The scurvy now attacked the crew, and numerous deaths occurred. Behring determined to return to Kamtschatka. Through an unfortunate blunder, they erred in their course, and land remained invisible. The approach of winter became alarming, the cold increased, and rain turned to ice and snow. The unfortunate crew were in a pitiable condition from the miserable disease that laid hold of them. The steersman had to be supported at the wheel by two other sick men that he might continue at his post of duty. Finally he was disabled, and men hardly more fit took his place one by one. Almost daily some one died, and the ship, no longer with enough hands to man her, was at the mercy of the elements. The nights became long and dark, the water supply was running low, and certain destruction and death awaited the remnant of human beings left on board, unless a harbour of refuge could be found. At last one morning land was sighted. The approach was difficult, the ship so crippled as to be almost unmanageable, and the rocks threatened instant destruction. Darkness came on before they could make a landing. In their attempt to anchor, two cables parted, and the anchors were lost; they had no third anchor in readiness. At this juncture it seemed as if the hand of Providence intervened, for a huge wave lifted them across a sand bar, between a narrow opening of high rocks, and they found themselves in calm water, where the next day they made a successful landing. The land proved a barren and treeless island, fortunately well supplied with game, but there was no hut or shelter of any kind, showing it to be uninhabited. Such of the crew as were able made shelters under projecting sand-banks, using sail-cloth to keep out the wind and cold, and there they brought their sick and dying comrades. But the shock to some of the sickest proved fatal, and, before their dead bodies could be interred, foxes attacked and devoured portions of the hands and feet. A special shelter was made for the brave old captain, now reduced to the last extremities of disease, his body emaciated, his mind enfeebled. He was moved November 9, and there he lay dying, passing the weary hours in the vagaries of delirium, by covering his shrunken form with sand, making his own grave, as it were, until, on December 8, 1741, he passed away. There he rests, Behring Island his sepulchre, and his name is upon every map of the world, showing the straits dividing North America and Asia, through which he sailed in the glory of his prime. The command was now under Waxall, who rallied his men to superhuman effort, that they might pass the weary winter and attempt making their escape in the spring. A frightful blow to their hopes was the wrecking of their vessel and a loss of valuable food supplies, which took place the 29th of December.