before.”
Today we put in at the Danish whaling station here in Disko Bay. Tons of supplies are being transferred from
Baretto Junior,
and ten live oxen transported aboard that ship were slaughtered this afternoon. All the men of both Expedition ships shall feast on fresh meat tonight.
Four men were dismissed from the Expedition today — upon advice of the four of us surgeons — and will be returning to England with the tow and transport ship. These include one man from
Erebus
— a certain Thomas Burt, the ship’s armourer, and three from
Terror
— a Marine private named Aitken, a seaman named John Brown, and
Terror
’s primary sailmaker, James Elliott. That brings our total muster down to 129 men for the two ships.
Dried fish from the Danes and a cloud of Coal Dust hang over everything this afternoon — hundreds of bags of coal were transferred from
Baretto Junior
today — and the seamen aboard
Erebus
are busy with the smooth-sided stones they call Holy Stones, scrubbing and rescrubbing the deck clean while the Officers shout encouragement. Despite the extra work, All Hands are in High Spirits because of the promise of Tonight’s Feasting and extra rations of Grog.
Besides the four men to be invalided home, Sir John will be sending the June musters, official dispatches, and all personal letters back with
Baretto Junior.
Everyone will be busy writing the next few days.
After this week, the next letter to reach our loved ones will be posted from Russia or China!
12 July, 1845 —
Another departure, this time perhaps the Last One before the North-West Passage. This morning we slipped our cables and sailed west from Greenland while the crew of
Baretto Junior
gave us three hearty
Hurrahs!
and waved their caps. Surely these shall be the last White Men we see until we reach Alaska.
26 July, 1845 —
Two whalers —
Prince of Wales
and
Enterprise
— have anchored nearby to where we have tied up to a floating Ice Mountain. I have enjoyed many hours talking to the captains and crewmen about white bears.
I also had the distinct terror — if not Pleasure — of climbing that huge iceberg this morning. The sailors scrambled up early yesterday, chipping steps into the vertical ice with their axes and then rigging fixed lines for the less agile. Sir John ordered an Observatory be set up atop the giant berg, which towers more than twice as tall as our Highest Mast, and while Lieutenant Gore and some of the officers from
Terror
take atmospheric and astronomical measurements up there — they have erected a tent for those spending the night atop the Precipitous Ice Mountain — our Expedition Ice Masters, Mr. Reid from
Erebus
and Mr. Blanky from
Terror,
spend the daylight hours staring west and north through their brass telescopes, seeking, I am informed, the most likely path through the near-solid sea of ice already formed there. Edward Couch, our very Reliable and Voluble Mate, tells me that this is
very
late in the Arctic Season for ships to be seeking any passage, much less the Fabled North-West Passage.
The sight of both
Erebus
and
Terror
moored to the iceberg
below
us, a maze of ropes — what I must remember to call “lines” now that I am an old nautical hand — holding both ships fast to the Ice Mountain, the two ships’ highest crow’s nests
below
my precarious and icy perch so high above everything, created a sort of sick and thrilling Vertigo within me.
It was exhilarating standing up there hundreds of feet above the sea. The summit of the iceberg was almost the size of a cricket pitch and the tent holding our Meteorological Observatory looked quite incongruous on the blue ice — but my hopes for a few moments of Quiet Revery were shattered by the constant Shotgun Blasts as the men all over the Summit of our Ice Mountain were shooting birds — arctic terns, I am told — by the hundreds. These heaps and heaps of fresh-killed birds shall be salted and stored away, although Heaven Alone Knows where
Today we put in at the Danish whaling station here in Disko Bay. Tons of supplies are being transferred from
Baretto Junior,
and ten live oxen transported aboard that ship were slaughtered this afternoon. All the men of both Expedition ships shall feast on fresh meat tonight.
Four men were dismissed from the Expedition today — upon advice of the four of us surgeons — and will be returning to England with the tow and transport ship. These include one man from
Erebus
— a certain Thomas Burt, the ship’s armourer, and three from
Terror
— a Marine private named Aitken, a seaman named John Brown, and
Terror
’s primary sailmaker, James Elliott. That brings our total muster down to 129 men for the two ships.
Dried fish from the Danes and a cloud of Coal Dust hang over everything this afternoon — hundreds of bags of coal were transferred from
Baretto Junior
today — and the seamen aboard
Erebus
are busy with the smooth-sided stones they call Holy Stones, scrubbing and rescrubbing the deck clean while the Officers shout encouragement. Despite the extra work, All Hands are in High Spirits because of the promise of Tonight’s Feasting and extra rations of Grog.
Besides the four men to be invalided home, Sir John will be sending the June musters, official dispatches, and all personal letters back with
Baretto Junior.
Everyone will be busy writing the next few days.
After this week, the next letter to reach our loved ones will be posted from Russia or China!
12 July, 1845 —
Another departure, this time perhaps the Last One before the North-West Passage. This morning we slipped our cables and sailed west from Greenland while the crew of
Baretto Junior
gave us three hearty
Hurrahs!
and waved their caps. Surely these shall be the last White Men we see until we reach Alaska.
26 July, 1845 —
Two whalers —
Prince of Wales
and
Enterprise
— have anchored nearby to where we have tied up to a floating Ice Mountain. I have enjoyed many hours talking to the captains and crewmen about white bears.
I also had the distinct terror — if not Pleasure — of climbing that huge iceberg this morning. The sailors scrambled up early yesterday, chipping steps into the vertical ice with their axes and then rigging fixed lines for the less agile. Sir John ordered an Observatory be set up atop the giant berg, which towers more than twice as tall as our Highest Mast, and while Lieutenant Gore and some of the officers from
Terror
take atmospheric and astronomical measurements up there — they have erected a tent for those spending the night atop the Precipitous Ice Mountain — our Expedition Ice Masters, Mr. Reid from
Erebus
and Mr. Blanky from
Terror,
spend the daylight hours staring west and north through their brass telescopes, seeking, I am informed, the most likely path through the near-solid sea of ice already formed there. Edward Couch, our very Reliable and Voluble Mate, tells me that this is
very
late in the Arctic Season for ships to be seeking any passage, much less the Fabled North-West Passage.
The sight of both
Erebus
and
Terror
moored to the iceberg
below
us, a maze of ropes — what I must remember to call “lines” now that I am an old nautical hand — holding both ships fast to the Ice Mountain, the two ships’ highest crow’s nests
below
my precarious and icy perch so high above everything, created a sort of sick and thrilling Vertigo within me.
It was exhilarating standing up there hundreds of feet above the sea. The summit of the iceberg was almost the size of a cricket pitch and the tent holding our Meteorological Observatory looked quite incongruous on the blue ice — but my hopes for a few moments of Quiet Revery were shattered by the constant Shotgun Blasts as the men all over the Summit of our Ice Mountain were shooting birds — arctic terns, I am told — by the hundreds. These heaps and heaps of fresh-killed birds shall be salted and stored away, although Heaven Alone Knows where
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