For The Whole Of That Night Did We Continue Beating Up
Along The Edge Of The Ice, In The Teeth
Of a whole gale
of wind; at last, about nine o'clock in the morning, - but
two short hours before the
Moment at which it had been
agreed we should bear up, and abandon the attempt, - we
came up with a long low point of ice, that had stretched
further to the Westward than any we had yet doubled; and
there, beyond, lay an open sea! - open not only to the
Northward and Westward, but also to the Eastward! You
can imagine my excitement." Turn the hands up, Mr. Wyse!"
"'Bout ship!" "Down with the helm!" "Helm a-lee!" Up
comes the schooner's head to the wind, the sails flapping
with the noise of thunder - blocks rattling against the
deck, as if they wanted to knock their brains out - ropes
dancing about in galvanised coils, like mad serpents - and
everything to an inexperienced eye in inextricable
confusion; till gradually she pays off on the other
tack - the sails stiffen into deal-boards - the staysail
sheet is let go - and heeling over on the opposite side.
Again she darts forward over the sea like an arrow from
the bow. "Stand by to make sail!" "Out all reefs!" I
could have carried sail to sink a man-of-war! - and away
the little ship went, playing leapfrog over the heavy
seas, and staggering under her canvas, as if giddy with
the same joyful excitement which made my own heart thump
so loudly.
In another hour the sun came out, the fog cleared away,
and about noon - up again, above the horizon, grow the
pale lilac peaks, warming into a rosier tint as we
approach. Ice still stretches toward the land on the
starboard side; but we don't care for it now - the schooner's
head is pointing E. and by S. At one o'clock we sight
Amsterdam Island, about thirty miles on the port bow;
then came the "seven ice-hills" - as seven enormous glaciers
are called - that roll into the sea between lofty ridges
of gneiss and mica slate, a little to the northward of
Prince Charles's Foreland. Clearer and more defined grows
the outline of the mountains, some coming forward while
others recede; their rosy tints appear less even, fading
here and there into pale yellows and greys; veins of
shadow score the steep sides of the hills; the articulations
of the rocks become visible; and now, at last, we glide
under the limestone peaks of Mitre Cape, past the marble
arches of King's Bay on the one side, and the pinnacle
of the Vogel Hook on the other, into the quiet channel
that separates the Foreland from the main.
[Figure: fig-p170.gif]
It was at one o'clock in the morning of the 6th of August,
1856, that after having been eleven days at sea, we came
to an anchor in the silent haven of English Bay,
Spitzbergen.
And now, how shall I give you an idea of the wonderful
panorama in the midst of which we found ourselves?
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