Now! Then! On Good Friday, lost northwest of Jan Mayen in the Arctic Ocean and battered by old sea ice in a terrible gale, the crew of the whaler Diana of Hull stoically awaits death

Excerpt

As the day broke we obtained a clearer view of our danger, and truly no prospect could seem more hopeless.

The ship lay in the trough of the sea under bare poles (our mainstay sail having been blown in two by the force of the gale), lurching heavily to leeward, and thus coming in collision with the ice with double force. All around us were terrible-looking masses of ice, hard as rocks, and just as dangerous; massive, jagged, cold, cruel monsters, rising, falling, and retreating on the crest of the swell, and then rushing down the slope towards us in lines and columns, abreast, in straggling groups, or dense companies, rushing with irresistible force full upon our starboard side, retreating with the next swell, and then returning to the charge. All this in an interminable succession, the ship drifting slowly to the South-West, and only able to lessen the force of the collisions by manoeuvring the yards, going ahead off and on with the engines, or interposing the fenders or coils of rope over the sides.

In this way we had to run the gauntlet through innumerable dangers, through interminable masses of ice stretching ahead as far as we could see, hour after hour, expecting every moment to be crushed, despairing of escape. The excitement, the state of mind, was intense. It was one long agony of danger, a protracted mental torture, almost more than I could bear.

8 a.m. – Breakfast in the cabin – coffee and biscuits. Very little eaten. Each of us absorbed in his own reflections, which, for my part, were gloomy enough. During the forenoon remained on deck assisting with the fenders. The crew worked well, doing their duty to a man, exerting themselves to the utmost, but ’twas little we could do for the ship beyond attending to the fenders and shifting the yards. But there was no skulking; no appearance of fear, faint-heartedness, or despair; no unmanly croaking or prophesying the worst (though all expected it) among them. Every man kept up his own spirits and cheered his fellows. Never in my life did I feel so proud of being an Englishman, so proud of the calm, self-possessed, resolute bearing of my fellow-countrymen, who, with sudden and inevitable death staring them in the face, yet did their duty as though nothing unusual were occurring.

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To facilitate reading, the spelling and punctuation of elderly excerpts have generally been modernised, and distracting excision scars concealed. My selections, translations, and editions are copyright.
Abbreviations:

ER: East Riding
GM: Greater Manchester
NR: North Riding
NY: North Yorkshire
SY: South Yorkshire
WR: West Riding
WY: West Yorkshire

Comment

This predates the invention of Yorkshireness, so the stoicism of the Hull (and perhaps even the Shetland) contingent of the crew is ascribed to their Englishness.

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Original

Friday, March 30th (Good Friday). – This is a day which will never be forgotten by me.

After writing yesterday’s diary I lay upon the sofa reading the Life of the Rev. John Newton till about 10.30 p.m., when I fell asleep. Being very weary, I did not awaken till 2 a.m., when I found the ship in violent motion.

Upon going on deck, I discovered that the wind had increased to a strong gale, there was a fearfully heavy swell, and that the ice-pack we had been in was breaking up.

Not being aware of the danger we were in, I retired to my berth, but could not sleep, partly from the motion of the ship, but principally from a feeling of uneasiness. Rising, I found the captain dressed and looking very anxious. I went forward to smoke a pipe, and Bill Clarke, who had charge of the watch, came down to put on his sea-boots. He advised me to do the same, as we might have to take to the ice at any moment. I learnt then that the ship was in the greatest danger of being stove in by the immense masses of old ice which, in violent motion, surrounded us on all sides.

I returned to the cabin. The captain fully corroborated the alarming statements of the officers, and added that, from what he saw of our position and considering the size of the ice, the unprecedentedly heavy swell, the fearful gale, and the distance we were from the open sea, he had very little hope of saving the vessel, less still of our saving our lives in the event of our having to take to the ice.

I went to my berth and dressed myself carefully, pulling on three flannel shirts, two Shetland neck wrappers, three pairs of stockings, my sea-boots and hair-skin cap. I put four sticks of tobacco, two pipes, and two boxes of fusees [lucifer matches] in my pocket, and then returned to the cabin.

Having made these few preparations, I had nothing further to do but await my fate with such constancy and resignation as I was capable of.

3 a.m. – All hands ordered on deck. The night was not very dark. The gigantic swell, thickly covered with massive pieces of ice, rolled all around us as far as the eye could see. The gale roared through the bare rigging with a noise like thunder.

A glass of rum was served out to all hands on the quarterdeck. I declined to take any, believing that I should be better able to resist cold and exposure by refraining from taking stimulant. Three bags of biscuit, with a few cheeses and preserved meat, were placed on the lee side of the wheel and covered with a sail, in readiness for lowering into the boats. The tackle for hoisting out the boats had been rove, oars handed up from below and lashed beside the boats, axes placed in readiness for cutting away the masts, fenders hung over the sides to protect the ship as much as possible from the effects of the numerous collisions. The men were employed incessantly in working these fenders, bracing the fore and main yards to turn the ship’s head when threatened by ice, working the pumps, etc. I employed myself in assisting them as much as lay in my power, more particularly in working the fenders.

4 a.m. – Our chances of escape seem most desperate. Mr. Clarke, first mate, told me that if we were saved ‘twould be by a miracle.

As the day broke we obtained a clearer view of our danger, and truly no prospect could seem more hopeless.

The ship lay in the trough of the sea under bare poles (our mainstay sail having been blown in two by the force of the gale), lurching heavily to leeward, and thus coming in collision with the ice with double force. All around us were terrible-looking masses of ice, hard as rocks, and just as dangerous; massive, jagged, cold, cruel monsters, rising, falling, and retreating on the crest of the swell, and then rushing down the slope towards us in lines and columns, abreast, in straggling groups, or dense companies, rushing with irresistible force full upon our starboard side, retreating with the next swell, and then returning to the charge. All this in an interminable succession, the ship drifting slowly to the South-West, and only able to lessen the force of the collisions by manoeuvring the yards, going ahead off and on with the engines, or interposing the fenders or coils of rope over the sides.

In this way we had to run the gauntlet through innumerable dangers, through interminable masses of ice stretching ahead as far as we could see, hour after hour, expecting every moment to be crushed, despairing of escape. The excitement, the state of mind, was intense. It was one long agony of danger, a protracted mental torture, almost more than I could bear.

8 a.m. – Breakfast in the cabin – coffee and biscuits. Very little eaten. Each of us absorbed in his own reflections, which, for my part, were gloomy enough. During the forenoon remained on deck assisting with the fenders. The crew worked well, doing their duty to a man, exerting themselves to the utmost, but ’twas little we could do for the ship beyond attending to the fenders and shifting the yards. But there was no skulking; no appearance of fear, faint-heartedness, or despair; no unmanly croaking or prophesying the worst (though all expected it) among them. Every man kept up his own spirits and cheered his fellows. Never in my life did I feel so proud of being an Englishman, so proud of the calm, self-possessed, resolute bearing of my fellow-countrymen, who, with sudden and inevitable death staring them in the face, yet did their duty as though nothing unusual were occurring.

1 p.m. – Dinner in the cabin. A poor meal, and eaten in silence. We fully expected it to be our last meal together on earth. Everything looking desperate; expecting the ship to be stove in and sink at any moment.

2 p.m. – All hands that could be spared were ordered aft to the cabin. The captain told us in a few words that we had done all that men could do, and that we must put our trust solely now in the mercy of God. He exhorted us to prepare for the eternal world, and proposed to sing a hymn, “and mind you sing it with all your hearts.”

We then, with voices choking with emotion, sang those lines:

Commit thou all thy griefs
And ways into His hands;
To His sure truth and tender care,
Who earth and heaven commands,

Who points the clouds their course,
Whom winds and seas obey.
He shall direct thy wandering feet,
He shall prepare thy way.

The captain then, kneeling down, prayed very earnestly to God to have mercy upon us all, to spare us for the sake of our friends and families, or, should He see fit to take our lives, to watch over and comfort them when we were gone. This worthy man then urged us to offer up mental prayers when on the deck, at the wheel, aloft, wherever we might be.

It was a very fearful, solemn sight in that cabin. Men were there of all ages, youths, boys, with pale faces, expecting instant death, with the ice thundering against the ship, which even then, for aught we knew, might be filling and going down. May I never forget that scene and that prayer aboard the Diana.

The afternoon wore heavily away, the ice as thick and heavy as ever, and the ship lurching fearfully to leeward, making it extremely difficult to keep the deck. One’s ears were filled with the roar of the wind tearing through the rigging, the scream of escaping steam, the monotonous clash of the pumps (with the men lashed to the decks to enable them to keep their feet while working them), and the cries of the officers in command. The sea rolled around us in gigantic billows crested, not with foam, but with masses of old ice, which bore down upon us in incessant streams as though determined upon our destruction. The black sky overhead hung over us like a funeral pall about to descend upon our closing scene. Through it all the ship staggered along, rising and falling and reefing to and fro like a living thing conscious of its danger and struggling for dear life. Add to this the terrible consciousness that, if the ship were crushed, we must perish inevitably from cold and exposure in open boats or upon the floating masses of ice. All these scenes (and feelings) made up a picture such as I heartily trust I may never see or feel again.

Though distressed enough in mind and fearfully uneasy at times, I felt remarkably free from that secret terror of the mysteries of eternity, especially after the service in the cabin. Nay, at times I felt cheerfully resigned and prepared for the worst. I contemplated death without the slightest fear – ’twas only a few minutes’ struggle in the waves, one of the easiest deaths to die.

As the afternoon wore on the joyful news was spread that the barometer was rising, and hope began to spring up in our breasts.

At 6 p.m. I was sent for by the captain, who asked me cheerfully and in tones that I shall never forget if I would care for a glass of wine. In reply to my enquiries, he said he considered the ship was getting out of danger, and that we should be in the open sea before nightfall. We then sat down to tea and made a hearty meal, after which I felt so utterly and completely exhausted, so worn out by mental anxiety and the long, protracted torture of suspense during that dreadful day, that I lay down on the sofa and fell into a dead sleep.

1735 words.

Now! Then! 2024! - Yorkshire On This Day

30 March 1866: On Good Friday, lost northwest of Jan Mayen in the Arctic Ocean and battered by old sea ice in a terrible gale, the crew of the whaler Diana of Hull stoically awaits death

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