# Life with the Esquimaux/Volume 1/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
The first day or two after our departure, I had a repetition of my old complaint, sea-sickness. Here the dogs managed better than I. They could walk the deck; I was unable. Perhaps four props to my two considerably helped them. But the first night out we had a terrible shaking. Davis's Strait was more like the broad ocean, and certainly as boisterous. If this Strait and Baffin's Bay were, as I suggest, called "Davis and Baffin's Sea," then could its billows roll high as the heavens, deep as the lowest depths, without our once thinking of their assuming to be what they are not.
At about midnight I had bid farewell to Greenland, and—to my supper! Talk of "perpetual motion!" Why has the world been so long in seeking out so simple a problem? Ask me—I used to say—ask poor sea-sick me if I believe in perpetual motion. A ship at sea is perpetually jumping up and down, which motion would run a saw-mill—is perpetually rolling, and this would serve to turn a grindstone—and is perpetually creaking, see-sawing, pitching forward, and swinging backward.
During the night, "things in general" got capsized. I would not like to swear that the George Henry turned a "summerset," but, on my honour, I can say that when I retired to my berth, an India-rubber cup, lashed firmly on my writing-table, and holding a beautiful Greenland bouquet in water, was the next morning emptied of its contents, and every flower and drop of water scattered far and near, though ​the cup remained in its position! Three half-reams of paper, that had been placed securely over my bunk, and had there rested quietly all the previous part of the voyage from New London, were found scattered over an area of say seventy-five feet. One heterogeneous mass presented itself to all eyes in the morning. Medicine-chest and contents—guns and ammunition—my arctic library and the library of the George Henry—geological and ornithological, cetaceous and floral specimens—sailors' chests—magnetic and astronomical instruments—pens, ink, and paper, charts and maps, &c. besides two human beings—the captain and myself—wrapped in deep slumber by their side. But soon out of all this chaotic mass we produced harmony again. Things got into their places; and I, by degrees, mastered my sickness, and was the man once more.
On July 27th we had a heavy snow-storm, and soon afterward the land on the west side of Davis's Straits was seen, the mountains covered with snow; but, owing to frequent fogs (sometimes it seemed to rain fog) and unsettled weather, we could not near the George Henry's destination, which was now changed to a place more south of Northumberland Inlet. We came across but little ice, except bergs, and frequently expressed much surprise at it. The icebergs, however, were numerous, and many of them deeply interesting—one especially so, from its vast height and odd shape. I say "odd," though that applies in all bergs, for no two are alike, nor does any one seem long to retain its same appearance and position. The following is a sketch of one I called the Belted Iceberg; but ice movements are as mysterious almost as the magnetic pole. The captain told me that he had known two vessels to be beset near each other in the ice, and in a few days, though the same ice was around each vessel, yet they would be many miles apart! Bergs have been known to approach and recede from each other in as beautiful and stately a manner as the partners in the old-fashioned, courtly dances of years gone by.
Of the various bergs I particularly noticed, a few ​descriptive words may here be said. The first view of one that attracted my attention looked as if an old castle was before me. The ruins of a lofty dome about to fall, and a portion of an arched roof already tumbling down, were conspicuous.
BELTED ICEBERG.
Then, in a short time, this changed to a picture of an elephant with two large circular towers on his back, and Corinthian spires springing out boldly from the broken mountains of alabaster on which he had placed his feet. The third view, when at a greater distance, made it like a light-house on the top of piled-up rocks, white as the driven snow. It took no great stretch of fancy to finish the similitude when the sun to-day, for nearly the first time during a week, burst forth in all its splendour, bathing with its flood of golden fire this towering iceberg light-house!
Another berg I could not help calling the Gothic iceberg. The side facing me had a row of complete arches of the true Gothic order, and running its whole length were mouldings, ​smooth projections of solid ice, rivalling in the beauty of all their parts anything I ever saw. The architecture, frieze, and cornice of each column supporting the arches above were as chaste and accurately represented as the most imaginative
GOTHIC ICEBERG.
genius could conceive. Here and there I saw matchless perfection displayed in the curvature of lines about some of its ornamental parts. Springing out from a rude recess, away up in its vast height, I saw a delicate scroll, which was quite in keeping with Hogarth's "Line of Beauty."
As I was gazing upon one of the many bergs we passed, it overturned, and burst into a thousand fragments!
Relative to the formation of these icebergs, Sterry—upon whose authority alone I mention it, and who is entitled to his own theory upon the subject—told me that, at a place between two mountains in Northumberland Sound, he once counted something like a hundred strata of ice that had been deposited, one layer each year. They were of various thicknesses, each course marked by a deposit of sediment like dirt. He did not complete counting the number of layers, as the height would not admit of his doing so.
On our way across Davis's Strait, not far from Cape Mercy, we passed the spot where, in 1856, the British discovery-ship ​Resolute had been found by the very vessel I was now on, the George Henry.
I have just been describing the beauty of icebergs as seen on our way across; let me now attempt to picture some of those gorgeous sunsets and phenomena of Nature we witnessed. I extract from my diary at the time:—
"July 28th.—This evening the whole horizon has presented a most beautiful sight. A zone of rich mellow purple, with matchless tints darting upward to the height of some thirty degrees, met the eye. Then all at once, as the sun disappeared, the purple was replaced by a deep blue. As to the 'tints' of which I write, I am at a loss to describe them. Take a thousand rainbows—stretch them around the horizon—intermix them—entwine them—spin and twist them together, and you have the appearance of those tints crowning that zone, first of purple, then of blue.
"July 31st.—Strange sights to-night. Looking through my marine glass to the north-east, when the sun was about three degrees above the horizon, I was astonished at the view before me. Mountains, islands, icebergs, and the sea were in one vast confusion. From the sun northerly to the south-east, wherever I turned my glass, confusion worse than things confounded met my sight. A little reflection, however, brought me to a realization of the fact. The extraordinary appearance of every thing at and beyond the horizon was from 'refraction,' so called.
"We speak of this and that 'looming up' at home, but little did I think what it signified until this night. Mountains far distant—mountains whose true position was considerably below the horizon—were now considerably above it, and icebergs dangling from their tops! This refraction? It was Nature turned inside out! Nature turned topsy-turvy!! Nature on a Spree!!! Yes, Nature on a spree!
"As I went forward I was met by many of the crew (those now on their first voyage to these regions), who called my attention to some icebergs ahead that looked just like 'Bunker's Hill Monument,' only much higher. A few ​moments before, I had noticed these bergs as mere pigmies. Now the pigmies had become giants! 'Nature on a spree' had given to mere snowballs on the horizon all the beauty and symmetry of 'Bunker's Hill Monument,' running high up, in alabaster columns, to prop the azure sky!
"Soon the moon came rolling up; and what a phase or face it showed, with its woefully distorted countenance! I took my Nautical Almanac for the year (1860), and there found, 'August 1st,' the sign for Full Moon! The large round circle stared me in the face. There could be no mistake. A moon 'as big and round as a cart-wheel'—as we boys used
DISTORTED MOON.
to say—should be the aspect of fair Luna in the heavens this night. But here was the rising moon 'up to time,' yet where was the full moon? The moon as it ought to be was a moon somewhere else, not here; for, as it ascended above the horizon, its lower limb was like a crushed hat, then as a drunkard's face—fiery red, and swollen out to its utmost limit of expansion! Sketching as it then appeared, the preceding may give the idea, so unnatural was the goddess as she arose from her ocean bed to-night. But this, however, did not last long. A few moments sufficed to carry her upward in her regal course beyond the influence of 'Nature on a spree,' and a short time afterward, as I looked again, I found
"'How calmly gliding through the dark blue sky, The midnight moon descends.'
​"August 6th.—Going on deck this morning, found Nature again on a spree. I have been observing its working for two hours. I will record some of its phenomena.
"When I first observed the unnatural appearance of the bergs, sea, and islands toward the southwest, the morning sun was ten degrees high, and shining brightly. The barometer then stood 29·35 inches, the thermometer 41°, wind blowing moderately from south-west. Looking to windward, I saw the top of a distant berg; then all at once a snow-white spot, not larger than a pin's head, appeared in the clouds hanging directly over the berg. In few seconds it enlarged to the size of an Egyptian pyramid inverted. At every roll of the vessel this resplendently white pyramid seemed to descend and kiss the sea, and then as often ascended again to its celestial throne.
"Dioptrics, the science of refracted light, may satisfactorily account for all this, but I very much doubt it. Some land that was seventy-five miles distant, and the top of it only barely seen in an ordinary way, had its rocky base brought full in view. The whole length of this land in sight was the very symbol of distortion. Pendent from an even line that stretches along the heavens was a ridge of mountains. 'Life hangs upon a little thread,' but what think you of mountains hanging upon a thread? In my fancy I said, If Fate had decreed one of the sisters to cut that thread while I witnessed the singular spectacle, what convulsions upon the land and the sea about us might not have followed? But Nature had an admirable way of taking down these rock giants hanging between the heavens and the earth. Arch after arch was at length made in wondrous grandeur from that rugged and distorted atmospheric land; and if ever man's eye rested upon the sublime, in an act of God's creative power, it was when He arcuated the heavens with such a line of stupendous mountains! Between these several mountain arches in the sky were hung icebergs, also inverted, moving silently and majestically about as the sea-currents drifted those along of which they were the images. In addition to all this there was ​a wall of water, so it appeared, far beyond the usual horizon. This wall seemed alive with merry dancers of the most fantastic figures that the imagination could conceive, and its perpendicular columns were ever playfully changing. Oh, how exquisitely beautiful was this God-made living wall! A thousand youthful forms of the fairest outline seemed to be dancing to and fro, their white arms intertwined—bodies incessantly varying, intermixing, falling, rising, jumping, skipping, hopping, whirling, waltzing, resting, and again rushing to the mazy dance—never tired—ever playful—ever light and airy, graceful and soft to the eye. Who could view such wondrous scenes of divine enchantment and not exclaim, 'O Lord, how manifold are Thy works! In wisdom hast Thou made them all; the earth is full of Thy riches!'
"August 8th.—The sunrise this morning was fine. Long before the sun came to the horizon the clouds were all a-glow! They were in long, narrow belts, one overtopping another, the lower edges of all visible and pendent, reflecting the crimson of the sun's rays. To attempt to paint the beauty, the glory of this scene, either by my pen or by the pencil of any mortal artist, seemed to me like a sacrilege. God often shows to the world His power and goodness, but seldom does He beautify earth for man to completely feel it is heaven before him!"
Our progress towards the harbour we wished to reach was very slow. At length, on July 30th, we were within three miles of "Sanderson's Tower," on the west side of entrance to Northumberland Inlet; but as it was late, and the wind unfavourable, we had to go seaward for the night. The following day head winds and calms still retarded us, and we were now also anxious for our consort, the Rescue, she having parted from us a short time previously. The place we wanted to reach was called by the Esquimaux Ookoolear, now named by me Cornelius Grinnell Bay, the anchorage being in about latitude 63° 20′ N. For several days we had been struggling against strong breezes, and on the 2d of August we had only ​about six miles more of southing to make; but a very thick fog again came on, and once more we had to stand off to sea.
On the 4th we were not far from Ookoolear, and occasionally hopes arose that we might reach an anchorage before night. But it was not so. A dozen times was the ship headed for our harbour, and as often were we baffled by the fog. Sometimes it would disperse, leaving the heavens bright and warm; then would our gallant barque be swiftly plowing the deep towards the wished-for haven. Suddenly the fog again descended, enveloping us in the gloom of night, so that we could not see a quarter of a mile in any direction, and then once more would the vessel's course have to be arrested. So it continued all day, and toward evening the annoyance was increased by a heavy gale. Of course there was no alternative but to run off the land to sea, and accordingly it was done.
The next day, when the weather moderated, we made sail back toward our harbour, and at 8 p.m. we were near the same position as on the 4th, still more than thirty miles distant from where we had to go. Fogs then encircled us, and thus we were till the following day, when more clear weather appearing, Ookoolear was seen, and ahead of us were observed "Sterry's Tower," "Rogers's Island," and " Sarah's Island."
As we were standing in to the land, the Rescue, under good sail, was discovered away near the mountains.
At this time a circumstance occurred that startled myself and all on board beyond measure. I will relate it from my journal as I find it recorded at the time.
"Tuesday, August 7th.—After dinner I had gone and perched myself up in one of the whale-boats hanging over the ship's side, for the purpose of viewing the mountain scenery as we passed along, and also sketching. I had my marine glass with me, and during an interval when the fog—which now and again settled upon us—disappeared, I swept the horizon all round. As I looked easterly, my eye caught a strange black sail. Directing the captain and mate's attention to it, they examined, but could not make out what it was. At length ​we decided that it was a whale-boat with dark-coloured sails, and approaching us. Nearer and nearer it came, though yet far off; for when I had first seen it, refraction had made the small sails loom up higher even than those of a 300-ton vessel. By this time every one on board was anxiously looking to the strange boat, wondering what it was, coming from a direction seaward. After watching it more than an hour, we noticed that the sail was taken down, and soon afterward we lost sight of the boat entirely. In vain our glasses were pointed in the direction she was last seen. Nothing could be observed of her, and many began to think we had been deceived by refraction; but at length the captain exclaimed, 'I can now see the boat, though a mere speck. I should not wonder if it is one of my own left here on the last voyage, and manned by Esquimaux.' I looked long and attentively. At last I saw the flash of oars following each stroke, as the dazzling rays of a western sun fell upon the uplifted blades. I could see nothing else but these oars, and to me it seemed as if the rowers were pulling quickly—desperately. The excitement now became great among us, especially as the distance decreased between the boat and the ship. Captain B—— thought it was an Esquimaux crew, and Mr. Rogers said the men were white.
"As they neared, it struck me that the rowers—now to be seen more clearly—might be some shipwrecked mariners pulling for dear life; and to ascertain this, the ship was deadened in her way. In a few moments more the strange boat was near enough to make her crew out for white men, nine in number; and directly they got alongside, a question was put by Captain B—— as to who they were. The steersman promptly answered, 'Crew from the Ansell Gibbs, of New Bedford.' In reply to another question, he said, 'We are from the north, and bound to the south.' This was enough to satisfy us that they were runaways.
"In a few minutes a variety of questions was put as to the number of ships, the whaling, &c. in Northumberland Inlet, where we conjectured the Ansell Gibbs to be; and then the ​inquiry was made of them, 'You are runaways, are you not?' The response immediately was, 'Yes, we are!' They then told us that they had left Kingaite, in Northumberland Sound, on Saturday, August 2d, at 11 p.m. and had thus run the distance, 250 miles to where we met them, in less than three days. The reason they gave for deserting their ship was because of 'bad treatment on board,' and 'not having enough to eat.' They explained about this, and added much more, which may or may not be true. At all events, they made up their minds to start for the United States on the first chance, and this they did by taking a whale-boat, two tubs of whale-line, three harpoons and as many lances, a 'conjuror'—that is, a portable cooking apparatus—two guns and ammunition, a small quantity of provisions, a few blankets, and other trifling things; and this to go a voyage over a tempestuous sea, part of it often full of ice, and along an iron-bound coast, for a distance of say 1,500 miles! However, there they were so far. One instrument—a compass—only for navigation; no sextant or quadrant; no one in the boat capable of taking observations had they possessed instruments; and without food enough to carry them on. The chief of this rash crew was John Giles, 'a boat-steerer,' which means, in whaling parlance, one who has charge of the boat and crew when out whaling. Only two of the company had ever been to sea before, and those two had been on whaling voyages to 'Desolation' Island in the South Seas. They were all young men—Americans belonging to various places in the Eastern States.
"When Captain B—— had asked several questions, the chief of these unfortunate men modestly supplicated for some food, as they were all very hungry. This was immediately responded to by the captain saying 'Come and eat;' but at first they hesitated, fearing they might be arrested. But hunger prevailed, and, making secure their boat, they entered the ship, and fell to upon the salt junk and biscuit like hungry wolves. Never before did I see men eat with such avidity and relish. To them it was a feast, having had only ​half a biscuit each and one small duck among the whole number during the past day.
"I found that nothing would alter their purpose as to proceeding on their desperate voyage. They meant to strike for York Factory in Hudson's Bay; but on my showing them a chart and the course to Resolution Island, thence across Hudson's Strait to Labrador, this latter course was decided upon, with the hope that fishermen might pick them up.
"The captain kindly gave them some beef and pork, powder and shot, and a chart. To this I also added some ammunition and caps.
"They remained with us about two hours, and then, after deciding to go on, instead of landing for the night (perhaps
MY LAST SIGHT OF THE RUNAWAYS.
they were still fearful of being captured), they got into their boat, and, with many thanks to us, started on their perilous voyage. I watched them long as they passed away from us bending ​to their oars. It was 9 p.m. when they departed. The moon was shining brightly in the east—the alabaster mountains of ice were scattered about upon the darkening waters—the craggy rocks sharply cut their black profiles against the distant sky, and the winds were gently but coldly blowing in sad harmony with the occasion. As they vanished from my view I said to myself, 'Will the civilized world ever see these desperate men again? It is next to a miracle if so. And yet what lesson do they teach me? If these nine men can undertake such a voyage, and under such wretched circumstances, with so little preparation, why should not I, having far better means, be able to accomplish mine?' 'For themselves,' I added, 'God be with them! I know not how just or unjust their cause may be, but I do know that human life is now at stake, and my sympathy goes with them.'"
Before I pass from this strange occurrence, it will be better to give the sequel of their history, so far as yet known, through three of the wretched crew who reached Indian Harbour, Labrador. The following particulars I gleaned at St. John's, Newfoundland, on my way home in the fall of 1862.
It seems that a Captain Nathan Norman, who does business in Labrador, and is also a magistrate, encountered the survivors of this boat's crew, and, hearing their tale, demanded from them a statement in writing; whereupon one of them, Sullivan by name, drew up an account, the original of which is in my possession. It was given to me by Robert Winton, Esq. editor and proprietor of the St. John's Daily News, through C. O. Leach, Esq., United States consul at that place. The following is a verbatim copy of Sullivan's written statement, made in the fall of 1861:—
"My name is John F. Sullivan. I left my home in South Hadley Falls, Mass. about the 1st of March, 1860, for Boston. I remained in Boston until the 20th of the same month. I applied at different offices for a chance to ship; being a stranger in the place, and a green hand, I found it very difficult to get a berth to suit me. At last I got a little discouraged, and that day signed my name at No. 172, Commercial Street, Boston, and left for New Bedford, Mass. Next morning I shipped to go aboard of the ship Daniel Webster, then laying at New Bedford, but to sail the same day on a whaling cruise to Davis's Straits, to be gone 18 months.
​"I left New Bedford in the Daniel Webster on the 21st March, 1860. There were forty of us in the crew, all told. We had very rough weather for many days after leaving, which caused many of us to be sea-sick; I suffered from it about three weeks; after that time I began to recruit. There was nothing happened of any consequence worth mentioning until we passed Cape Farewell, about the last of May. After that we had quite a hard time, working the ship through the ice; occasionally, however, we made out to get her through, and came to anchor, July 6, 1860.
"We spoke many vessels going in. I will name some of them: the Hannibal, of New London; the Black Eagle and Antelope of New Bedford; the Ansell Gibbs of Fairhaven; the Pioneer, of New London. These vessels were anchored very close to one another in the harbour; the crews were at liberty sometimes to pay visits to each other; each one would tell how he was treated, several complained of very bad treatment, especially the crew of the Ansell Gibbs; they were planning some way of running away for a long time, but they found no opportunity till the 4th of August.
"My shipmate, whose name was Warren Dutton, was aboard that day, and heard a little of the conversation, and he joined in with them, and said he would go, and perhaps one or two more of his crew. He immediately came aboard and informed me; and he pictured everything out so nice, that I finally consented to go with him. We had no great reason for leaving our vessel; we could not complain of very bad treatment aboard; all we could complain of was that we were very badly fitted out for such a cold climate; and, after we arrived there, hearing of so many men that died there the last winter of scurvy, we were afraid to remain there, for fear that we might get it. We thought by running away, also, we would be all right; but we were sadly mistaken.
"After it was agreed upon to leave, each one was busy making preparations for a start. I, with my shipmate, packed what few things we thought would be necessary into a travelling-bag which belonged to me; we then crept into the hold, and filled a small bag and a pair of drawers with hard bread, and waited for an opportunity to hide it on deck, unknown to the watch. After we succeeded in that, we made a signal to the other crew that we were ready. It being boats' crew watches aboard the Ansell Gibbs, they every one of them left; they found no difficulty in lowering away the boat, which after they did so they lowered themselves easily into her, and soon paddled under our bows; we then dropped our traps into her, and, taking with us two guns and a little ammunition, got into her, and soon pulled around a small point out of sight of the vessels. The names of the crew that left the Ansell Gibbs are as follows: John Giles, boat-steerer; John Martin, Hiram J. Davis, Williard Hawkins, Thomas Colwell, Joseph Fisher, and Samuel J. Fisher.
"A 11 o'clock at night, on the 4th of August, we left the vessels in Cumberland Straits, latitude 65° 59′, about five miles from Penny's Harbour. Although it being a little foggy, with a fair wind we stood across the Straits. When about half way across we dumped overboard a tub of towline to lighten the boat some. We had nothing but a small boat-compass to guide us; we had no opportunity of getting a chart before we left, and not much of anything else.
"We made the other side of the Straits by morning; then, by taking the ​spy-glass, we thought we could perceive a sail in chase of us, but we soon lost sight of her. The other crew were depending mostly on us for bread, as my shipmate informed them we had a better chance to get it out of the hold; their bread lay close to the cabin; so, what bread they had, with ours, would not exceed more than twenty pounds. We all saw that the bread would not last long, so each one desired to be put on allowance of one biscuit a day to each man. We hoped, by the time that was gone, to reach some place where we would find help. We made a very good run the first three days, sleeping at night in the boat; on the fourth day out we fell in with the barque George Henry, Captain Budington, of New London. He asked us aboard; the boat-steerer acted as spokesman. The captain told us we were very foolish to leave the vessels to undertake so long a trip. I believe he would have taken us all if we wished to stay; but as we had left a whaler, we did not like to go on board another, as he was also going to remain there through the winter; so we were determined to push along, as we had been foolish enough to start in the first place. However, before we left, he gave us a small bag of bread, a piece of salt pork, and some ammunition; also a chart. We then bade him good-by, and set off again. That night we made a 'lee,' found some moss, and made a fire; before we ran in we shot a small duck, which made a good stew for all hands. Two days after this we shot a white bear; he was in the water when we shot him, and there being a heavy sea on at the time, we could get no more than his hind quarters in; them we skinned—the rest we could not save. That night we managed between us to cook it, as we were divided into watches, two in each watch; by doing so, we could watch the boat and keep her with the tide. We kept on in this way, always tracking the shore, and at night going ashore to lay on the rocks, with our boat's sail over us for shelter.
"We had very rough weather in crossing the Straits. We were on Resolution Island four days, waiting for a fair wind; we got it at last, but so strong that it came very near swamping our little boat many times through the night. It kept two of us bailing water out all the time, and we were glad to reach the land, after being in the boat thirty hours, wet to the skin. What bear's meat and bread we had was most gone by this time; there was nothing left but a few crumbs in the bottom of the bag. There was nine parts made of the crumbs; then they were caked off, each man taking his share.
"On the 16th of August we made Cape Chidleigh; on the 20th we divided the last crumbs; after that we picked up what we could find to eat. We found a few berries and mushrooms; we suffered very much from the cold, very seldom having a dry rag upon us.
"We continued on in this condition until the 3d of September, when, to add to our misfortune, Williard Hawkins and Hiram J. Davis (who we called 'the doctor') ran away from us that night, and took with them every thing that was of any use to us; they even took the boat's compass, and left us in a miserable condition, with our boat broadside on the beach. It being their watch, they made out to get off. We thought it was useless to make chase after them, so we let them go. It then commenced to rain, and there was a heavy sea rolling in, and, weak as we were, we found some difficulty in shoving the boat off. However, after a hard tug, we succeeded, and then pulled out some ways; we then up sail; it was not up long before it blew so strong that ​it carried away the mast. We then ran in under a jib, and made a lee. About half an hour after we landed my shipmate died of starvation. The evening he died, Samuel Fisher proposed to eat him; he took his knife, and cut a piece off the thigh, and held it over the fire until it was cooked. Then, next morning, each one followed his example; after that the meat was taken off the bones, and each man took a share. We stopped here three days. We then made a start; but the wind being ahead, we were obliged to put back. Here we stopped two more days. During that time the bones were broken up small, and boiled in a pot or kettle we had; also the skull was broken open, the brains taken out, and cooked. We then got a fair wind, but as we got around a point, we had the wind very fresh off shore; we could hardly manage the boat; at last we drove on to an island some ways out to sea; we got the boat under the lee of it; but the same night we had a large hole stove into her. Being unable to haul her up, we were obliged to remain here eight days: it was on this island they tried to murder me.
"The third day we stopped here, I was out as usual picking berries, or any thing I could find to eat. Coming in, I chanced to pick up a mushroom. I brought it in with me; also an armful of wood to keep. While kneeling down to cook the mushroom, I received a heavy blow of a club from Joseph Fisher, and before I could get to my feet I got three more blows. I then managed to get to my feet, when Samuel Fisher got hold of my right arm; then Joseph Fisher struck me three more blows on the arm. I somehow got away from them, and, being half crazy, I did not know what to do. They made for me again; I kept begging of them, for God's sake, to spare my life, but they would not listen to my cries. They said they wanted some meat, and were bound to kill me. I had nothing I could defend myself with but a small knife; this I held in my hand until they approached me. Samuel Fisher was the first to come toward me; he had a large dirk-knife in his hand; his cousin was coming from another direction with a club and a stone. Samuel came on and grasped me by the shoulder, and had his knife raised to stab me. I then raised my knife, and stabbed him in the throat; he immediately fell, and I then made a step for Joe; he dropped his club, and went up to where the rest was. I then stooped down to see if Samuel was dead; he was still alive. I did not know what to do. At this time I began to cry; after a little while the rest told me to come up; they would see there was nothing more done to me. I received four deep cuts on the head; one of the fellows dressed them for me, and washed the blood off my face. Next day Samuel Fisher died; his cousin was the first one to cut him up; his body was used up the same as my unfortunate shipmate's.
"After a while we managed to repair the boat, and left this island. We ran in where we thought was main land, but it proved to be an island; here we left the boat, and proceeded on foot, walking about one mile a day. At last we reached the other side of the island in four days; then put back again to the boat. It took us four days to get back again. When we got there, we found the boat was stove very bad since we left her. We tried to get around the island in her, but she sunk when we got into her; we then left her, and went back again to the other side of the island, to remain there until we would die or be picked up. We ate our boots, belts, and sheaths, and a number of bear-skin and seal-skin articles we had with us. To add to our misery, it ​commenced to rain, and kept up for three days; it then began to snow. In this miserable condition we were picked up by a boat's crew of Esquimaux on the 29th of September, and brought to Okoke on the 3d of October. The missionaries did all that lay in their power to help us along, and provided us with food and clothing, then sent us on to Nain, where we met 'the doctor,' who was picked up three days before we were. He reported that his companion died, and told many false stories after he was picked up.
"The missionaries of Nain helped us on to Hopedale; from there we were sent on to Kibokok, where two of us remained through the winter. One stopped with a planter, named John Lane, between Nain and Hopedale; the doctor stopped with John Walker until March, when he left for Indian Harbour; the remaining two, Joseph Fisher and Thomas Colwell, also stopped with planters around Indian Harbour. Mr. Bell, the agent at Kibokok, kept two of us until we could find an opportunity of leaving the coast. We left his place about the 10th of July, and came to Macovie, waiting a chance to get off.
"Captain Duntan has been kind enough to give me a passage; my companion was taken by Captain Hamilton, of the Wild Rover. We have had a very pleasant passage so far, and I hope it will continue so.
"Sir, I hope you may make it out; it is very poor writing, and was written in haste. John F. Sullivan."
In addition to the above, Mr. Leach kindly furnished me with the following information in a letter dated Feb. 25th, 1863:—
"Mr. Kenneth M'Lea, jun., merchant of Newfoundland, informs me that he has had letters from the missionary settlements on the coast of Labrador, in which they say these men conducted themselves 'shamefully.' Instead of feeling grateful for the hospitality they received, they demanded to be supported with the privilege of doing as they pleased. I understand one of them still remained at Labrador. No doubt the rest have shipped under assumed names, feeling ashamed to return to their native country."
Soon after the boat, with its desperate crew, had left us, we were passing one of the channels leading to the long-sought bay. This bay is a very fine sheet of water, and is protected by "Sarah's" Island at the entrance. Its length is about fifty miles, and its width six miles. On entering it by the south channel we were becalmed, and the boats were set to work towing us in; but, though we were up all night, next morning saw us still at some ten miles distance from our harbour. At this time a perfect flotilla of boats were ​discovered approaching us. They were six whaleboats, fully manned, five belonging to a ship called the Black Eagle, Captain Allen, and one to the Rescue. As soon as they arrived, quietly greeting us, they wheeled in line ahead of our own boats, and aided in towing us in. An interesting scene it was before and around us: eight boats in line, pulling the ship onward, with brawny arms at the oars, and merry voices pouring forth the sailor's songs as measured and uniform strokes gave even time to the movement; the still waters of the deep bay, the perpendicular rocks by our side, and the craggy mountains overhanging our heads, their peaks reaching up as if to kiss the clouds!
At noon, August 8th, 1860, we reached our anchorage, and at length were secure in the harbour we had so long been seeking. The Rescue had anchored before us.
ICEBERG AND KI-A.