# The Voyages and Adventures of Captain Hatteras/Chapter XXII

THE ENGLISH AT THE NORTH POLE Chapter XXII. THE FIRST SIGNS OF MUTINY.
At this unexpected command, the surprise on board of the Forward was very great.
“Light the fires!” said some.
“With what?” said others.
“When we have only two months' supply in the hold!” cried Pen.
“And how are we to keep warm in the winter?” asked Clifton.
“We shall have to burn the ship down to the water-line, I suppose,” said Gripper.
“And cram all the masts into the stove,” answered Warren, “from the foretopmast to the jib-boom.”
Shandon gazed intently at Wall. The surprised engineers hesitated to go down into the engine-room.
“Did you hear what I said?” shouted the captain, angrily.
Brunton walked toward the hatchway; but he stopped before going down.
“Don't go, Brunton,” some one said.
“Who spoke then?” shouted Hatteras.
“I did,” said Pen, approaching the captain.
“And what is it you're saying?” asked the captain.
“I say—I say,” answered Pen with many oaths,—“I say that we have had enough of this, that we are not going any farther, that we don't want to wear ourselves out with fatigue and cold during the winter, and that the fires shall not be lighted.”
“Mr. Shandon,” answered Hatteras, coldly, “have this man put in irons.”
“But, Captain,” said Shandon, “what this man said—”
“If you repeat what this man said,” retorted Hatteras, “I shall order you to your cabin and confine you there. Seize that man! Do you hear?”
Johnson, Bell, and Simpson stepped towards the sailor, who was beside himself with wrath.
“The first man who lays a finger on me—” he cried, seizing a handspike, which he flourished about his head.
Hatteras walked towards him.
“Pen,” he said very quietly, “if you move hand or foot, I shall blow your brains out!”
With these words he drew a revolver and aimed it at the sailor.
A murmur arose from the crew.
“Not a word from any of you,” said Hatteras, “or he's a dead man.”
At that moment Johnson and Bell disarmed Pen, who no longer resisted, and suffered himself to be led to the bottom of the hold.
“Now go below, Brunton,” said Hatteras.
The engineer, followed by Plover and Warren, went below. Hatteras returned to the quarter-deck.
“That Pen is a worthless fellow,” the doctor said to him.
“No man was ever nearer death,” answered the captain, simply.
Soon there was enough steam on; the anchors of the Forward were raised; and the brig started eastward, heading for Point Beecher, and cutting through the newly formed ice.
A great number of islands lie between Baring Island and Point Beecher, scattered in the midst of the ice-fields; the ice-streams crowd in great numbers in the little straits into which they divide the sea; when the weather is cold they have a tendency to accumulate; here and there hummocks were forming, and it was easy to see that the floes, already harder and more crowded, would, under the influence of the first frosts, soon form an impenetrable mass.
It was with great difficulty that the Forward made her way through the whirling snow. Still, with the variability which is a peculiarity of these regions, the sun would appear from time to time; the air grew much milder; the ice melted as if by enchantment, and a clear expanse of water, a most welcome sight to the eyes of the crew, spread out before them where a few moments before the ice had blocked their progress. All over the horizon there spread magnificent orange tints, which rested their eyes, weary with gazing at the eternal snow.
Thursday, July 26th, the Forward coasted along Dundas Island, and then stood more northward; but there she found herself face to face with a thick mass of ice, eight or nine feet high, consisting of little icebergs washed away from the shore; they had to prolong the curve they were making to the west. The continual cracking of the ice, joining with the creaking of the rolling ship, sounded like a gloomy lamentation. At last the brig found a passage and advanced through it slowly; often a huge floe delayed her for hours; the fog embarrassed the steersman; at one moment he could see a mile ahead, and it was easy to avoid all obstacles; but again the snow-squalls would hide everything from their sight at the distance of a cable's length. The sea ran very high.
Sometimes the smooth clouds assumed a strange appearance, as if they were reflecting the ice-banks; there were days when the sun could not pierce the dense mist.
The birds were still very numerous, and their cries were deafening; the seals, lying lazily on the drifting ice, raised their heads without being frightened, and turned their long necks to watch the ship go by. Often, too, the brig would leave bits of sheathing on the ice against which she grazed.
Finally, after six days of this slow sailing, August 1st, Point Beecher was made, sighted in the north; Hatteras passed the last hours in the lookout; the open sea, which Stewart had seen May 30, 1851, towards latitude 76°20' could not be far off, and yet, as far as Hatteras could see, he could make out no sign of an open polar sea. He came down without saying a word.
“Do you believe in an open sea?” asked Shandon of the second mate.
“I'm beginning to have my doubts,” answered James Wall.
“Was n't I right in considering this pretended discovery as a mere hypothesis'? No one agreed with me, and you too, Wall,—you sided against me.”
“They'll believe you next time, Shandon.”
“Yes,” he answered, “when it's too late.”
And he returned to his cabin, where he had kept himself almost exclusively since his discussion with the captain.
Towards evening the wind shifted to the south. Hatteras then set his sails and had the fires put out; for many days the crew were kept hard at work; every few minutes they had to tack or bear away, or to shorten sail quickly to stop the course of the brig; the braces could not run easily through the choked-up pulleys, and added to the fatigue of the crew; more than a week was required for them to reach Point Barrow. The Forward had not made thirty miles in ten days.
Then the wind flew around to the north, and the engine was started once more. Hatteras still hoped to find an open sea beyond latitude 77°, such as Edward Belcher had seen.
And yet, if he believed in Penny's account, the part of the sea which he was now crossing ought to have been open; for Penny, having reached the limit of the ice, saw in a canoe the shores of Queen's Channel at latitude 77°.
Must he regard their reports as apochryphal, or had an unusually early winter fallen upon these regions?
August 15th, Mount Percy reared into the mist its peaks covered with eternal snow; a violent wind was hurling in their teeth a fierce shower of hail. The next day the sun set for the first time, terminating at last the long series of days twenty-four hours long. The men had finally accustomed themselves to this perpetual daylight; but the animals minded it very little; the Greenland dogs used to go to sleep at the usual hour, and even Duke lay down at the same hour every evening, as if the night were dark.
Still, during the nights following August 16th the darkness was never very marked; the sun, although it had set, still gave light enough by refraction.
August 19th, after taking a satisfactory observation, Cape Franklin was seen on the eastern side, and opposite it Cape Lady Franklin; at what was probably the farthest point reached by this bold explorer, his fellow-countrymen wanted the name of his devoted wife should be remembered along with his own, as an emblem of the sympathy which always united them. The doctor was much moved by this sight in this distant country.
In accordance with Johnson's advice, he began to accustom himself to enduring low temperature; he kept almost all the time on deck, braving the cold, wind, and snow. Although he had grown a little thinner, he did not suffer from the severity of the climate. Besides, he expected other dangers, and he rejoiced, almost, as he saw the winter approaching.
“See,” said he one day to Johnson,—“see those flocks of birds flying south! How they fly and cry adieu!”
“Yes, Dr. Clawbonny,” answered Johnson, “something has told them it was time to go, and they are off.”
“More than one of our men, Johnson, would be glad to imitate them, I fancy.”
“They are timid fellows, Doctor; what a bird can't do, a man ought to try! Those birds have no supply of food, as we have, and they must support themselves elsewhere. But sailors, with a good deck under the feet, ought to go to the end of the world.”
“You hope, then, that Hatteras will succeed in his projects?”
“He will succeed. Doctor.”
“I agree with you, Johnson, even if only one faithful man accompanies him—”
“There will be two of us!”
“Yes, Johnson,” the doctor answered, pressing the brave sailor's hand.
Prince Albert's Land, along which the Forward was now coasting, is also called Grinnell's Land; and although Hatteras, from his dislike to Americans, never was willing to give it this name, nevertheless, it is the one by which it is generally known. This is the reason of this double title: at the same time that the Englishman Penny gave it the name of Prince Albert, the captain of the Rescue, Lieutenant DeHaven, named it Grinnell's Land, in honor of the American merchant who had fitted out the expedition in New York.
As the brig followed the coast it met with serious difficulties, going sometimes under sail, sometimes under steam. August 18th, Mount Britannia was sighted through the mist, and the next day the Forward cast anchor in Northumberland Bay. The ship was completely protected.