffee, and a slice of salt junk. Besides this, they were furnished with all the pipes, tobacco, clothing, guns, and ammunition they wanted. In return, they generally went out cruising for whales just when they pleased, came back when they pleased, and did as they pleased. If one or several took an idea to go off deer-hunting, or for any other object, away he or they would go. They would be independent in the fullest sense of the word, and restraint was what they could not brook.
We Americans talk about "freedom and independence," but we are far behind these Northerners. While we are pleased with shadows, the dusky sons of an arctic clime enjoy the substance. They will do as they please, without any one having the acknowledged right or power to say to them, "Why do you so?"
I could say much, very much upon this subject, but perhaps it may be considered out of place, therefore leave it for another opportunity. Still, I must make one remark. The Esquimaux really deserve the attention of the philanthropist and Christian. Plant among them a colony of men and women having right-minded principles, and, after some patient toil, glorious fruits must follow. I cannot realize the fact that here is a people having much of nobleness and even greatness in their composition, yet unvisited and apparently uncared-for by the missionary world. Nothing, however, could be done toward their good until a course is adopted similar to that pursued by the King of Denmark with Greenland. It is a painful, but too evident fact, that the Esquimaux on the west of Davis's Straits are woefully debased, and fallen from their original virtues—though possessing many still—owing to the visits of reckless white men on their coasts. In Greenland the case is different. There, under the Danish king's control, Christian colonies, churches, schools, store-houses, and stores of every needful variety, are to be found interspersed from Cape Farewell to Upernavik, and the inhabitants comfortable and happy. Priests and catechists, schoolmasters and schoolmistresses, are educated to their several posts, and are well paid for their services from his majesty's coffers. Danes emigrate to the land, marry and intermarry with the Esquimaux. Knowledge and virtue, industry and prosperity, are the results. And, notwithstanding the expenses for the support of all this, including the salaries of inspectors, governors, and several scores of employés, yet the net proceeds of this apparently desolate land exceed ten thousand dollars, federal money, per annum! This is well for Greenland. Paying for all her imports; paying the expenses of some ten ships annually from and to Copenhagen; paying all the other expenses named, including missionaries, and yet realizing an annual return of net profit for the King of Denmark of ten thousand dollars! How many nations of this modern day do better? And, with this fact before us, why shall not the same occur (adopting the same plan) in the land of the Esquimaux on the west side of Davis's Straits? Let my countrymen look to it whenever the first opportunity arrives.
On the 27th day of September (1860) there broke upon us that fearful gale which caused the loss of my expedition boat and the far-famed Rescue, drove the Georgiana on shore, and came near proving the destruction of the George Henry and all on board. As it was of so serious a character, I will here give the particulars in detail.
Wednesday, the 26th, commenced with light winds from the N.E. At noon it began to snow, with an increasing breeze. At 1 p.m. all the boats came on board from their cruising-ground, and preparations were made for bad weather. The wind now rapidly increased to a gale, and at 8 p.m. the second anchor was let go, with all the cable given that could be allowed without letting the George Henry get too near the rocky island astern of us. The schooner Rescue, at this time, was about fifty fathoms distant on our starboard bow, and the brig Georgiana a little more easterly. At 9 p.m. the gale was still increasing, and a heavy sea rising. At this time the deck watch came in the cabin and reported that the Rescue was dragging her anchors, and as we looked upon her dark form through the thick darkness of the night, it seemed, as she kept moving by, that her destruction was inevitable and immediate. But, when abeam of us, she held on, though pitching and surging heavily. The Georgiana was seen but faintly, and it appeared as if she, too, was in great danger.
At 11 p.m. it was blowing a perfect hurricane, with thick snow, and just then we could perceive the brig driving astern toward the island. She had, as we afterward learned, broken her small anchor, and dragged her large one. On she went, driving heavily, amid the wild stir of the elements, and the awful darkness of that snow-storm night—on and on, with nothing to save her, until presently we could see she had struck upon the island leeward of us, where, after "worrying" her anchor round a point of land, she got into some slightly smooth water, and there continued pounding her larboard side on the rocks. The crew now left her and went on to the island, expecting every moment that she would part her remaining chain, and so be driven out into the bay, where there would be no possible chance of saving their lives.
Meanwhile, we ourselves were momentarily expecting destruction. It did not seem possible that our anchors could hold. Wind, and storm, and a raging sea appeared to be combined against us. Thirty souls, besides near a score of natives, were on board, and all preparing for the moment when it was probable the George Henry would be adrift on the rocks. But thanks to Providence and our good anchors, we did not stir, though at no time very far from the rocks. Every now and then I was on deck, not to hear the howling winds, for the whole cabin below resounded with their roar, but to gaze upon the terrible scene. And what a scene! It was truly awful. Never before had I seen its like—never had I pictured to my imagination the reality of such a night. As I tried to steady myself by holding fast to some fixed rope, my eyes were spell-bound by the fearful sight before me. There behind was the brig pounding away upon the rocks; and here, closer to us, was our consort, the schooner, plunging and chafing at her anchors as if mad at the restraint put upon her, and insanely desirous of letting go her hold to rush upon the shore. Ever and anon would she throw her bows low down, taking up the briny sea, and then, swiftly surging to and fro, spring fearfully on her chains. On the rocky, desolate island astern, the moving figures of those belonging to the brig could be discerned, evidently doing their best to keep warm in that bitter night. Through the rigging of our ship came the howling wind and the driving snow, while the fierce waves played and leaped about in the wildest fury. Yes, it was indeed a fearful sight, especially as it was increased in horror by the dread uncertainty of own and our consort's continued safety.
At length these our fears were in part fulfilled. Toward morning the hurricane became stronger. Every blast seemed as if about to tear us from our hold, and then lift us into the air and hurl us upon the rocks for destruction. Presently our eyes caught sight of the Rescue in a moment dashing before the storm toward the dreaded shore. She had parted chain, and, with one bound, went hopelessly broadside on, amid the breakers at her lee. Thump! thump! crash! crash! away the tottering masts! the ropes, the bulwarks, the all of what was once the noble-looking, beautiful, and renowned schooner Rescue! In and among the rocks, with their jagged tops tearing her to pieces, and the boiling surges driving over her decks, as the snow-storm poured its heavy drift around, even as if it were a wondrous funeral shroud, so did the doomed craft meet its fate.
So, too, was my expedition boat torn from its moorings, and, sharing the Rescue's sad end, doomed me also to a wreck of disappointment in the hopes I had cherished concerning her. And all this we saw as, with startled gaze and anxious thought, we stood on deck, powerless to save, and equally powerless to avert our own doom, if it should come.
The night passed on. The morning light slowly and cheerlessly pierced through the increasing thickness of falling snow as it flew past us on the driving wind. Dimly at first, then more distinctly, but still in dread spectre-like form, loomed up the rugged island scene, with its wrecks and desolation. Figures all but indistinct were moving about, and the two ships were pounding upon the rocks, tearing at their anchors as if in the most convulsive death-throes. The Rescue was on her broadside, with her bow easterly, and evidently breaking up. The Georgiana, being in a more sheltered spot, appeared to be less hurt. But it was necessary to do something, if possible, to release the men from their position on shore, and get them on board of us, for we seemed now likely to hold on. Accordingly, the moment a lull in the wind took place, which was at 9 a.m. of the 27th, a whale-boat was carefully lowered and passed astern. Into it two brave hearts, Mate Rogers and a seaman, stepped, with a view of venturing through the boiling waves and surf to try and assist their wrecked comrades. Cautiously the boat was allowed to drift off toward the island, a strong and good line of great length attached to it from the ship. Skilfully was it guided over the seas and through the breakers. Mate Rogers and his bold companion well and nobly did their work. In a few moments the boat was under the Rescue's projecting bowsprit, and speedily, though requiring exceeding care, Captain Tyson, his crew, and those who had been on board of the schooner, got into her. A short time more, and all were standing safely on the George Henry's deck.
At noon both the stranded ships were pounding very heavily on the rocks, and jumping their anchors in such a manner as to cause the two vessels to move their position more round the island, though in opposite directions. Thus it continued throughout all of the 27th, the wind increasing rather than the contrary. But on the following morning the gale abated, and at nine o'clock a party of our people managed to get on shore. We found the larboard side of the Rescue badly stove, but the Georgiana, by being in a much less exposed place, was perfectly tight, and comparatively uninjured. Her crew soon afterward took possession of her again, and ultimately she was got off the rocks, and once more anchored in deep water.
As for the Rescue, after a careful examination, it was found she was too far damaged to be repaired with any means at our command. Accordingly, it was determined to totally abandon her; and this was put in execution the following day by clearing her hold of all the contents, and saving whatever was valuable of her material.
I went on shore to examine what remained of the schooner, and also to look after my expedition boat. I found my boat totally wrecked, nothing remaining but the stern-post fast to a three-inch cable. It appeared that during a part of the gale she had been driven high up on the rocks, and though the Georgiana's crew endeavoured to save her by additional 
WRECK OF THE RESCUE AND EXPEDITION BOAT.
I need not say how much I grieved at the loss of my boat. To me it was irreparable and for a time I was nearly overcome by the blow; but I reasoned that all things were for the best in the hands of a good Providence, and I therefore bent submissively to His will.
The natives who had been on board of the Georgiana were on the island when I landed. They had found the sail of my boat, and turned it to account as a shelter, and now were as happy and merry as though nothing unusual had occurred.
The Rescue, when I examined her, was high and dry on the rocks, with her bottom stove in. I mounted her side (her decks were inclining to the shore at an angle of 45°); I entered her cabin, and looked into her hold, and again descended outside, going under and around her. Then as I gazed at her battered hull, grieving at the end she had come to, what a number of interesting associations crowded upon my mind. She had been of the "United States' Grinnell Expedition" in search of Sir John Franklin in 1850–1, being the consort of the Advance, in which latter vessel Dr. Kane afterward made that memorable voyage (the second Grinnell Expedition) in search of Franklin in 1853–5. The Rescue's quondam consort, after having given forth freely of its planks and timbers for the preservation and warmth of Dr. Kane and his party, was finally given up to the ices of the North which unrelentingly grasped it. The Advance was abandoned Sunday, May 20th, 1855, in Rensselaer Harbour, lat. 78° 37′ N. and long. 70° 40′ W. Five years, four months, and seven days after this occurred the total wreck of the Rescue, in a harbour named after her, situated in lat. 62° 52′ N. and long. 64° 44′ W. nearly due south of her former consort.
After well examining the Rescue, I went to the wreck of Koojesse's whale-boat, lying on the windward side of the island. This boat had been fast to the schooner's stern, and, of course, went on the rocks at the same time. She had originally belonged to Kudlago, having been given to him in 1858. When Kudlago left for the States in 1859, he gave the boat to Koojesse to use until his return.[1]
I may add here, that an oomien (woman's or family boat) belonging to the natives went adrift during the storm and became a total wreck. A boat of this kind is of great value to the Esquimaux, and, when lost, is to them something akin to the loss of a first-class ship to us at home.
I must now say a few words concerning myself. Even in the midst of the howling tempest, when our own safety on board the George Henry was a matter of doubt, my thoughts kept turning to what I should do, now that my expedition boat was lost. But it did not take me long to consider. I was determined that, God willing, nothing should daunt me; I would persevere if there was the smallest chance to proceed. If one plan failed—if one disaster came, then another plan should be tried, and the disaster remedied to the best of my power. Thus, without delay, and while yet the hurricane blasts made the ship tremble beneath us, as the captain and I stood on her deck, I asked him if one of the ship's boats could be spared me to prosecute my voyage to King William's Land, now that my own little craft was wrecked. His reply, after some consideration, was favourable; but, when the time approached for my departure, it was found the one that alone could be spared to me was frail, rotten, and not seaworthy.
On the 1st of October the Georgiana, having made good her defects so far as she could, left the harbour under all sail, for Northumberland Inlet to winter. By her I forwarded letters to friends at home, should she meet, as was expected, with whalers returning to England.
- ↑ Before I close this account of the Rescue's wreck and the loss of my expedition boat, with the escape of the George Henry, it may be interesting to mention that this latter vessel did not live through another voyage after her return to the States in 1862. She was wrecked on the 16th day of July, 1863, on one of the lower Savage Islands in Hudson's Strait, about 100 miles farther south than Rescue Harbour. The particulars will be found in the Appendix (6).