In the end, William Barents managed to survive winter on Nova Zembla, but died nestled on the ice, somewhere between the islands and the sea, claimed by both but found in neither. His grave would be sought, though there is no record of the men digging one or laying stones over his body. Russian explorers Dmitri Kravchenko and Pyotr Boyarsky would link historical references to contemporary locations or identify stone cairns and markers along the Nova Zemblan coastline that might have covered Barents’s remains—including one with a nearby polar bear skull sporting a gaping hole similar to that made by a bullet.3
Meanwhile, Dutch maritime historian Diederick Wildeman suspects that the men wouldn’t have expended effort on burial in their desperate, weakened state. In all likelihood, there wasn’t enough time left to them—or strength in them—to bury William Barents. With a choice between Nova Zembla and the sea, perhaps his shipmates left him on the ice, letting him finally flee the land that he couldn’t escape in life.
His legend would grow into something unrecognizable, but what he actually accomplished was astounding enough, both human and extraordinary. Leaving Barents’s body at sea or on shore, captive forever to the high Arctic that would never again be closed to a European presence, van Heemskerck and the rest would have to try to carry on without the man they’d believed in, the one whom Gerrit de Veer had called “our chief guide and onely pilot on whom we reposed ourselves. But we could not strive against God.”
CHAPTER TEN Staggering Homeward
The surviving thirteen crew members spent another full day stuck on their frozen ledge before the sea cleared enough for them to venture out again. They now had been gone more than a full year. They were already presumed dead; the world had moved on in their absence.
They had lost their chief navigator and, with him, some of the confidence in their ability to carry out their final, desperate enterprise. But the celestial navigation at which Barents was so skilled wouldn’t be the kind they’d rely on for their homeward route.
Even while Barents was living, the sailors hadn’t planned on returning the way they’d come—crossing the open sea along the 75th parallel that had already brought them from Spitsbergen to the eastern coast of Nova Zembla. They would have to supplement their remaining provisions and get fresh water, which would require them to make landings along the way. Even if they had enough food and water to sustain them, their small boats already desperately needed repairs, after only a week of sailing. They’d surely require more. But even if no repairs were needed, their boats were too small to take on the open sea. In high waves, the sea could swallow them whole.
Instead, they planned to work their way hundreds of miles south down the entirety of the coast of Nova Zembla to Vaigach Island—the site of the doomed second expedition. From there, they could follow the Russian shoreline and nearby islands westward along the continent, as they curved north to Lapland then Norway. Nearly all this coast had been mapped during their first two voyages, and de Veer had the chart from the third trip. If they stayed in sight of land, they wouldn’t lose their way, and could hunt for safe harbors at which to stop along the route.
On the morning of June 22, they had seen enough open water to escape. But it didn’t reach their campsite atop the iceberg. They’d already learned the answer to this cruel puzzle at Ice Harbor. If the water wouldn’t come to them, they’d have to go to the water. Once more they lowered their boats over the side of the ledge, filling them with invalid sailors and provisions, and red cloth, and the rest of the most valuable cargo that they had so far preserved.
Arriving at the next iceberg between them and the open sea, they climbed up and hoisted the vessels after them. Atop the second iceberg, they hauled their boats and all the provisions another hundred feet before lowering their craft into water from which they could set sail. They were haggard and tired and knew that death was counting the days until it could claim them, but they kept moving.
Finally back in open water, they sailed both west and south before ice found them again. Once more they were trapped. But without warning, the ice gaped open like a lock on a canal, and they rushed in—only to watch the ice return. They took advantage of their captive state to eat, but having eaten, they remained stuck. Hacking and striking the ice did no good; they were forced to wait for the current’s indifferent gods to open another way for them.
The next day, they made it as far as Cape Comfort, a hundred miles along the coast of Nova Zembla, before ice blocked their way again. They used their mariner’s astrolabe and recorded the height of the sun to update their chart, but their minds were elsewhere. Though ice was everywhere, their supply of fresh water had almost vanished. They laid plates of snow out in the boats, to let the sun’s heat melt it. They put handfuls of snow in their mouths to liquefy it even faster. But for the first time on the voyage, a dreadful thirst began to stalk them.
The desire for open water and a steady wind was strong, but their range of acceptable courses grew narrower. They were used to navigating the dangers of a lee shore, where a strong wind that blew them toward land and onto rocks or ice could smash their boats. But now a fierce wind that pushed them too far from shore became just as dangerous. Though it might kill them more slowly, heading too far out on the open sea would invite waves to swamp the boats as they drifted farther and farther from any source of fresh water. They had no choice but to make slower progress, pick their way through the ice, and follow the shoreline as much as they dared.
The morning of June 24 found them still looking for openings in the high ice. They got their oars out and tried to row their way through the maze towering around them, though they could see no open path. When an opening appeared later in the day, they sailed into it, trying to get around an outcropping of land, but drift ice again blocked their way. They decided to head for shore. Six men set out on the beach to gather kindling and look for birds or eggs, returning only with some wood. Once aboard again, they boiled a pot of crushed biscuit mixed with snow to make a porridge they called matsammore, which at least put something warm in their stomachs.
Meanwhile, the wind rose higher, and they secured the boats to fast ice to keep from being blown into the open sea. But the fast ice broke loose, dragging their craft farther from shore, and the sailors had to work to free themselves before they were lost. They bound themselves to another piece of fast ice on June 26, but the south wind continued relentlessly for another day, likewise cracking open the new ice they were using to anchor the boats. The crew couldn’t move fast enough to stop what followed. Without warning, the rowboat and the scute were both dragged into the current, separated, and driven out to sea.
In Gerrit de Veer’s boat, the men brought out the oars, and tried to row their way back toward the coast. But they couldn’t row against the current with enough strength to make real progress. Reluctantly, because of the high wind, they hoisted their foresail, hoping to use its power to achieve what oars couldn’t. But the slender foremast shattered, and then snapped in a second place, a devastating blow to the tiny boat.
They couldn’t let themselves be driven out to sea, where they’d surely die of thirst if they didn’t capsize first. Though the wind still blew just as lethally, they hoisted their mainsail, which—once it caught wind—they knew had just as much risk of splintering their mainmast. Water quickly surged over the gunwale, and the sea emptied out, until they were tilting far to one side. Looking down into the abyss, they saw “nothing but death” below them. They took the sail in before they could be drowned along with the boat and waited to see what would follow.
Suddenly, the wind changed direction, and they made their way with caution and fear back to the fast ice at the shoreline. As the vessel moved into calmer water, they began to hunt for the other boat and its crew. Sailing four miles along the coast, they looked and listened, but found nothing. Fog and mist obscured their view. They were filled with dread that half their company was gone. One sailor thought to pull out a musket and load it. A shot rang out, and after it
, silence.
Then an answering shot came—not from anywhere visible, but a clear reply. Somewhere not too far off, sailors in the other boat were still alive. Continuing on their course, they found their shipmates’ boat grounded between driving ice and fast ice, unable to move. Climbing out onto the fast ice that lay between them and the other boat, they worked together to unload provisions from the scute and drag it across the ice to open water again, reuniting the vessels. Some sailors had already fetched wood, and when both boats were afloat again, bread and water were once more boiled up and served hot.
The wind filled their sails the next day and blew them past the Cape of Nassau, which they’d hoped to get to days earlier. Then the air and sky turned against them. They struck their sails and pulled out the oars, settling for the less elegant, more painful progress of rowing. Never straying too far from the fast ice along the coast, they spotted piles of walruses spread over the ice. Even better, they found birds, shooting and retrieving a dozen before fog socked them in. Soon after losing visibility, they began to slip back into moving ice and had to secure themselves again to wait out the bad weather.
On June 28, icebergs pressed in harder and once more left the sailors expecting that their boats would be ground to bits beneath them. Knowing what had to be done was surely no comfort, because it would be agonizing to do it. Again, they unloaded their cargo and provisions. Again, they hoisted the boats up onto the ice. Spreading sails over the boats like tents, they watched more ice gather all around them. After setting one man to keep watch, they lay down to sleep.
The midnight sun still reigned, hiding the stars. As the sun moved into the north, the sleeping men, tucked inside the boats under tented sails, heard the watchman cry out. “Three bears! Three bears!” The sailors scrambled for their weapons, which were not at all loaded for bear, but were instead filled with shot for the birds they’d been hunting along the shore the day before. Spraying shot into the huge creatures, they spooked their attackers into retreat.
As the bears lumbered away, the men loaded bullets into their muskets and fired at the fleeing animals. One was killed outright, and the other two ran until they could no longer be seen. But two hours later, the surviving creatures circled back. The men made such a racket the animals were once again frightened off. It was no pleasant thought to realize they were out on the ice, in the bears’ very element, with no cabin or wall to protect them. Meanwhile, the ice piled up in layers, a frigid horizon trapping them in place.
The bears were the first they’d seen since setting out in their boat two weeks earlier. The next day, despite the noise and bullets the men had unleashed the evening before, the creatures returned to eat their fallen comrade. After chasing off the bears, the men wanted to put the carcass of the dead animal in a high spot visible from their boats, to give them advance warning of any more visits. They wondered at the strength of the beasts, having just seen one creature carry its dead companion “as lightely in her mouth as if it had beene nothing,” while four bedraggled sailors wrestled to move the half-consumed animal with difficulty.
On June 30, the men looked out to sea and saw two bears riding a piece of ice toward them, as if planning to attack. But the animals balked. The men came to suspect that they were the same two bears. After the pair retreated without violence, another bear appeared on the fast ice by the shore and made a beeline toward the boats. But it was easily scared away by their loud response, leaving the humans to watch and worry in the mist and wind.
The next morning, that bear or another like it climbed down from the currents of ice into the water and swam toward them. It made its way onto their ledge, but again, they frightened it away. The ice had opened enough for the polar bear to swim, and perhaps, they thought, even enough for them to put out to sea. But later in the day, the drift ice drove in toward the fast ice, ending all thought of departure. Incoming icebergs collided with their ledge, shattering it. The ice began to break apart beneath their feet. Frozen blocks tumbled pell-mell with the crew’s belongings, as the sailors and boats fell, too. Provisions and cargo alike dropped into the freezing water.
They first moved to save the rowboat, trying to climb up the remaining ledge to haul it closer to land and out of danger. As other men began to save the food and cargo, they grabbed one treasured item, only to watch others fall into the water. Those who went to haul the scute up toward the rowboat found only more trouble, as the ice gave way under them again, sending both sailors and boat into a swift current filled with icebergs. Those who tried to gather the scute’s provisions similarly lost their footing. As they staggered over the uneven surface, ice broke beneath them again and again.
Though it was the larger of their boats, the scute was battered as mercilessly as the men. It broke open at the seams and places they’d rebuilt for the voyage: the mast, the supports, and the corner of the boat where a sick sailor and a chest of money had been nestled. As they went to retrieve the latter, the sheet of ice they stood on shot sideways, slipping under another ledge that drove into it like a wedge. The boat vanished from view under a layer of ice.
The crew members looked helplessly at one another. They couldn’t all fit in the rowboat, and there wasn’t sufficient time or wood along the coast to build a new vessel. Without their scute, they were lost.
Without warning, the sheets of ice drove apart again, and they caught sight of the scute once more. Before the terrain could shift a third time, they ran to the scute and began dragging its damaged frame over to where the rowboat had already been secured. The violence done to it had wrecked it. The rest of the day was entirely consumed at hard labor, making the beginnings of repairs to help it float again.
It was the worst day of the voyage so far—worse even than their shock and grief over the loss of William Barents. They’d saved the boats, but they’d nearly drowned in doing so. And the sea had claimed from them a trunk of sailors’ clothes, a chest of linens, a packet of scarlet velvet, navigation equipment, oil, cheese, and two precious barrels of bread. Almost as dispiriting was the loss of a cask of wine that, smashed open, had bled the entirety of its contents onto the ice without a drop saved. They sat exhausted, cold, and frightened in the face of what they’d already survived, unable to contemplate the treacherous canyons of ice scattered over the jagged white miles that still lay between them and home.
The morning of July 2—a year to the day since Barents had split with Jan Cornelis Rijp’s boat to sail east toward Nova Zembla—began inauspiciously, with the sight of yet another bear stalking them. They managed to frighten it off without a battle, then set to work on the scute again. Six men pulled out some of the bottom boards lining the inside of the boat to use for repairs, while six more went to look for driftwood and stones to build a fire. The stones would keep the wood from getting wet, and a fire would let them melt pitch to waterproof their repairs. They also hoped to discover logs substantial enough to replace the broken mast.
When they returned they were carrying both stones and wood, and some of the wood they found had been worked with an ax. The signs of human work seemed freighted with meaning. Barents and his men had set out for China, hoping to find a new route to an ancient civilization. Now they’d become archaeologists unearthing relics, trying to find a way back to their own world in the present. Though the carved wood might simply have washed ashore from the mainland with the driftwood, it was nonetheless a sign that they’d begun to return to the land of the living.
Building a fire, the crew heated their pitch and went back to work on the boat. After they finished, they boiled the birds they’d previously shot and ate well for the first time in two weeks.
The next day, two crewmen had the strength to go exploring in the bitterly cold water. They recovered a pair of oars and a rudder, as well as the packet of cloth and the chest of linens. It was too much for them to drag back, but they carried what they could, bringing along a hat that had been packed in a trunk, which probably meant that ice had smashed the trunk open. On hearin
g the news, van Heemskerck took five more men back to the site, where they dredged everything they could find out of the water. The packet of cloth and the chest of linen were flooded and waterlogged, making them too heavy even for the group to carry for long. But the sailors left them out on the ice to drain, thinking they would come back for them before setting sail again.
When the crew next lay down to sleep, a bear made its way to their outpost. One man stood watch but didn’t notice the animal as it moved toward them. The creature was nearly close enough to seize him when another shipmate caught sight of it and called to him to beware. He fled while a third sailor shot the bear in the body, frightening it away.
July 4 marked the most glorious day of weather that they’d seen in their time on Nova Zembla. They melted snow and took the bolts of red cloth that had been soaked in saltwater, rinsed them clean in fresh water, then dried them. The luxurious fabric could do them no good on the trip, but their efforts to preserve it would show the expedition’s investors that the explorers had done everything possible to preserve the most valuable cargo they’d carried aboard.
On the next day, John of Harlem, the nephew of Claes Andries, lay on the ice and breathed his last breath. The loss of a fifth man, the third to die in three weeks at sea—reduced the company to twelve. If he wasn’t buried on land, he was likely left on a floe or lowered into the water with a prayer.
The ice paid no respects to the dead and continued to appear, stalling their progress another day. When it was clear they couldn’t leave, six men went to shore to find firewood to cook their meat. On July 6, the day began in mist and fog, and the adjacent sea remained locked to them. But near evening, the skies began to clear.
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