Soon after,the sun came out,the mist entirely disappeared,and again on the starboard hand shone a vision of the land;this time not in the sharp peaks and spires we had first seen,but in a chain of pale blue egg-shaped islands,floating in the air a long way above the horizon.This peculiar appearance was the result of extreme refraction,for,later in the day,we had an opportunity of watching the oval cloud-like forms gradually harden into the same pink tapering spikes which originally caused the island to be called Spitzbergen:nay,so clear did it become,that even the shadows on the hills became quite distinct,and we could easily trace the outlines of the enormous glaciers--sometimes ten or fifteen miles broad--that fill up every valley along the shore.Towards evening the line of coast again vanished into the distance,and our rising hopes received an almost intolerable disappointment by the appearance of a long line of ice right ahead,running to the westward,apparently,as far as the eye could reach.To add to our disgust,the wind flew right round into the North,and increasing to a gale,brought down upon us--not one of the usual thick arctic mists to which we were accustomed,but a dark,yellowish brown fog,that rolled along the surface of the water in twisted columns,and irregular masses of vapour,as dense as coal smoke.We had now almost reached the eightieth parallel of north latitude,and still an impenetrable sheet of ice,extending fifty or sixty miles westward from the shore,rendered all hopes of reaching the land out of the question.Our expectation of finding the north-west extremity of the island disengaged from ice by the action of the currents was--at all events for this season--evidently doomed to disappointment.We were already almost in the latitude of Amsterdam Island--which is actually its north-west point--and the coast seemed more encumbered than ever.No whaler had ever succeeded in getting more than about 120miles further north than we ourselves had already come;and to entangle ourselves any further in the ice--unless it were with the certainty of reaching land--would be sheer folly.The only thing to be done was to turn back.Accordingly,to this course I determined at last to resign myself,if,after standing on for twelve hours longer,nothing should turn up to improve the present aspect of affairs.It was now eleven o'clock;P.M.Fitz and Sigurdr went to bed,while Iremained on deck to see what the night might bring forth.
It blew great guns,and the cold was perfectly intolerable;billow upon billow of black fog came sweeping down between the sea and sky,as if it were going to swallow up the whole universe;while the midnight sun--now completely blotted out--now faintly struggling through the ragged breaches of the mist--threw down from time to time an unearthly red-brown glare on the waste of roaring waters.
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!"Icould 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.
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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.
