Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/372

29, 1859.] THE LAST  VOYAGE  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN.

BY CAPTAIN  SILER ABD  OSBORN,  R.N.  (PART  II.)

Under the  friendly  shelter  of  Beechey  Island, Franklin and  his  followers  reposed  from  their arduous labours  of  1845,  and  looked  forward  confidently to  the  success  which  must  now  attend their efforts  in  the  following  year. And had  they not reason  to  be  confident? Did they  not  know that, in  their  remarkable  voyage  up  Wellington Channel and  down  the  new  Strait,  west  of  Cornwallis Island,  they  had  explored  three  hundred miles of  previously  unknown  channels  leading  to the  north-  west? Could they  not  point  to  Cape Walker, and  say,  “Assuredly  it  will  be  an  easy task next  season  to  push  our  ships  over  the  two hundred and  fifty  miles  of  water  which  must intervene between  Cape  Walker  and  King  William’s Land.”  Of  course  they  thought  thus. And that  their  hopes  were  fulfilled,  though  they lived not  to  wear  their  honours,  we  know,  alas! too well. The Polar  winter  came  in  upon  them like a giant — it  ever  does  so. No alternate  frost and thaw,  sunshine  and  gloom,  there  delays  the advent of  the  winter. Within the  frigid  zone each season  steps  upon  sea  and  earth  to  the appointed day,  with  all  its  distinctive  characteristics strongly  marked. In one  night  winter strikes nature  with  its  mailed  hand,  and  silence, coldness, death,  reign  supreme. The soil  and springs are  frozen  adamant:  the  streamlet  no   longer  trickles  from  aneath  the  snow-choked ravines: the plains,  slopes,  and  terraces  of  this land of  barrenness  are  clad  in  winter  livery  of dazzling  white: the  adjacent  seas  and  fiords  can hardly be  distinguished  from  the  land,  owing  to the  uniformity  of  colour. A shroud of  snow envelopes the  stricken  region,  except  where  sharp and clear  against  the  hard  blue  sky  stand  out  the gaunt mountain  precipices  of  North  Devon  and the dark  and  frowning  cliffs  of  Beechey  Island — cliffs too  steep  for  even  snow-flake  to  hang  upon. There they  stand,  huge  ebon  giants,  brooding over the  land  of  famine  and  suffering  spread beneath their  feet!

Day after  day,  in  rapidly  diminishing  arcs,  the sun at  noon  approaches  the  southern  edge  of  the horizon. It is  the  first  week  of  November,  and  I see  before  me  a goodly  array  of  officers  and  men issue from  the  ship,  and  proceed  to  scale  the heights of  the  neighbouring  island: they  go  to bid  the  bright  sun  good-bye  until  February, 1846. At  noon,  the  upper  edge  of  the  orb  gleams like a beacon-fire  for  a few  minutes  over  the snow -enveloped shores  of  North  Somerset — and  it is  gone — leaving  them  to  three  months  of  twilight and darkness. Offering up  a silent,  fervent  prayer for themselves,  who  were  standing  there  to  see I that sunset, and  for  their dear friends in the ice-beset