Island of the Blue Foxes Page 19

  By December, Chirikov had finished his report and had a messenger sent along the tortuous route across Asia to St. Petersburg. In the official orders for the expedition, the report was supposed to be delivered personally by one of the senior officers of the ship, but Chirikov apologized that this was not possible, “as the officers are dead.” “As to myself,” he admitted, “I am quite unfit for sea duty. The scurvy is asleep in my system, and it is difficult to shake off because of the heavy atmosphere and especially because of the poor and insufficient food.… By God’s mercy I am just able to sit up; my feet are drawn up and full of spots, and my teeth are loose in my gums.” As for the drugs available in Kamchatka for treating scurvy, they “are so old that they are worthless. A similar state of ill-health exists among the crew.” With all the deaths, they were shorthanded, many unfit for service, and there was only one man still alive trained in navigation other than Chirikov. The St. Paul, he reported, was in little better shape than its crew, with broken parts, missing cables and anchors, while “the ship’s rigging is in bad condition,” with no means to easily replace or repair any of the deficiencies in Petropavlovsk. Chirikov’s health was permanently broken by the unbearable suffering and the medical distress of the scurvy epidemic on the final stretch of the voyage. The once bold and ambitious officer straining at the restraints placed upon him by Bering was at the end of his career as an explorer.

  While the surviving crew of the St. Paul recuperated at the primitive outpost, and as fall turned into winter and the season for safe sailing drew to a close, there was still no sign of their sister ship. Chirikov and his men were left with worry and questions about their old traveling companions and Commander Bering. Were they stuck overwintering in Alaska? Did the St. Peter founder in a storm? Did they perish miserably from scurvy? The fate of their comrades was unknown.

  PART FOUR

  NOWHERE

  This illustration from a 1753 German edition of Georg Steller’s Beasts of the Sea depicts the creatures of Bering Island that both fascinated Steller and made survival possible in 1741–1742.

  The St. Peter is driven onto the rocks in this dramatic but fanciful nineteenth-century reimagining of the wreck on Bering Island.

  Bering stares from the deck of the St. Peter toward Mount St. Elias in this Soviet-era stamp issued to commemorate the 250th anniversary of Bering and Chirikov’s voyage across the Pacific Ocean to Alaska.

  Bering is found dead and covered in sand in this stylized and not completely accurate depiction of the events of December 8, 1741, in a Russian book from the 1890s.

  Seals litter the beach in this contemporary photo of Bering Island. Hunting these animals and others that populated the uninhabited island enabled the mariners to survive the winter of 1741–1742.

  CHAPTER 10

  ISLAND OF THE BLUE FOXES

  NAVIGATION TECHNOLOGY WAS IN its infancy in the mid-eighteenth century, subject to poor knowledge of global geography and imprecise instruments that worked only in ideal conditions. Calculating latitude, the north-south measurement, was a much simpler process than calculating longitude, the east-west measurement. Whether on land or sea, latitude was calculated by measuring the angle of altitude of the sun at noon, or sometimes of a known star at midnight, using a mariner’s astrolabe (or later a sextant), designed to work on ships in moderate seas or winds. An officer trained in navigation would hold the instrument from a ring at the top and let the circular form of heavy brass dangle. Once it had settled, the navigator would level it to the horizon, to determine the angle of the sun. Then he would consult a set of tables to get the measurement and mark the position on a map. It was never perfect, but it did provide reasonably accurate determination of a ship’s north-south position, the obvious drawback being that it was essentially useless in rough weather or in poor visibility, which is what the St. Peter endured for many weeks in the fall of 1741.

  The calculation of longitude, by contrast, was fraught with potential errors and technical challenges, and the problem of its accurate calculation was not solved for many decades after Bering’s voyages. Longitude represented the distance, east or west, from a standard meridian of longitude. Several standards had been set over time, but by the 1740s the north-south line running through Greenwich in London, England, was the baseline. The earth is always rotating at a set speed, and so each hour of time difference between local time and the set time at Greenwich is equivalent to fifteen degrees east or west. The solution would later be to carry an accurate chronometer, or clock, set to Greenwich time so as to compare the time difference between Greenwich and local time at high noon. In this way, mariners could calculate their distance across the surface of the globe. One of the first accurate marine chronometers was the prototype chronometer used by British mariner Captain James Cook on his famous voyages in the 1760s.

  In the 1740s, however, Bering and Waxell had to rely on a far more time-consuming and delicate means for calculating longitude, involving the observation of celestial bodies. Since the earth, moon, and stars of the solar system all move in relation to each other at a set rate, longitude could be determined by a complicated set of mathematical calculations. Navigators of their time would have stood on the ship’s deck, squinting into a telescope to record the moment of the eclipse of one of Jupiter’s moons at local time. Then they would have gone into the cabin and consulted a standard set of tables that indicated when the same eclipse was predicted to have occurred at Greenwich. The time difference between the same eclipse seen from two locations was then calculated into degrees of longitude. When the moons of Jupiter were not visible, obscured by clouds, they would have had to measure the angle of the moon against two fixed stars and then consult a standard set of astronomical tables or star charts. Each of these methods required many hours of observations and mathematical calculations and could be performed only by certain senior officers with rigorous training and a clear mind. When determining their course, they would also have been responsible for calculating compass variation, or magnetic declination, the difference between true North and magnetic North. Navigators had to have a solid foundation in mathematics and spent countless hours taking measurements and then using equations to determine their position.

  After several weeks of storms during which the sun and stars were mostly hidden, and with other more pressing concerns with which to occupy themselves, such as storms and the scurvy epidemic, Waxell and other officers whose job it was to calculate the ship’s location on the vast swath of open water of the North Pacific Ocean had a nearly impossible task. Their estimate of the ship’s position was little more than an educated guess. They certainly hoped they were nearing Kamchatka, but they really had little idea how close they were or whether other geographical obstacles lay in their path.

  IN LATE OCTOBER, THE wind turned in the St. Peter’s favor, shifting to the west, and the ship began to claw back lost miles as it sailed west and north. Occasionally, the sun peeked out between “fast flying” clouds, only to be veiled again when fog and drizzle descended. They had no real idea of how far south the ship had drifted during the weeks of storms. Dead reckoning, estimating speed and direction, was all but useless after the terrible battering of the storm, and the fog and clouds made it difficult to take a reading from the sun or stars to determine latitude or longitude, let alone do the calculations. Waxell urged Bering, now unable to rise from his bunk but still alert enough to assert his command, to search for a site to overwinter before they all perished, but Bering was firmly against it; he wanted to make it to Avacha Bay. In a brief burst of energy, he ordered that coins be collected from all hands and made a vow to donate the money equally between two churches, the newly founded Russian Orthodox church in Avacha Bay and the Lutheran church in his town of Viborg. There was much praying, promising, and soul-searching.

  The ship sailed on through the final days of October, some days covering as much as a hundred nautical miles in twelve hours, occasionally nearing small islands through the mist and drizzle.
They sailed at a good speed, despite the lack of healthy sailors and the damaged sails, rigging, and masts. Steller wrote that “on November 1, 2, and 3, nothing unusual occurred except that our patients were dying off very rapidly and many at a time, so that it was scarcely possible to manage the ship or make any change in the sails.” The daily deaths from scurvy were now so routine that they were rated as “nothing unusual.” The ship’s log for November 4 alone records deaths matter-of-factly as they occurred throughout the day, the bodies wrapped in dirty cloth and lowered into the ocean: At one in the morning, drummer Osip Chentsov “of the Siberian garrison” died. At one in the afternoon, “by the will of God,” Siberian soldier Ivan Davidov perished. At four it was the grenadier Alexei Popov. There were now twelve dead from scurvy, while thirty-three sailors and several officers were unable to leave their bunks under any circumstances, and most of the others were weakened and feeble. They all knew the ship would founder if they encountered another storm.

  On the fourth of November, the drizzle abated, and the skies momentarily cleared. The remaining mariners stood at the railing and wept and stared in disbelief at a distant outcropping of land, with a snow-covered mountain range rising in the distance. In the ship’s log, Waxell wrote optimistically that “we think this land is Kamchatka.” Steller wrote that “it is impossible to describe how great and extraordinary was the joy of everybody at this sight. The half dead crawled up to see it, and all thanked God heartily for this great mercy.” Even Bering became excited. “The Captain Commander, who was a very sick man, became not a little aroused, and all talked of how, after having suffered such terrible misery, they were going to care for their health and take a rest.” Waxell assured the crew that, according to his calculations, this land was Kamchatka, and he urged Bering to sail toward it. Steller, like many others, was astonished and relieved. “Even if there had been a thousand navigators,” he wrote, “they could not have hit it off to a hair like this in their reckoning; we are not half a mile off.” The men went and dug out all their remaining liquor, long concealed for a moment such as this, and passed small cups around, toasting their deliverance. The officers collected charts and brought them on deck and scrutinized them, comparing the sketches to the land that lay mist enshrouded on the horizon. All agreed the outline of the coast matched that of Kamchatka, and they positively identified prominent capes in the distance, the lighthouse, and the mouth of the harbor of Avacha Bay. But Steller soon began to have doubts. “It might have been known from dead reckoning,” he surmised, “that we were at the very least on the 55th parallel, while Avacha is two degrees farther south.”

  The next day, Bering convened a meeting of the officers in his cabin. It was an open-door meeting, and the crew was allowed to listen to the discussion. The ship’s log reports that the main points of discussion were that “we had few men to manage the ship.… [W]e have little fresh water.” Waxell added that the rigging and sails were all severely damaged, with no one in condition to repair them, and that it was late fall in a northern latitude—if they departed the coast, they could not expect to reach anywhere safe in their present condition. Khitrov wrote similar sentiments in his journal: “We could not go on because we had no able bodied men, our rigging was rotten, and our provisions and water were gone.” Bering said that he wanted to push on to where they believed Avacha to be, but Waxell and Khitrov firmly opposed him with arguments that were well rehearsed. They insisted on landing in any nearby bay and then sending a messenger overland to Lower Kamchatka Post for horses.

  Waxell and Khitrov persuaded the petty officers and crew of their proposition, but many of them agreed to sign the proffered document only on condition that they were assured that the land was indeed Kamchatka, since they were not experts, whereupon Khitrov proclaimed that “if this were not Kamchatka, he would let his head be cut off.” Despite the drama, the two had persuasive arguments—essentially that it was not just about suffering or perseverance; men were dying daily, the rigging and sails were rotten, and there were not enough men to sail the ship in anything but perfect weather—the sort of weather that would become more elusive as fall turned to winter. Still, some joined with Bering in wanting to continue on. Dmitry Ovtsin, his adjutant and demoted former lieutenant, was one. But he may have found it difficult to go publicly against his master and commander. Waxell and Khitrov apparently shouted at him for his loyalty to Bering, called him a dog and a scoundrel, and forced him out of the cabin. They then turned and asked Steller to sign the document of agreement, but the testy German naturalist demurred. “I have never been consulted in anything from the beginning,” he boldly announced, “nor will my advice be taken if it doesn’t agree with what is wanted; besides, the gentlemen themselves say that I am not a sailor; therefore I would rather not say anything.” Steller did agree to prepare a document attesting to the poor health of the crew, which he considered to be within his duties as surgeon. This satisfied Waxell and Khitrov, as the report could only bolster their opinion that they lacked healthy men to properly sail the ship.

  Waxell and Khitrov won the day, the official sea council had made its position clear, and the St. Peter did not try to sail up the coast in an attempt to reach Petropavlovsk. Instead, they would “take advantage of the wind and steer for the shore in sight in order to save the ship and men.” They were in such a dire situation that they would try to go ashore right away rather than attempt to ease the ship into a sheltered bay they spied to the west. “Perhaps God would also help us to keep the ship,” Waxell mused. It may have been the lesser of two evils to have sailed on as Bering wished, but with men perishing daily from scurvy and the ship damaged, with torn sails dangling from snapped masts, this was not obvious at the time. As they sailed northwest toward what is now known as Copper Island and the land features became more clear, doubts and despair began to form in their minds: Where were the distinctive volcanic cones to the south around Avacha Bay?

  After rounding the cape, they steered the St. Peter toward what appeared to be an inlet. It was then that the clouds opened and the navigator was able to take a reading on the sun, which showed that the ship’s latitude was actually more than one hundred nautical miles north of the entrance to Avacha Bay. Waxell later explained away their error by noting that “these were parts unknown not only to us but to the whole world besides.… [W]e were unable to put a name to the land we sighted, not least because we had been five months at sea without setting eyes on a single known or observed land with the help of which we might have been able to correct our journals and dead reckoning. We had no sea-chart we could follow, but must proceed like the blind, not knowing whither their fumbling will lead them.” Waxell was still cursing the false map of Gama Land that led them astray.

  But who among them could have provided logical, sober judgment while suffering from scurvy, as they were, and fearing for the soundness of the ship while lost near unknown shores in the wild North Pacific in November? Later that day, they steered the near wreck of a ship toward the land to get a closer appreciation of the terrain. Once the decision had been made to seek a landing as soon as possible, the sick and dying mariners collapsed from exhaustion or relief, and everyone lay down in their places below deck and went to sleep to regain some semblance of their strength. At about four in the afternoon, Steller found himself on deck watching as the ghost ship slowly headed toward the inlet and bay, now scarcely a mile away, with no officers present. Both Waxell and Khitrov were “gently and sweetly” sleeping below (but also, it should be mentioned, dazed by scurvy). The ship seemed to be sailing unmanned directly onto the land. Steller rushed to the cabin to inform Bering, who, once roused, issued orders for Waxell and Khitrov to get on deck and take charge. Waxell and Khitrov groggily roused themselves and then stood observing the land approach until sundown. When they were close to shore, they hove out an anchor in view of a sandy beach with no apparent rocks or breakers.

  During the night, the moon shone brightly under clear skies and a gentle breeze. But wit
hout warning, the waters grew turbulent and powerful. The receding tide exposed a hidden reef of jagged rocks, and “the ship was tossed about like a ball and threatened to strike against the bottom.” The anchor cable snapped, and the ship was “swept away by huge powerful waves that were breaking over a rock and time after time swept across the ship with such force that it quivered from bow to stern, and we thought that the deck would be stove in.… [T]wice the ship bumped on rocks.” Sailors rushed to drop a spare anchor, but within moments it too was lost, the cable snapped by the twisting current that dragged the ship around “and was as much help as we had never dropped it.” Only one anchor remained, and the few able-bodied men struggled to get it into place as tide and storm dragged the St. Peter toward the reef. Panic-stricken men dashed about, shouting and crying questions like children as the hull ground sickeningly upon the jagged rocks. In the chaos and panic, “no one knew who should give or who should take orders,” as they were “seized with the fear of death.” One yelled, “Oh, God! It is all over with us! Oh, God, our ship! A disaster has befallen our ship!” A group of seamen ran and grabbed the corpses of two men who had died from scurvy and were waiting a burial ashore and pitched them overboard, “without ceremony, neck and heels into the sea,” believing the corpses were cursed and were the cause of the disaster. Steller “could not refrain from laughing” as one bewildered mariner asked “whether the water was very salty… as if death in fresh water would be more delightful!” If the hull tore asunder, they all knew they would be sucked to their doom in the frigid waters or battered on the rocks as the ship went down. It seemed inevitable.