Good crofting land would not, however, have been the primary concern of the valuta clans. The sixty-mile stretch of shore between Cape Farewell and Lund Island (Kaneq, it is now called), with its coves and inlets close to the open sea, would have been more to their liking. The disadvantages of living in such relatively exposed places were offset by the fact that these were the first ports of call for merchant vessels from Europe. They were also free of the ice cover which sealed off the inner fiords for long months of every year.
Crofters fleeing Tilli were of a different mould. They would have sailed past the exposed southerly fiords into the inner reaches of those farther north. Here grasses grew in some abundance. Birch and willow thickets provided fuel. Herds of caribou drifted like smoke across the plains and valleys. Untold numbers of geese nested near a multitude of ponds. Char and grayling filled creeks and rivers at spawning time. Seals, and salt-water fishes, especially cod, were abundant in the fiords. Lowland pockets of alluvial soil enriched by the life and death of a myriad of generations of Arctic plants awaited cultivation.
Five or six days farther up the coast to the northwest lay a second set of waterways surrounded by ice-free lands. These northern fiords were not as hospitable as those in the south, but were more extensive. They were also handier to the northern hunting grounds, a distinct advantage to Alban crofters accustomed to obtaining part of their livelihood from hunting and trapping. Some refugees may also have been attracted to the northern fiord district because it was farther away from the killers who had driven them out of Tilli.
The Norse cast long shadows. Many settlers in the Southfiords sited their steadings so that the buildings could not be seen from the main waterways. Others chose places with commanding views affording ample warning of the approach of strangers. Not only were many crofts defensively sited, some were constructed like miniature fortresses.
Late in the summer of 1982 Claire and I were guests aboard a Canadian ice breaker bringing an official party to Greenland to help commemorate the one thousandth anniversary of Erik Rauda’s arrival there.
I watched from the bridge as C.G.S. Pierre Radisson worked her way up Tunugdliarfik, longest of the Southfiords. It was still so choked with bergs and drift ice that even our modern ice breaker made slow progress. I had ample time to reflect on how the first European immigrants to this titans’ land might have felt about their future prospects.
Fifty miles in from the bleak outer coast the fiord divided. We took the left-hand fork, which led into a hidden world fringed by a rolling ribbon of meadows surrounded by lowering mountains.
Although the long passage up the fiord had been almost devoid of visible life, here at its head was a plethora of living things. Still waters reflected the double images of motionless bergs amongst which bobbed dozens of seals and a school of porpoises overflown by arabesques of gulls. However, it was on land that life manifested itself most prominently.
A dozen or so brightly painted wooden houses were scattered along the western shore. A flotilla of small boats lay hauled out on the beach in front of them. People of all ages were wandering about dressed in holiday splendour. The grassy slopes behind the houses were dotted with sheep; and here and there a pony raised its head to glance incuriously at the red-painted apparition which had just dropped anchor in the reach.
We went ashore to join in celebrations hosted by the local folk. Although most had Danish names they considered themselves to be of the same stock as Canada’s Inuit. They were not much impressed by the official fooferaw in honour of Erik the Red, but were very hospitable nonetheless.
Late that afternoon I asked a squat young man called Hans to show me the site of Erik Rauda’s home. Hans obligingly led the way across a squelching bog to what had been a beach in primordial times but now lay high and dry half a mile inland.
Brattahlid, as Erik called his steading, stood on this raised beach commanding an unobstructed view of the entrance to the inner reaches of the fiord. No ship, no boat, nothing above water could have approached without being seen by someone here. But at the time of our visit the only residents were three dyspeptic-looking sheep and a pair of snow buntings.
Not much remained visible of the homestead. After some five centuries of human habitation, Brattahlid had lain abandoned for another five, during which its stone-and-turf walls and sod roofs had subsided into shapeless mounds. These had been excavated in the 1930s by Danish archaeologists. The sod had now grown back, but the spades had revealed that, over the centuries of Norse occupancy, a number of rooms had been added to and around an original single-roomed structure.
It was this structure that especially interested me. Referred to in the archaeological literature as “the earliest house known from Greenland,” its walls enclosed a space about fifty feet long by fifteen wide—closely corresponding in size and shape to the structures in the Canadian Arctic I identify as boat-roofed houses. However, the turf-and-stone-built walls of this building were as much as twelve feet thick—much thicker than would have been necessary either for roof support or insulation. I suspect these massive walls were designed as much to defend the inhabitants against aggression as to provide shelter from the weather.
The impression that the house was intended to double as a bastion capable of withstanding siege is reinforced by the presence within the walls of a stone channel bringing water from a concealed external spring. Excavation of three other very early Greenlandic houses has revealed similar built-in water supplies, together with exceptionally thick walls. Notably, such features have not been reported from houses of indisputably Norse origin in either Greenland or Iceland.
I conclude that the original house on the Brattahlid site was probably built by Alban refugees from the Norse invasion of Tilli.
It is a well-established historical principle that successive inhabitants tend to plant their homes where others have built before them. I believe Erik Rauda either occupied a house already in existence on this site, or built upon its ruins.3
It is worth adding that, of all the artefacts found in the oldest levels of these “earliest” Greenland houses, few, if any, are unequivocally Norse. Most are everyday objects common to ordinary folk of those times throughout northern Europe.
Albans taking refuge in Crona would have had legitimate reason to fear they were still at risk. The distance separating the Southfiords from western Iceland was no greater than that separating Iceland from Norway. What the Wolves of Odin had done before they could be expected to do again.
However, fears that raiders would soon begin ravaging Crona were premature. For several decades after their seizure of Tilli, the Norse were so preoccupied with quarrelling about ownership of land, and about their relative status that, if they gave any thought to the departed Christians, it was probably along the lines of good riddance to bad rubbish.
Here is how I conceive of events unfolding during this period.
For half a century the Alban settlements in Crona prospered in peace. More than enough land was available in the two fiord districts to meet the needs of a considerable and growing population. By c. 900 the climate had become considerably warmer than today, and it continued to improve. Year by year Alban flocks in Crona grew larger and roamed farther afield. Children grew up and went homesteading on their own until there was hardly a grassy valley which did not harbour at least one croft.
Hunting and fishing remained integral to the crofting life and, at least in the early years, southern Crona offered a great diversity and abundance of animal resources. These were supplemented by summer hunting expeditions to Disko Bay and its surrounding region.
Despite the increased distance from Europe, Cronian Alba was neither materially nor culturally deprived. European merchants had begun sailing direct to Crona well before Tilli fell to the Norse. And why not? Sailors of those times faced no greater hazards going deep-sea than in coasting voyages, beset by rocks, reefs, lee shores and, all too often, pirates.
Most of the vessels employed in the trade
seem to have been British, although some Alban vessels, perhaps descendants of Orkney ships that had gone south-faring in the long ago, may have voyaged east from Crona. British merchantmen came mostly from Bristol and other west-coast ports, generally taking their departures from Malin Head in Ireland. Their course was designed to carry them close enough to Iceland to see the loom of distant mountains while remaining far enough offshore to avoid being detected and intercepted by Norse pirates.
The distance to be travelled was about 1,800 miles, around eighteen sailing days under ideal conditions—which seldom occurred. An outbound vessel that reached Crona in three weeks would have done well. Homeward bound, with the prevailing westerlies astern, she could have expected to make a faster passage. Mariners did not yet have the compass, but could and did find their intended ports by sailing “down” lines of known latitude. Voyages to places as far afield as Crona were well within the capabilities of ships and sailors of the times; and the rewards for bringing a cargo of Arctic valuta back to a European port would have been worth the risks entailed.4
Inbound cargoes consisted mostly of staples such as meal, whole grains, honey (the only sweetener then widely available), and billets of smelted iron. A relatively small quantity of manufactured goods was probably imported, mainly iron tools, copper utensils, and a little pottery.
Cultural connections with the “old country” remained unbroken. Merchant ships not only brought out cargo but passengers as well, including clerics, for the church was an integral part of Alban life, as it had been since the sixth century.
The church had good reasons, both spiritual and mundane, for maintaining connections with Tilli and, after Tilli’s abandonment to the Norse, with Crona. Valuta goods, ivory in particular, received as tithes provided north European bishoprics with a significant portion of their wealth, and contributed not a little to filling the coffers in Rome as well.
Documentary evidence testifies to continuous connections between the church in Greenland and in Europe from at least as early as 834. These records establish beyond reasonable doubt that Greenland must have been part of the North Atlantic Christian community 150 years before Erik Rauda reputedly discovered it. They also show that Iceland was a Christian country long before the Norse arrived there.
Although these documents were first brought to light by Peter De Root in his History of North America Before Columbus, published in Philadelphia in 1900, they have been consistently and, I would suppose, necessarily overlooked by northern historians wedded to the view that the Norse led the way across the Atlantic. I have dealt with these documents at some length, and with the apparent mystery of their neglect, in Westviking.5
Whatever else may remain in doubt about the early history of Greenland, we can be certain people were living there in the ninth century; were being ministered to by Christian clerics; and were in touch with the old world . . . as well as with the new.
One July day three-quarters of a century after Farfarer’s final departure from Tilli, her current namesake was preparing to put to sea from Sandhaven, which had become the clan’s home port in Crona.
Shaggy cattle and long-limbed sheep ranged hungrily over greening slopes behind the sod-roofed houses of the two valuta clans that shared the harbour. The entire population was gathered in front of a small stone-and-turf-walled chapel, all wearing traditional white for the occasion. Even crewmen from the Bristol ship Saint Stephan, anchored in the harbour, had covered their shoulders with white cloths. For this was the day ships were blessed in the name of St. Alban, founder of the foremost monastery on Tilli and patron saint of Alban seafarers.
To the casual eye Farfarer and her sister vessel, Narwhal, resting their bows together on the pebble beach, would have seemed virtually indistinguishable from ancestral vessels many hundreds of years older. Around fifty feet overall, they were nearly as long on the waterline as the oak-planked Saint Stephan, but of much lighter build and shallower draft.
Saint Stephan had come out late the previous summer and wintered in Sandhaven. Now she was about to sail for the Northfiords, after which she would cross Davis Strait on a venture to the western grounds.
The crowd at the chapel formed itself into a white-clad procession and began moving towards the beach, led by an untonsured priest with black hair hanging raggedly over his shoulders. Several young men and women surrounded him, waving decorated woollen banners hung from long staves, and chanting prayers for the well-being of the ships and of the people who would be departing on the morrow.
It was a cheerful crowd, and would become even more so at the feast to follow: roast caribou; boiled seal and salmon; hot barley bread; and, best of all, several kegs of ale brewed from bere grain provided by Saint Stephan’s skipper. This was an occasion for celebration. The people of Crona were enjoying peace and prosperity. Although none was wealthy, everyone had enough of what was needed and most of what was wanted. Part of their sustenance came from the land and waters of Crona, but the largest part came from the hunting grounds beyond the Labrador Sea, and all were sensible of this.
By the year 930 the western grounds had been known for a century. Valuta men had worked their way well to the north of Cape Dyer on the east Baffin coast; they had ventured a considerable distance southward along the Atlantic coast of Labrador; and they had investigated much of Hudson Bay and Foxe Basin.
They knew the places where walrus beached; where narwhals swam and eiders nested; where gyrfalcons built their eyries and white bears denned. They knew, in short, where the creatures upon whom their way of life had anciently depended were to be found.
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
UNGAVA
Saint Stephan’s captain had taken extra precautions to ensure the safety of vessel, crew, and cargo on the voyage ahead. Not only had he shipped a valuta man familiar with the western grounds as pilot, he had arranged to sail in company with Farfarer and Narwhal.
The three vessels kept station for a day and a half after departing Sandhaven until they reached Cape Desolation. Narwhal and Saint Stephan then continued northward up the coast of Crona while Farfarer veered westward into the open sea.
The weather held fair for five days as Narwhal and the Bristol trader sailed along a deeply fiord-riven coast whose mountains, rugged as they were, seemed almost insignificant against the brooding backdrop of the Inland Ice.
On the sixth day Narwhal led the way into the island-studded bight masking the entrance to the Northfiords. The harbour here was cluttered with craft awaiting the arrival of the first trader of the season.
Saint Stephan’s captain could have exchanged most of his cargo for country goods, but he had his eye on richer prospects. After two days he was ready to depart. Narwhal’s people were no less eager to be on their way.
A stiff sou’wester gave the two vessels a rough crossing of Davis Strait. They encountered innumerable bergs, both large and small, and Narwhal had to pick a circuitous path through pans of pack ice which Saint Stephan could safely thrust aside with her strong oaken bows. They sailed continuously, for there was no real darkness, and on the third day made landfall at Cape Dyer on Baffin Island.
Here they parted company. Narwhal turned north, bound for Merchants Bay, where her crew would slaughter tuskers from amongst the multitudes that thronged the beaches there in early summer. When the surviving walrus departed for the far reaches of the Arctic, Narwhal would turn south and make her way to her clan’s station on the Ungava coast.
Under the Alban pilot’s guidance Saint Stephan coasted southward from Cape Dyer across the wide mouths of Cumberland Sound and Frobisher Bay to Resolution Island and so into Hudson Strait. The pilot was at pains to point out distinctive sea and land marks along the way, and the master made careful note of these in his ruttier, his personal set of sailing directions. Charts and pilot books were not available in those times. Each master mariner prepared and jealously guarded his own record of how he sailed from one place to the other: what to watch for; what to avoid; time taken; weather en
countered; and the nature of the seas he sailed through.
The ship was swept into the tremendous tidal stream surging through Hudson Strait. During ebb tide the pilot kept her so close to the north shore that her people shuddered to see rocks and reefs directly under her forefoot as she crawled along. When the tide changed the pilot took her out into the flood, and then the land seemed to flash past.
This was fine so long as her people could see where they were going. However, for much of the time the ship was entombed in fog so thick her masthead and even her steeply up-tilted bowsprit could not be seen from deck level. The Foggy Strait, as mariners called it, was, and remains, one of the world’s great fog machines.
Keeping the lead going and relying on his knowledge of the currents and of the bottom, the pilot at last brought the big ship safely around the prominent headland of Cape Hope’s Advance and into Diana Bay. Poised strategically at the western junction of Ungava Bay and Hudson Strait, Diana Bay was easy to recognize and to approach. It also offered one of the best deep-water anchorages in the eastern Arctic, making it a natural entrepôt.
Saint Stephan’s arrival was a momentous event. Only a few European ships had previously ventured so far west, most preferring to meet and trade with returned valuta men in Crona. But mariners bold enough to voyage to Diana Bay reaped the benefits of first choice of valuta, and Saint Stephan’s owner/master was bold enough to go anywhere if sufficient profit offered.
Saint Stephan had barely dropped anchor in the roadstead under the lee of a trio of great tower beacons on Diana Island before boats from the clan stations in the bay were away to carry the news west and south. These six- and eight-oared skin boats were light but hardy craft, and swift travellers. Within a week they had carried word of Saint Stephan’s arrival to most clan stations and to many Tunit camps as well.