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Title: The North Pole
Its Discovery in 1909 under the auspices of the Peary Arctic Club
Author: Robert E. Peary
Release Date: August 3, 2006 [EBook #18975]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NORTH POLE ***
Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes, Emmy and the
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THE NORTH POLE
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
[Illustration: THE FIVE FLAGS AT THE POLE
LEFT TO RIGHT
1. Navy League--Ooqueah
2. D. K. E. Fraternity--Ootah
3. Polar Flag Carried 15 Years--Henson
4. D. A. R. Peace Flag--Egingwah
5. Red Cross Flag--Seegloo]
THE NORTH POLE
ITS DISCOVERY IN 1909 UNDER THE
AUSPICES OF THE PEARY
ARCTIC CLUB
BY
ROBERT E. PEARY
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
AND A FOREWORD BY
GILBERT H. GROSVENOR
DIRECTOR AND EDITOR, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY
[Illustration]
GREENWOOD PRESS, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
Originally published in 1910 by Frederick A. Stokes Co.
First Greenwood Reprinting, 1968
Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 68-55210
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
MY WIFE
INTRODUCTION
SOME _years ago I met at a dinner in Washington the famous Norwegian
arctic explorer, Nansen, himself one of the heroes of polar adventure;
and he remarked to me, "Peary is your best man; in fact I think he is on
the whole the best of the men now trying to reach the Pole, and there is
a good chance that he will be the one to succeed." I cannot give the
exact words; but they were to the above effect; and they made a strong
impression on me. I thought of them when in the summer of 1908 I, as
President of the United States, went aboard Peary's ship to bid him
Godspeed on the eve of what proved to be his final effort to reach the
Pole. A year later, when I was camped on the northern foothills of Mt.
Kenia, directly under the equator, I received by a native runner the
news that he had succeeded, and that thanks to him the discovery of the
North Pole was to go on the honor roll of those feats in which we take a
peculiar pride because they have been performed by our fellow
countrymen.
Probably few outsiders realize the well-nigh incredible toil and
hardship entailed in such an achievement as Peary's; and fewer still
understand how many years of careful training and preparation there must
be before the feat can be even attempted with any chance of success. A
"dash for the pole" can be successful only if there have been many
preliminary years of painstaking, patient toil. Great physical hardihood
and endurance, an iron will and unflinching courage, the power of
command, the thirst for adventure, and a keen and farsighted
intelligence--all these must go to the make-up of the successful arctic
explorer; and these, and more than these, have gone to the make-up of
the chief of successful arctic explorers, of the man who succeeded where
hitherto even the best and the bravest had failed.
Commander Peary has made all dwellers in the civilized world his
debtors; but, above all, we, his fellow Americans, are his debtors. He
has performed one of the great feats of our time; he has won high honor
for himself and for his country; and we welcome his own story of the
triumph which he won in the immense solitudes of the wintry North._
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
THE WHITE NILE, _March_ 12, 1910.
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ROBERT E. PEARY, IN HIS ACTUAL NORTH POLE
COSTUME]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
FOREWORD xv
I THE PLAN 1
II PREPARATIONS 11
III THE START 25
IV UP TO CAPE YORK 34
V WELCOME FROM THE ESKIMOS 42
VI AN ARCTIC OASIS 53
VII ODD CUSTOMS OF AN ODD PEOPLE 63
VIII GETTING RECRUITS 72
IX A WALRUS HUNT 79
X KNOCKING AT THE GATEWAY TO THE POLE 88
XI CLOSE QUARTERS WITH THE ICE 97
XII THE ICE FIGHT GOES ON 106
XIII CAPE SHERIDAN AT LAST 117
XIV IN WINTER QUARTERS 126
XV THE AUTUMN WORK 134
XVI THE BIGGEST GAME IN THE ARCTIC 143
XVII MUSK-OXEN AT LAST 151
XVIII THE LONG NIGHT 162
XIX THE _Roosevelt's_ NARROW ESCAPE 172
XX CHRISTMAS ON THE _Roosevelt_ 182
XXI ARCTIC ICE SLEDGING AS IT REALLY IS 193
XXII ESSENTIALS THAT BROUGHT SUCCESS 201
XXIII OFF ACROSS THE FROZEN SEA 213
XXIV THE FIRST OPEN WATER 221
XXV SOME OF MY ESKIMOS LOSE THEIR NERVE 230
XXVI BORUP'S FARTHEST NORTH 240
XXVII GOOD-BY TO MARVIN 248
XXVIII WE BREAK ALL RECORDS 255
XXIX BARTLETT REACHES 87° 47´ 264
XXX THE FINAL SPURT BEGUN 272
XXXI ONLY ONE DAY FROM THE POLE 280
XXXII WE REACH THE POLE 287
XXXIII GOOD-BY TO THE POLE 302
XXXIV BACK TO LAND AGAIN 314
XXXV LAST DAYS AT CAPE SHERIDAN 325
APPENDIX I 337
APPENDIX II 350
APPENDIX III 363
ILLUSTRATIONS
FULL-PAGE PLATES REPRODUCING PHOTOGRAPHIC ENLARGEMENTS COLORED BY HAND
THE FIVE FLAGS AT THE POLE _Frontispiece._
Facing
Page
PORTRAIT OF ROBERT E. PEARY IN HIS ACTUAL NORTH POLE COSTUME viii
STELLAR PROJECTION, SHOWING THE RELATION OF THE POLAR SEA TO THE
VARIOUS CONTINENTS AND THE ROUTE OF THE EXPEDITION xxxii
ESKIMO DOGS OF THE EXPEDITION (246 IN ALL) ON SMALL ISLAND.
ETAH FJORD 74
CAPTAIN BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY (A TYPICAL UNIT DIVISION OF THE
EXPEDITION) 140
ILLUMINATION OF THE _Roosevelt_ IN WINTER QUARTERS ON A MOONLIGHT
NIGHT 162
A TYPICAL EXAMPLE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF WORKING SLEDGES OVER A
PRESSURE RIDGE 240
CROSSING A LEAD ON AN ICE CAKE AS A FERRY-BOAT 306
BLACK AND WHITE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
Facing
Page
GEORGE A. WARDWELL, CHIEF ENGINEER 16
BANKS SCOTT, SECOND ENGINEER 16
ROBERT A. BARTLETT, MASTER 16
THOMAS GUSHUE, MATE 16
CHARLES PERCY, STEWARD 16
PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN, ASSISTANT 17
GEORGE BORUP, ASSISTANT 17
DONALD B. MACMILLAN, ASSISTANT 17
DR. J. W. GOODSELL, SURGEON 17
SNOWY OWL, CAPE SHERIDAN 36
BRANT GOOSE 37
SABINE'S GULL 37
RED-THROATED DIVER, MALE AND FEMALE 37
KING EIDER, DRAKE 37
ESKIMOS COMING OFF TO THE _Roosevelt_ IN KAYAKS 42
THE MIDNIGHT SUN AS SEEN IN THE WHALE SOUND REGION 42
ESKIMO IN KAYAK 43
THE ICE-CLIFFS OF HUBBARD GLACIER 52
PEARY DISTRIBUTING UTENSILS TO WIVES OF HIS HUNTERS AT ETAH 53
DECK SCENE ON THE _Roosevelt_ 53
ESKIMO MOTHER AND CHILD 60
ESKIMO CHILDREN 61
KUDLAH, ALIAS "MISFORTUNE," WITH PUPPIES 61
KING ESKIMO DOG 70
THE DOG MARKET AT CAPE YORK 71
THE WHALE-BOAT RETURNING TO THE SHIP FROM THE WALRUS HUNT 71
THE CAPE JESUP GRENADIERS 71
HOISTING A WALRUS TO THE DECK OF THE _Roosevelt_ 86
A NARWHAL KILLED OFF CAPE UNION, JULY, 1909. THE MOST NORTHERLY
SPECIMEN EVER CAPTURED 87
CAPTAIN BARTLETT IN THE CROW'S NEST 104
TABULAR ICEBERG AND FLOE-ICE 105
THE _Roosevelt_ DRYING OUT HER SAILS AT CAPE SHERIDAN,
SEPTEMBER, 1908 122
THE _Roosevelt_ ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1908, MARIE AHNIGHITO
PEARY'S BIRTHDAY 123
"PEARY" SLEDGES ON BOARD THE _Roosevelt_ 123
VIEW BETWEEN THE _Roosevelt_ AND CAPE COLUMBIA 136
ESKIMO TYPE OF SLEDGE USED ON JOURNEY 137
"PEARY" TYPE OF SLEDGE 137
POLAR BEAR, ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY
FLASHLIGHT 144
FAMILY GROUP OF PEARY CARIBOU (_Rangifer Pearyi_), ARRANGED
BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT 145
HEAD OF BULL MUSK-OX KILLED ON PARRY PENINSULA 152
HERD OF MUSK-OXEN ROUNDED UP 153
WEESHARKOOPSI AND MUSK-OX CALF 156
BEAR KILLED IN CLEMENTS MARKHAM INLET 156
MUSK-OX HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE _Roosevelt_ 157
CARIBOU HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE _Roosevelt_ 157
CRANE CITY, CAPE COLUMBIA, AT THE TIME OF DEPARTURE
MARCH 1, 1909 192
FACE OF THE LAND ICE, "GLACIAL FRINGE," OFF CAPE COLUMBIA 193
PINNACLE NEAR THE SHORE 193
TYPICAL TRAIL IN SOFT SNOW (LOOKING BACKWARD) 208
TYPICAL VIEW OF THE ICE OF THE ARCTIC OCEAN NORTH OF GRANT LAND 209
TYPICAL CAMP ON THE ICE 209
WORKING THROUGH AN EXPANSE OF ROUGH ICE 216
PASSING THROUGH A DEFILE IN ROUGH ICE 217
APPROACHING A LEAD THROUGH ROUGH ICE 224
STOPPED BY OPEN WATER 225
ATHLETIC SPORTS AT THE LEAD CAMP 232
PICKAXING A ROAD THROUGH ZONE OF ROUGH ICE 232
A CHARACTERISTIC VIEW OF THE EXPEDITION ON THE MARCH IN FINE
WEATHER 233
REPAIRING SLEDGES IN CAMP 248
MARVIN TAKING AN OBSERVATION IN A SNOW SHELTER 249
CROSSING A LARGE LAKE OF YOUNG ICE, NORTH OF 87° 264
CAMP AT 85° 48´ NORTH, MARCH 22, 1909 265
A MOMENTARY HALT IN THE LEE OF A BIG HUMMOCK NORTH OF 88° 265
BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY READY TO START BACK FROM 87° 47´ NORTH,
APRIL 1, 1909 270
CUTTING BLOCKS OF SNOW FOR IGLOOS AT NEXT TO LAST CAMP,
89° 25´ NORTH 271
THE HALT FOR LUNCH IN LAST FORCED MARCH, 89° 25´ TO 89° 57´,
SHOWING ALCOHOL STOVES IN SNOW SHELTER 284
CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, 89° 57´, APRIL 6 AND 7, 1909 285
THE RECONNOITERING PARTY AT THE POLE 288
THE DOUBLE TEAM OF DOGS USED WITH THE RECONNOITERING SLEDGE
AT THE POLE, SHOWING THEIR ALERTNESS AND GOOD CONDITION 289
PEARY WITH CHRONOMETER, SEXTANT, AND ARTIFICIAL HORIZON AT
THE POLE 290
PEARY TAKING AN OBSERVATION AT THE POLE, WITH ARTIFICIAL
HORIZON, IN A SNOW SHELTER 290
PEARY'S IGLOO AT CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, APRIL 6, 1909; THE MOST
NORTHERLY HUMAN HABITATION IN THE WORLD 291
MEMBERS OF THE PARTY CHEERING THE STARS AND STRIPES AT THE POLE,
APRIL 7, 1909 294
RETURNING TO CAMP WITH THE FLAGS, APRIL 7, 1909 294
THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESKIMOS 295
EGINGWAH SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND 298
PEARY SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND 298
LOOKING TOWARD CAPE CHELYUSKIN 299
LOOKING TOWARD SPITZBERGEN 299
LOOKING TOWARD CAPE COLUMBIA 299
LOOKING TOWARD BERING STRAIT 299
ATTEMPTED SOUNDING, APRIL 7, 1909 302
ACTUAL SOUNDING, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909,
1500 FATHOMS (9000 ft.) NO BOTTOM 303
SWINGING AN ICE CAKE ACROSS A LEAD TO FORM AN IMPROMPTU BRIDGE 308
PASSING OVER THE BRIDGE 309
SOUNDING 312
BREAKING CAMP. PUSHING THE SLEDGES UP TO THE TIRED DOGS 312
LAST CAMP ON THE ICE ON THE RETURN 313
BACK ON THE "GLACIAL FRINGE" 313
APPROACHING THE PEAKS OF CAPE COLUMBIA OVER THE SURFACE OF THE
"GLACIAL FRINGE" 318
CRANE CITY AT CAPE COLUMBIA, ON THE RETURN 318
EGINGWAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP 319
EGINGWAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE TRIP 319
OOTAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP 319
OOTAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE SLEDGE TRIP 319
PERMANENT MONUMENT ERECTED AT CAPE COLUMBIA TO MARK POINT OF
DEPARTURE AND RETURN OF NORTH POLE SLEDGE PARTY 324
PEARY CAIRN AT CAPE MORRIS K. JESUP AS PHOTOGRAPHED BY
MACMILLAN AND BORUP 325
MEMORIAL ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN AT
CAPE SHERIDAN 325
THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY
OF WASHINGTON 364
THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
OF LONDON 365
NOTE.--The general plan of illustration is based on an unusually close
adherence to the negatives, as giving more interesting and valuable
results. Many of the most important pictures are from photographs not
retouched in the least, _e.g._, those facing pages 270, 284, 290, etc.
In others the sky-line has been indicated, _e.g._, those facing pages
208, 271, 299 (top), etc.; but change of no other sort has been made
except to remove specks and other similar mechanical defects not widely
extended. The color-plates are, of course, exceptions requiring special
treatment. THE PUBLISHERS
FOREWORD
The struggle for the North Pole began nearly one hundred years before
the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth Rock, being inaugurated
(1527) by that king of many distinctions, Henry VIII of England.
In 1588 John Davis rounded Cape Farewell, the southern end of Greenland,
and followed the coast for eight hundred miles to Sanderson Hope. He
discovered the strait which bears his name, and gained for Great Britain
what was then the record for the farthest north, 72° 12´, a point 1128
miles from the geographical North Pole. Scores of hardy navigators,
British, French, Dutch, German, Scandinavian, and Russian, followed
Davis, all seeking to hew across the Pole the much-coveted short route
to China and the Indies. The rivalry was keen and costly in lives,
ships, and treasure, but from the time of Henry VIII for three and
one-half centuries, or until 1882 (with the exception of 1594-1606,
when, through Wm. Barents, the Dutch held the record), Great Britain's
flag was always waving nearest the top of the globe.
The same year that Jamestown was founded, Henry Hudson (1607), also
seeking the route to the Indies, discovered Jan Mayen, circumnavigated
Spitzbergen, and advanced the eye of man to 80° 23´. Most valuable of
all, Hudson brought back accounts of great multitudes of whales and
walruses, with the result that for the succeeding years these new waters
were thronged with fleets of whaling ships from every maritime nation.
The Dutch specially profited by Hudson's discovery. During the 17th and
18th centuries they sent no less than 300 ships and 15,000 men each
summer to these arctic fisheries and established on Spitzbergen, within
the Arctic Circle, one of the most remarkable summer towns the world has
ever known, where stores and warehouses and reducing stations and
cooperages and many kindred industries flourished during the fishing
season. With the approach of winter all buildings were shut up and the
population, numbering several thousand, all returned home.
Hudson's record remained unequaled for 165 years, or until 1773, when J.
C. Phipps surpassed his farthest north by twenty-five miles. To-day the
most interesting fact connected with the Phipps expedition is that
Nelson, the hero of Trafalgar and of the Battle of the Nile, then a lad
of fifteen, was a member of the party. Thus the boldest and strongest
spirits of the most adventurous and hardy profession of those days
sought employment in the contest against the frozen wilderness of the
north.
The first half of the 19th century witnessed many brave ships and
gallant men sent to the arctic regions. While most of these expeditions
were not directed against the Pole so much as sent in an endeavor to
find a route to the Indies round North America--the Northwest
Passage--and around Asia--the Northeast Passage--many of them are
intimately interwoven with the conquest of the Pole, and were a
necessary part of its ultimate discovery. England hurled expedition
after expedition, manned by the best talent and energy of her navy,
against the ice which seemingly blocked every channel to her ambitions
for an arctic route to the Orient.
In 1819 Parry penetrated many intricate passages and overcame one-half
of the distance between Greenland and Bering Sea, winning a prize of
£5000, offered by Parliament to the first navigator to pass the 110th
meridian west of Greenwich. He was also the first navigator to pass
directly north of the magnetic North Pole, which he located
approximately, and thus the first to report the strange experience of
seeing the compass needle pointing due south.
So great was Parry's success that the British government sent him out in
command of two other expeditions in search of the Northwest Passage. In
explorations and discoveries the results of these two later expeditions
were not so rich, but the experience in ice work so obtained gave Parry
conclusions which revolutionized all methods in arctic navigation.
Hitherto all attempts to approach the Pole had been in ships. In 1827
Parry suggested the plan of a dash to the Pole on foot, from a base on
land. He obtained the assistance of the government, which for the fourth
time sent him to the Arctic provided with well-equipped ships and able
officers and men. He carried a number of reindeer with him to his base
in Spitzbergen, purposing to use these animals to drag his sledges. The
scheme proved impracticable, however, and he was compelled to depend on
the muscles of his men to haul his two heavy sledges, which were in
reality boats on steel runners. Leaving Spitzbergen on June 23 with
twenty-eight men, he pushed northward. But the summer sun had broken up
the ice floes, and the party repeatedly found it necessary to take the
runners off their boats in order to ferry across the stretches of open
water. After thirty days' incessant toil Parry had reached 82° 45´,
about 150 miles north of his base and 435 geographical miles from the
Pole. Here he found that, while his party rested, the drift of the ice
was carrying him daily back, almost as much as they were able to make in
the day's work. Retreat was therefore begun.
Parry's accomplishments, marking a new era in polar explorations,
created a tremendous sensation. Knighthood was immediately bestowed upon
him by the King, while the British people heaped upon him all the honors
and applause with which they have invariably crowned every explorer
returning from the north with even a measure of success. In originality
of plan and equipment Parry has been equaled and surpassed only by
Nansen and Peary.
In those early days, few men being rich enough to pay for expeditions to
the north out of their own pockets, practically every explorer was
financed by the government under whose orders he acted. In 1829,
however, Felix Booth, sheriff of London, gave Captain John Ross, an
English naval officer, who had achieved only moderate success in a
previous expedition, a small paddle-wheel steamer, the _Victory_, and
entered him in the race for the Northwest Passage. Ross was assisted, as
mate, by his nephew, James Clark Ross, who was young and energetic, and
who was later to win laurels at the opposite end of the globe. This
first attempt to use steam for ice navigation failed, owing to a poor
engine or incompetent engineers, but in all other respects the Rosses
achieved gloriously. During their five years' absence, 1829-1834, they
made important discoveries around Boothia Felix, but most valuable was
their definite location of the magnetic North Pole and the remarkable
series of magnetic and meteorological observations which they brought
back with them.
No band of men ever set out for the unknown with brighter hopes or more
just anticipation of success than Sir John Franklin's expedition of
1845. The frightful tragedy which overwhelmed them, together with the
mystery of their disappearance, which baffled the world for years and is
not yet entirely explained, forms the most terrible narrative in arctic
history. Franklin had been knighted in 1827, at the same time as Parry,
for the valuable and very extensive explorations which he had conducted
by snowshoes and canoe on the North American coast between the
Coppermine and Great Fish rivers, during the same years that Parry had
been gaining fame in the north. In the interval Franklin had served as
Governor of Tasmania for seven years. His splendid reputation and
ability as an organizer made him, though now fifty-nine years of age,
the unanimous choice of the government for the most elaborate arctic
expedition it had prepared in many years. Franklin's fame and
experience, and that of Crozier and his other lieutenants, who had seen
much service in the north, his able ships, the _Terror_ and the
_Erebus_, which had just returned from a voyage of unusual success to
the Antarctic, and his magnificent equipment, aroused the enthusiasm of
the British to the highest pitch and justified them in their hopes for
bringing the wearying struggle for the Northwest Passage to an immediate
conclusion.
For more than a year everything prospered with the party. By September,
1846, Franklin had navigated the vessels almost within sight of the
coast which he had explored twenty years previously, and beyond which
the route to Bering Sea was well known. The prize was nearly won when
the ships became imprisoned by the ice for the winter, a few miles north
of King William Land. The following June Franklin died; the ice
continued impenetrable, and did not loosen its grip all that year. In
July, 1848, Crozier, who had succeeded to the command, was compelled to
abandon the ships, and, with the 105 survivors who were all enfeebled by
the three successive winters in the Arctic, started on foot for Back
River. How far they got we shall probably never know.
Meanwhile, when Franklin failed to return in 1848--he was provisioned
for only three years--England became alarmed and despatched relief
expeditions by sea from the Bering Sea and the Atlantic and by land
north from Canada, but all efforts failed to gather news of Franklin
till 1854, when Rae fell in with some Eskimo hunters near King William
Land, who told him of two ships that were beset some years previous, and
of the death of all the party from starvation.
In 1857 Lady Franklin, not content with this bare and indirect report of
her husband's fate, sacrificed a fortune to equip a searching party to
be commanded by Leopold McClintock, one of the ablest and toughest
travelers over the ice the world has ever known. In 1859 McClintock
verified the Eskimos' sad story by the discovery on King William Land of
a record dated April, 1848, which told of Franklin's death and of the
abandonment of the ships. He also found among the Eskimos silver plate
and other relics of the party; elsewhere he saw one of Franklin's boats
on a sledge, with two skeletons inside and clothing and chocolate; in
another place he found tents and flags; and elsewhere he made the yet
more ghastly discovery of a bleached human skeleton prone on its face,
as though attesting the truthfulness of an Eskimo woman who, claiming to
have seen forty of the survivors late in 1848, said "they fell down and
died as they walked."
The distinction of being the first to make the Northwest Passage, which
Franklin so narrowly missed, fell to Robert McClure (1850-53) and
Richard Collinson (1850-55), who commanded the two ships sent north
through Bering Strait to search for Franklin. McClure accomplished the
passage on foot after losing his ship in the ice in Barrow Strait, but
Collinson brought his vessel safely through to England. The Northwest
Passage was not again made until Roald Amundsen navigated the tiny
_Gjoa_, a sailing sloop with gasoline engine, from the Atlantic to the
Pacific, 1903-06.
Yankee whalers each year had been venturing further north in Davis
Strait and Baffin Bay and Bering Sea, but America had taken no active
part in polar exploration until the sympathy aroused by the tragic
disappearance of Franklin induced Henry Grinnell and George Peabody to
send out the _Advance_ in charge of Elisha Kent Kane to search for
Franklin north of Smith Sound. In spite of inexperience, which resulted
in scurvy, fatal accidents, privations, and the loss of his ship, Kane's
achievements (1853-55) were very brilliant. He discovered and entered
Kane Basin, which forms the beginning of the passage to the polar ocean,
explored both shores of the new sea, and outlined what has since been
called the American route to the Pole.
Sixteen years later (1871) another American, Charles Francis Hall, who
had gained much arctic experience by a successful search for additional
traces and relics of Franklin (1862-69), sailed the _Polaris_ through
Kane Basin and Kennedy Channel, also through Hall Basin and Robeson
Channel, which he discovered, into the polar ocean itself, thus
completing the exploration of the outlet which Kane had begun. He took
his vessel to the then unprecedented (for a ship) latitude of 82° 11´.
But Hall's explorations, begun so auspiciously, were suddenly terminated
by his tragic death in November from over-exertion caused by a long
sledge journey.
When the ice began to move the ensuing year, his party sought to return,
but the _Polaris_ was caught in the deadly grip of an impassable ice
pack. After two months of drifting, part of the crew, with some Eskimo
men and women, alarmed by the groaning and crashing of the ice during a
furious autumn storm, camped on an ice floe which shortly afterwards
separated from the ship. For five months, December to April, they lived
on this cold and desolate raft, which carried them safely 1300 miles to
Labrador, where they were picked up by the _Tigress_. During the winter
one of the Eskimo women presented the party with a baby, so that their
number had increased during the arduous experience. Meanwhile the
_Polaris_ had been beached on the Greenland shore, and those remaining
on the ship were eventually also rescued.
In 1875 Great Britain began an elaborate attack on the Pole _viâ_ what
was now known as the American route, two ships most lavishly equipped
being despatched under command of George Nares. He succeeded in
navigating the _Alert_ fourteen miles further north than the _Polaris_
had penetrated four years previous. Before the winter set in, Aldrich on
land reached 82° 48´, which was three miles nearer the Pole than Parry's
mark made forty-eight years before, and the following spring Markham
gained 83° 20´ on the polar ocean. Other parties explored several
hundred miles of coast line. But Nares was unable to cope with the
scurvy, which disabled thirty-six of his men, or with the severe frosts,
which cost the life of one man and seriously injured others.
The next expedition to this region was that sent out under the auspices
of the United States government and commanded by Lieutenant--now
Major-General--A. W. Greely, U. S. A., to establish at Lady Franklin Bay
the American circumpolar station (1881). Greely during the two years at
Fort Conger carried on extensive explorations of Ellesmere Land and the
Greenland coast, and by the assistance of his two lieutenants, Lockwood
and Brainard, wrested from Great Britain the record which she had held
for 300 years. Greely's mark was 83° 24´, which bettered the British by
four miles. As the relief ship, promised for 1883, failed to reach him
or to land supplies at the prearranged point south of Fort Conger, the
winter of 1883-84 was passed in great misery and horror. When help
finally came to the camp at Cape Sabine, seven men only were alive.
While these important events were occurring in the vicinity of
Greenland, interesting developments were also taking place in that half
of the polar area north of Siberia. When in 1867 an American whaler,
Thomas Long, reported new land, Wrangell Land, about 500 miles northwest
of Bering Strait, many hailed the discovery as that of the edge of a
supposed continent extending from Asia across the Pole to Greenland, for
the natives around Bering Strait had long excited explorers by their
traditions of an icebound big land beyond the horizon. Such extravagant
claims were made for the new land that Commander De Long, U. S. N.,
determined to explore it and use it as a base for gaining the Pole. But
his ship, the _Jeannette_, was caught in the ice (September, 1879) and
carried right through the place where the new continent was supposed to
be. For nearly two years De Long's party remained helpless prisoners
until in June, 1881, the ship was crushed and sank, forcing the men to
take refuge on the ice floes in mid ocean, 150 miles from the New
Siberian Islands. They saved several boats and sledges and a small
supply of provisions and water. After incredible hardships and
suffering, G. W. Melville, the chief engineer, who was in charge of one
of the boats, with nine men, reached, on September 26, a Russian
village on the Lena. All the others perished, some being lost at sea, by
the foundering of the boats, while others, including De Long, had
starved to death after reaching the desolate Siberian coast.
Three years later some Eskimos found washed ashore on the southeast
coast of Greenland several broken biscuit boxes and lists of stores,
which are said to be in De Long's handwriting. The startling
circumstance that these relics in their long drift from where the ship
sank had necessarily passed across or very near to the Pole aroused
great speculation as to the probable currents in the polar area. Nansen,
who had already made the first crossing of Greenland's ice cap, argued
that the same current which had guided the relics on their long journey
would similarly conduct a ship. He therefore constructed a unique craft,
the _Fram_, so designed that when hugged by the ice pack she would not
be crushed, but would be lifted up and rest on the ice; he provisioned
the vessel for five years and allowed her to be frozen in the ice near
where the _Jeannette_ had sunk, 78° 50´ N., 134° E. (September 25,
1893). When at the end of eighteen months the ship had approached 314
miles nearer to the Pole, Nansen and one companion, Johansen, with
kayaks, dogs, sledges, and three months' provisions, deliberately left
the ship and plunged northward toward the Pole, March 14, 1895. In
twenty-three days the two men had overcome one-third of the distance to
the Pole, reaching 86° 12´. To continue onward would have meant certain
death, so they turned back. When their watches ran down Providence
guided them, and the marvelous physique of both sustained them through
fog and storm and threatened starvation until they reached Franz Josef
Land, late in August. There they built a hut of stones and killed bears
for meat for the winter. In May, 1896, they resumed their southward
journey, when fortunately they met the Englishman Jackson, who was
exploring the Archipelago.
Meanwhile the _Fram_, after Nansen left her, continued her tortuous
drifting across the upper world. Once she approached as near as 85° 57´
to the Pole--only fifteen miles less than Nansen's farthest. At last, in
August, 1896, with the help of dynamite, she was freed from the grip of
the ice and hurried home, arriving in time to participate in the welcome
of Nansen, who had landed a few days earlier.
Franz Josef Land, where Nansen was rescued by Jackson, has served as the
base of many dashes for the Pole. It was from its northernmost point
that the illustrious young member of the royal family of Italy, the Duke
of the Abruzzi, launched the party captained by Cagni that won from
Nansen for the Latin race the honor of the farthest north, 86° 34´, in
1901.
This land, which consists of numerous islands, had been named after the
Emperor of Austria-Hungary by Weyprecht and Payer, leaders of the
Austrian-Hungarian polar expedition of 1872-74, who discovered and first
explored the Archipelago.
It was from Spitzbergen that Andree, with two companions, sailed in his
balloon toward the Pole, in July, 1897, never to be heard from again,
except for three message buoys dropped in the sea a few miles from the
starting-point.
The Northeast Passage was first achieved in 1878-1879 by Adolph Erik
Nordenskjold. Step by step energetic explorers, principally Russian, had
been mapping the arctic coasts of Europe and Siberia until practically
all the headlands and islands were well defined.
Nordenskjold, whose name was already renowned for important researches
in Greenland, Nova Zembla, and northern Asia, in less than two months
guided the steam whaler _Vega_ from Tromsoe, Norway, to the most
easterly peninsula of Asia. But when barely more than 100 miles from
Bering Strait, intervening ice blocked his hopes of passing from the
Atlantic to the Pacific in a single season and held him fast for ten
months.
No résumé of polar exploration is complete without mention of Wm.
Barents (1594-96) who, for the Dutch of Amsterdam, made three attempts
to accomplish the Northeast Passage around Nova Zembla; Wm. Baffin, who
discovered Baffin Bay and Smith Sound (1616); Wm. Scoresby, Sr., who
reached by ship 81° 30´ N., 19´ E. (1806), a record till Parry eclipsed
it; Wm. Scoresby, Jr., who changed all ideas of East Greenland (1822)
and made valuable scientific observations, and the German North Polar
expedition of 1869-70. One of the ships of the latter was crushed in the
ice and sank. The crew escaped to an ice floe on which they drifted in
the darkness of an arctic winter for 1300 miles along the coast of
Greenland to Frederiksthaal.
The preceding brief summary gives only an inadequate conception of the
immense treasures of money and lives expended by the nations to explore
the northern ice world and to attain the apex of the earth. All efforts
to reach the Pole had failed, notwithstanding the unlimited sacrifice of
gold and energy and blood which had been poured out without stint for
nearly four centuries. But the sacrifice had not been without
compensation. Those who had ventured their lives in the contest had not
been actuated solely by the ambition to win a race--to breast the tape
first--but to contribute, in Sir John Franklin's words, "to the
extension of the bounds of science." The scores of expeditions, in
addition to new geographical discoveries, had brought back a wealth of
information about the animals and vegetable life, the winds and
currents, deep sea temperatures, soundings, the magnetism of the earth,
fossils and rock specimens, tidal data, etc., which have enriched many
branches of science and greatly increased the sum of human knowledge.
A brief summer excursion to Greenland in 1886 aroused Robert E. Peary, a
civil engineer in the United States Navy, to an interest in the polar
problem. Peary a few years previously had been graduated from Bowdoin
College second in his class, a position which means unusual mental vigor
in an institution which is noted for the fine scholarship and intellect
of its alumni. He realized at once that the goal which had eluded so
many hundreds of ambitious and dauntless men could be won only by a new
method of attack.
The first arctic problem with which Peary grappled was considered at
that time in importance second only to the conquest of the Pole; namely,
to determine the insularity of Greenland and the extent of its
projection northward. At the very beginning of his first expedition to
Greenland, in 1891, he suffered an accident which sorely taxed his
patience as well as his body, and which is mentioned here as it
illustrates the grit and stamina of his moral and physical make-up. As
his ship, the _Kite_, was working its way through the ice fields off the
Greenland shore, a cake of ice became wedged in the rudder, causing the
wheel to reverse. One of the spokes jammed Peary's leg against the
casement, making it impossible to extricate himself until both bones of
the leg were broken. The party urged him to return to the United States
for the winter and to resume his exploration the following year. But
Peary insisted on being landed as originally planned at McCormick Bay,
stating that the money of his friends had been invested in the project
and that he must "make good" to them. The assiduous nursing of Mrs.
Peary, aided by the bracing air, so speedily restored his strength that
at the ensuing Christmas festivities which he arranged for the Eskimos,
he out-raced on snowshoes all the natives and his own men!
In the following May, with one companion, Astrup, he ascended to the
summit of the great ice cap which covers the interior of Greenland, 5000
to 8000 feet in elevation, and pushed northward for 500 miles over a
region where the foot of man had never trod before, in temperatures
ranging from 10° to 50° below zero, to Independence Bay, which he
discovered and named, July 4, 1892. Imagine his surprise on descending
from the tableland to enter a little valley radiant with gorgeous
flowers and alive with murmuring bees, where musk oxen were lazily
browsing.
This sledding journey, which he duplicated by another equally remarkable
crossing of the ice cap three years later, defined the northern
extension of Greenland and conclusively proved that it is an island
instead of a continent extending to the Pole. In boldness of conception
and brilliancy of results these two crossings of Greenland are
unsurpassed in arctic history. The magnitude of Peary's feat is better
appreciated when it is recalled that Nansen's historic crossing of the
island was below the Arctic Circle, 1000 miles south of Peary's
latitude, where Greenland is some 250 miles wide.
Peary now turned his attention to the Pole, which lay 396 geographical
miles farther north than any man had penetrated on the western
hemisphere. To get there by the American route he must break a virgin
trail every mile north from Greely's 83° 24´. No one had pioneered so
great a distance northward. Markham and others had attained enduring
fame by advancing the flag considerably less than 100 miles, Parry had
pioneered 150 miles, and Nansen 128 from his ship.
His experiences in Greenland had convinced Peary, if possible more
firmly than before, that the only way of surmounting this last and most
formidable barrier was to adopt the manner of life, the food, the
snowhouses, and the clothing of the Eskimos, who by centuries of
experience had learned the most effective method of combating the rigors
of arctic weather; to utilize the game of the northland, the arctic
reindeer, musk ox, etc., which his explorations had proved comparatively
abundant, thus with fresh meat keeping his men fit and good-tempered
through the depressing winter night; and lastly to train the Eskimo to
become his sledging crew.
In his first north polar expedition, which lasted for four years,
1898-1902, Peary failed to get nearer than 343 miles to the Pole. Each
successive year dense packs of ice blocked the passage to the polar
ocean, compelling him to make his base approximately 700 miles from the
Pole, or 200 miles south of the headquarters of Nares, too great a
distance from the Pole to be overcome in one short season. During this
trying period, by sledging feats which in distance and physical
obstacles overcome exceeded the extraordinary records made in Greenland,
he explored and mapped hundreds of miles of coast line of Greenland and
of the islands west and north of Greenland.
On the next attempt, Peary insured reaching the polar ocean by designing
and constructing the _Roosevelt_, whose resistless frame crushed its way
to the desired haven on the shores of the polar sea. From here he made
that wonderful march of 1906 to 87° 6´, a new world's record. Winds of
unusual fury, by opening big leads, robbed him of the Pole and nearly of
his life.
The story of the last Peary expedition, which resulted in the discovery
of the Pole and of the deep ocean surrounding it, is told in the present
volume by Commander Peary. The 396 miles from Greely's farthest had been
vanquished as follows: 1900, 30 miles; 1902, 23 miles; 1906, 169 miles;
1909, 174 miles.
No better proof of the minute care with which every campaign was
prearranged can be given than the fact that, though Peary has taken
hundreds of men north with him on his various expeditions, he has
brought them all back, and in good health, with the exception of two,
who lost their lives in accidents for which the leader was in no wise
responsible. What a contrast this record is to the long list of
fatalities from disease, frost, shipwreck, and starvation which in the
popular mind has made the word arctic synonymous with tragedy and death.
Thus Robert E. Peary has crowned a life devoted to the exploration of
the icy north and to the advancement of science by the hard-won
discovery of the North Pole. The prize of four centuries of striving
yielded at last to the most persistent and scientific attack ever waged
against it. Peary's success was made possible by long experience, which
gave him a thorough knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome, and by
an unusual combination of mental and physical power--a resourcefulness
which enabled him to find a way to surmount all obstacles, a tenacity
and courage which knew no defeat, and a physical endowment such as
nature gives to few men.
It has been well said that the glory of Peary's achievement belongs to
the world and is shared by all mankind. But we, his fellow-countrymen,
who have known how he has struggled these many years against
discouragement and scoffing and how he has persevered under financial
burdens that would have crushed less stalwart shoulders, specially
rejoice that he has "made good at last," and that an American has become
the peer of Hudson, Magellan, and Columbus.
GILBERT H. GROSVENOR.
National Geographic Society,
Washington, D. C., U. S. A.
August 30, 1910.
[Illustration: STELLAR PROJECTION, SHOWING THE RELATION OF THE POLAR SEA
TO THE VARIOUS CONTINENTS]
THE NORTH POLE
CHAPTER I
THE PLAN
It may not be inapt to liken the attainment of the North Pole to the
winning of a game of chess, in which all the various moves leading to a
favorable conclusion had been planned in advance, long before the actual
game began. It was an old game for me--a game which I had been playing
for twenty-three years, with varying fortunes. Always, it is true, I had
been beaten, but with every defeat came fresh knowledge of the game, its
intricacies, its difficulties, its subtleties, and with every fresh
attempt success came a trifle nearer; what had before appeared either
impossible, or, at the best, extremely dubious, began to take on an
aspect of possibility, and, at last, even of probability. Every defeat
was analyzed as to its causes in all their bearings, until it became
possible to believe that those causes could in future be guarded against
and that, with a fair amount of good fortune, the losing game of nearly
a quarter of a century could be turned into one final, complete success.
It is true that with this conclusion many well informed and intelligent
persons saw fit to differ. But many others shared my views and gave
without stint their sympathy and their help, and now, in the end, one
of my greatest unalloyed pleasures is to know that their confidence,
subjected as it was to many trials, was not misplaced, that their trust,
their belief in me and in the mission to which the best years of my life
have been given, have been abundantly justified.
But while it is true that so far as plan and method are concerned the
discovery of the North Pole may fairly be likened to a game of chess,
there is, of course, this obvious difference: in chess, brains are
matched against brains. In the quest of the Pole it was a struggle of
human brains and persistence against the blind, brute forces of the
elements of primeval matter, acting often under laws and impulses almost
unknown or but little understood by us, and thus many times seemingly
capricious, freaky, not to be foretold with any degree of certainty. For
this reason, while it was possible to plan, before the hour of sailing
from New York, the principal moves of the attack upon the frozen North,
it was not possible to anticipate all of the moves of the adversary. Had
this been possible, my expedition of 1905-1906, which established the
then "farthest north" record of 87° 6´, would have reached the Pole. But
everybody familiar with the records of that expedition knows that its
complete success was frustrated by one of those unforeseen moves of our
great adversary--in that a season of unusually violent and continued
winds disrupted the polar pack, separating me from my supporting
parties, with insufficient supplies, so that, when almost within
striking distance of the goal, it was necessary to turn back because of
the imminent peril of starvation. When victory seemed at last almost
within reach, I was blocked by a move which could not possibly have been
foreseen, and which, when I encountered it, I was helpless to meet. And,
as is well known, I and those with me were not only checkmated but very
nearly lost our lives as well.
But all that is now as a tale that is told. This time it is a different
and perhaps a more inspiring story, though the records of gallant defeat
are not without their inspiration. And the point which it seems fit to
make in the beginning is that success crowned the efforts of years
because strength came from repeated defeats, wisdom from earlier error,
experience from inexperience, and determination from them all.
Perhaps, in view of the striking manner in which the final event bore
out the prophecies that I had made, it may be of interest to compare in
some detail the plan of campaign that was announced, over two months
before the _Roosevelt_ sailed from New York on her final voyage to the
North, with the manner in which that campaign was actually executed.
Early in May, 1908, in a published statement I sketched the following
plan:
"I shall use the same ship, the _Roosevelt_; shall leave New York early
in July; shall follow the same route north, via Sydney, C. B., Strait of
Belle Isle, Davis Strait, Baffin Bay, and Smith Sound; shall use the
same methods, equipments, and supplies; shall have a minimum party of
white men, supplemented with Eskimos; shall take on these Eskimos and
dogs in the Whale Sound region as before, and shall endeavor to force my
ship to the same or similar winter quarters on the north shore of Grant
Land as in the winter of 1905-1906.
"The sledge march will begin as before in February, but my route will be
modified as follows: First, I shall follow the north coast of Grant Land
as far west as Cape Columbia, and possibly beyond, instead of leaving
this land at Point Moss as I did before.
"Second, leaving the land, my course will be more west of north than
before, in order to counteract or allow for the easterly set of the ice
between the north coast of Grant Land and the Pole, discovered on my
last expedition. Another essential modification will be a more rigid
massing of my sledge divisions en route, in order to prevent the
possibility of a portion of the party being separated from the rest by
the movement of the ice, with insufficient supplies for a protracted
advance, as happened on the last expedition.
"There is no doubt in my mind that this 'big lead' (a lane of open
water), encountered in both my upward and return marches in my last
expedition, is an essentially permanent feature of this part of the
Arctic Ocean. I have little doubt of my ability to make this 'lead,'
instead of the north coast of Grant Land, my point of departure with
fully loaded sledges. If this is done it will shorten the route to the
Pole by nearly one hundred miles and distinctly simplify the
proposition.
"On the return march in the next expedition I shall probably do
voluntarily what I did involuntarily last time; that is, retreat upon
the north coast of Greenland (a course diagonally _with_ the set of the
ice) instead of attempting to come back to the north coast of Grant
Land (diagonally _against_ the set of the ice). An adjunct of this
program will probably be the establishment of a depot well up the north
coast of Greenland by the first of the supporting parties returning to
the ship."
The main features of this program I summarized as follows:
"First, the utilization of the Smith Sound or 'American' route. This
must be accepted to-day as the best of all possible routes for a
determined, aggressive attack upon the Pole. Its advantages are a land
base one hundred miles nearer the Pole than is to be found at any other
point of the entire periphery of the Arctic Ocean, a long stretch of
coast line upon which to return, and a safe and (to me) well-known line
of retreat independent of assistance, in the event of any mishap to the
ship.
"Second, the selection of a winter base which commands a wider range of
the central polar sea and its surrounding coasts than any other possible
base in the Arctic regions. Cape Sheridan is practically equidistant
from Crocker Land, from the remaining unknown portion of the northeast
coast of Greenland, and from my 'Nearest the Pole' of 1906.
"Third, the use of sledges and Eskimo dogs. Man and the Eskimo dog are
the only two machines capable of such adjustment as to meet the wide
demands and contingencies of Arctic travel. Airships, motor cars,
trained polar bears, etc., are all premature, except as a means of
attracting public attention.
"Fourth, the use of the hyperborean aborigine (the Whale Sound Eskimo)
for the rank and file of the sledge party. It seems unnecessary to
enlarge upon the fact that the men whose heritage is life and work in
that very region must present the best obtainable material for the
personnel of a serious Arctic party. This is my program. The object of
the work is the clearing up, or at least the fixing in their general
proportions, of the remaining large problems in the American segment of
the polar regions and the securing for the United States of that great
world trophy which has been the object of effort and emulation among
practically all the civilized nations of the world for the last three
centuries."
The details of this plan have been here set forth so explicitly because
the faithfulness with which they were carried out constitutes a record
which is perhaps unique in the annals of Arctic exploration. Compare
this scheme, if you please, with the manner of its execution. As had
been planned, the expedition sailed from New York early in July, 1908,
July 6, to be exact. It sailed from Sydney July 17, from Etah August 18,
and arrived at Cape Sheridan, the winter quarters of the _Roosevelt_, on
September 5, within a quarter of an hour of the same time it had arrived
at the same spot three years before. The winter was occupied in hunting,
in various side journeys, in making our sledging equipment, and in
moving supplies from the _Roosevelt_ along the northern shore of Grant
Land to Cape Columbia, which was to be our point of departure from the
land on our drive for the Pole itself.
The sledge divisions left the _Roosevelt_ from February 15 to 22, 1909,
rendezvoused at Cape Columbia, and on March 1 the expedition left Cape
Columbia, heading across the Polar Ocean for the Pole. The 84th parallel
was crossed on March 18, the 86th on March 23, the Italian record was
passed the next day, the 88th parallel on April 2, the 89th on April 4,
and the North Pole was reached on April 6 at ten o'clock in the morning.
I spent thirty hours at the Pole with Matt Henson, Ootah, the faithful
Eskimo who had gone with me in 1906 to 87° 6´, the then "farthest
north," and three other Eskimos who had also been with me on previous
expeditions. The six of us left the much desired "ninety north" on April
7 on the return journey and reached land at Cape Columbia again on April
23.
It will be noted that while the journey from Cape Columbia to the Pole
consumed thirty-seven days, (though only twenty-seven marches) we
returned from the Pole to Cape Columbia in only sixteen days. The
extraordinary speed of the return journey is to be accounted for by the
fact that we merely had to retrace our old trail instead of making a new
one, and because we were fortunate in encountering no delays. Excellent
conditions of ice and weather also contributed, not to mention the fact
that the exhilaration of success lent wings to our sorely battered feet.
But Ootah, the Eskimo, had his own explanation. Said he: "The devil is
asleep or having trouble with his wife, or we should never have come
back so easily."
It will be noted in this comparison, that practically the only feature
of the plan from which essential deviation was made was in returning to
Cape Columbia on the coast of Grant Land instead of further eastward to
the northern coast of Greenland as I had done in 1906. This change was
made for excellent reasons, which will be made clear in their proper
place. Upon this record there is only one shadow--a tragic one indeed. I
refer, of course, to the lamentable death of Prof. Ross G. Marvin, who
was drowned on April 10, four days after the Pole had been reached,
forty-five miles north of Cape Columbia, while returning from 86° 38´
north, in command of one of the supporting parties. With this sad
exception, the history of the expedition is flawless. We returned as we
went, in our own ship, battered but unharmed, in excellent health and
with a record of complete success.
There is a lesson in all this--a lesson so obvious that it is perhaps
superfluous to point it out. The plan, so carefully made and executed
with such faithfulness to detail, was composed of a number of elements,
the absence of any one of which might have been fatal to success. We
could scarcely have succeeded without the help of our faithful Eskimos;
nor even with them, had it not been for our knowledge of their
capacities for work and endurance, and for the confidence which years of
acquaintance had taught them to repose in me. We could certainly not
have succeeded without the Eskimo dogs which furnished the traction
power for our sledges, and so enabled us to carry our supplies where no
other power on earth could have moved them with the requisite speed and
certainty. It may be that we could not have succeeded without the
improved form of sledge which I was able to construct and which,
combining in its construction, strength, lightness, and ease of
traction, made the heavy task of the dogs far easier than it would
otherwise have been. It may even be that we should have failed had it
not been for so simple a thing as an improved form of water boiler which
I was fortunate enough to have hit upon. By its aid we were able to melt
ice and make tea in ten minutes. On our previous journeys this process
had taken an hour. Tea is an imperative necessity on such a driving
journey, and this little invention saved one and one-half hours in each
day while we were struggling toward the Pole on that journey when time
was the very essence of success.
Success crowned the work, it is true, but, for all that, it is a genuine
pleasure to reflect that even had we failed, I should have had nothing
to reproach myself with in the way of neglect. Every possible
contingency that years of experience had taught me to expect was
provided for, every weak spot guarded, every precaution taken. I had
spent a quarter of a century playing the Arctic game. I was fifty-three
years old, an age beyond which, perhaps, with the one exception of Sir
John Franklin, no man had ever attempted to prosecute work in the Arctic
regions. I was a little past the zenith of my strength, a little
lacking, perhaps, in the exuberant elasticity and élan of more youthful
years, a little past the time when most men begin to leave the strenuous
things to the younger generation; but these drawbacks were fully
balanced perhaps by a trained and hardened endurance, a perfect
knowledge of myself, and of how to conserve my strength. I knew it was
my last game upon the great Arctic chess-board. It was win this time or
be forever defeated.
The lure of the North! It is a strange and a powerful thing. More than
once I have come back from the great frozen spaces, battered and worn
and baffled, sometimes maimed, telling myself that I had made my last
journey thither, eager for the society of my kind, the comforts of
civilization and the peace and serenity of home. But somehow, it was
never many months before the old restless feeling came over me.
Civilization began to lose its zest for me. I began to long for the
great white desolation, the battles with the ice and the gales, the
long, long arctic night, the long, long arctic day, the handful of odd
but faithful Eskimos who had been my friends for years, the silence and
the vastness of the great, white lonely North. And back I went
accordingly, time after time, until, at last, my dream of years came
true.
CHAPTER II
PREPARATIONS
A great many persons have asked when I first conceived the idea of
trying to reach the North Pole. That question is hard to answer. It is
impossible to point to any day or month and to say, "Then the idea first
came to me." The North Pole dream was a gradual and almost involuntary
evolution from earlier work in which it had no part. My interest in
arctic work dates back to 1885, when as a young man my imagination was
stirred by reading accounts of explorations by Nordenskjöld in the
interior of Greenland. These studies took full possession of my mind and
led to my undertaking, entirely alone, a summer trip to Greenland in the
following year. Somewhere in my subconscious self, even so long ago as
that, there may have been gradually dawning a hope that I might some day
reach the Pole itself. Certain it is, the lure of the North, the "arctic
fever," as it has been called, entered my veins then, and I came to have
a feeling of fatality, a feeling that the reason and intent of my
existence was the solution of the mystery of the frozen fastnesses of
the Arctic.
But the actual naming of the Pole as the object of an expedition did not
materialize until 1898, when the first expedition of the Peary Arctic
Club went north with the avowed intention of reaching ninety north--if
it were possible. Since then I have made six different attempts, in six
different years, to reach the coveted point. The sledging season, when
such a "dash" is possible, extends from about the middle of February
until the middle of June. Before the middle of February there is not
sufficient light, and after the middle of June there is likely to be too
much open water.
During these six former attempts made by me to win the prize, the
successive latitudes of 83° 52´, 84° 17´, and 87° 6´ were attained, the
last giving back to the United States the record of "farthest north,"
which had for a time been wrested from it by Nansen, and from him in
turn by the Duke of the Abruzzi.
In writing the story of this last and successful expedition, it is
necessary to go back to my return from the former expedition of 1905-6.
Before the _Roosevelt_ entered port, and before I reached New York, I
was planning for another journey into the North, which, if I could
obtain the essential funds--and retained my health--I intended to get
under way as soon as possible. It is a principle in physics that a
ponderable body moves along the line of least resistance; but that
principle does not seem to apply to the will of man. Every obstacle
which has ever been placed in my way, whether physical or mental,
whether an open "lead" or the opposition of human circumstances, has
ultimately acted as a spur to the determination to accomplish the fixed
purpose of my life--if I lived long enough.
On my return in 1906, great encouragement was received from Mr. Jesup,
the president of the Peary Arctic Club, who had contributed so
generously to my former expeditions, and in whose honor I had named the
northernmost point of land in the world, latitude 83° 39´, Cape Morris
K. Jesup. He said, in so many words, that he would "see me through" on
another journey north. His promise meant that I should not have to beg
all the money in small sums from a more or less reluctant world.
The winter of 1906-7 and the spring of 1907 were devoted to presenting
to the world the results of the previous undertaking, and to the work of
interesting friends as far as possible in another expedition. We had the
ship, which had cost about $100,000 in 1905; but $75,000 more was needed
for new boilers and other changes, for equipment and for operating
expenses. While the bulk of the necessary funds was furnished by the
members and friends of the Peary Arctic Club, a very considerable amount
came from all parts of the country in contributions ranging from $100 to
$5 and even $1. These donations were not less appreciated than the big
ones, because they showed the friendliness and the interest of the
givers, and demonstrated to me the general recognition of the fact that
while the expedition was financed by private individuals, it was in
spirit a national affair.
At last the funds, actual and promised, were in such amount as to
authorize our contracting for new boilers for the _Roosevelt_, and
ordering certain modifications in her structure which would fit her more
effectively for another voyage: such as enlarging the quarters forward
for the crew, adding a lug sail to the foremast, and changing the
interior arrangements somewhat. The general features of the ship had
already proved themselves so well adapted for the purpose for which she
was intended that no alteration in them was required.
Experience had taught me how to figure on delays in the North; but the
exasperating delays of ship contractors at home had not yet entered into
my scheme of reckoning. Contracts for this work on the _Roosevelt_ were
signed in the winter, and called for the completion of the ship by July
1, 1907. Repeated oral promises were added to contractual agreements
that the work should certainly be done on that date; but, as a matter of
fact, the new boilers were not completed and installed until September,
thus absolutely negativing any possibility of going north in the summer
of 1907.
The failure of the contractors to live up to their word, with the
consequent delay of a year, was a serious blow to me. It meant that I
must attack the problem one year older; it placed the initiation of the
expedition further in the future, with all the possible contingencies
that might occur within a year; and it meant the bitterness of hope
deferred.
On the day when it became lamentably clear that I positively _could not_
sail north that year, I felt much as I had felt when I had been obliged
to turn back from 87° 6´, with only the empty bauble "farthest north,"
instead of the great prize which I had almost strained my life out to
achieve. Fortunately I did not know that Fate was even then clenching
her fist for yet another and more crushing blow.
While trying to possess my soul in patience despite the unjustified
delay, there came the heaviest calamity encountered in all my arctic
work--the death of my friend, Morris K. Jesup. Without his promised help
the future expedition seemed impossible. It may be said with perfect
truth that to him, more than to any other one man, had been due the
inception and the continuance of the Peary Arctic Club, and the success
of the work thus far. In him we lost not only a man who was financially
a tower of strength in the work, but I lost an intimate personal friend
in whom I had absolute trust. For a time it seemed as if this were the
end of everything; that all the effort and money put into the project
had been wasted. Mr. Jesup's death, added to the delay caused by the
default of the contractors, seemed at first an absolutely paralyzing
defeat.
Nor was it much help that there was no lack of well-meaning persons who
were willing to assure me that the year's delay and Mr. Jesup's death
were warnings indicating that I should never find the Pole.
Yet, when I gathered myself together and faced the situation squarely, I
realized that the project was something too big to die; that it never,
in the great scheme of things, would be allowed to fall through. This
feeling carried me past many a dead center of fatigue and utter
ignorance as to where the rest of the money for the expedition was to be
obtained. The end of the winter and the beginning of the spring of 1908
were marked by more than one blue day for everybody concerned in the
success of the expedition.
Repairs and changes in the _Roosevelt_ had exhausted all the funds in
the Club's treasury. We still needed the money for purchase of supplies
and equipment, pay of crew, and running expenses. Mr. Jesup was gone;
the country had not recovered from the financial crash of the previous
fall; every one was poor.
Then from this lowest ebb the tide turned. Mrs. Jesup, in the midst of
her distracting grief, sent a munificent check which enabled us to order
essential items of special supplies and equipment which required time
for preparation.
[Illustration: GEORGE A. WARDWELL
CHIEF ENGINEER]
[Illustration: BANKS SCOTT
SECOND ENGINEER]
[Illustration: ROBERT A. BARTLETT, MASTER]
[Illustration: THOMAS GUSHUE, MATE]
[Illustration: CHARLES PERCY, STEWARD]
General Thomas H. Hubbard accepted the presidency of the Club, and added
a second large check to his already generous contribution. Henry Parish,
Anton A. Raven, Herbert L. Bridgman--the "Old Guard" of the Club--who
had stood shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Jesup from the inception of the
organization, stood firm now to keep the organization of the Club
intact; other men came forward, and the crisis was past. But the money
still came hard. It was the subject of my every waking thought; and even
in sleep it would not let me rest, but followed with mocking and elusive
dreams. It was a dogged, dull, desperate time, with the hopes of my
whole life rising and falling day by day.
Then came an unexpected rift in the clouds, the receipt of a very
friendly letter from Mr. Zenas Crane, the great paper manufacturer, of
Massachusetts, who had contributed to a previous expedition, but whom I
had never met. Mr. Crane wrote that he was deeply interested; that the
project was one which should have the support of every one who cared for
big things and for the prestige of the country, and he asked me to
come to see him, if I could make it convenient. I could. I did. He gave
a check for $10,000 and promised to give more if it should be required.
The promise was kept, and a little later he accepted the vice-presidency
of the Club. What this $10,000 meant to me at that time would need the
pen of Shakespere to make entirely clear.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN, ASSISTANT]
[Illustration: GEORGE BORUP, ASSISTANT]
[Illustration: DONALD B. MACMILLAN, ASSISTANT]
[Illustration: DR. J. W. GOODSELL, SURGEON]
From this time on the funds came in slowly but steadily, to an amount
that, combined with rigid economy and thorough knowledge of what was and
what was not needed, permitted the purchase of the necessary supplies
and equipment.
During all this time of waiting, a small flood of "crank" letters poured
in from all over the country. There was an incredibly large number of
persons who were simply oozing with inventions and schemes, the adoption
of which would absolutely insure the discovery of the Pole. Naturally,
in view of the contemporaneous drift of inventive thought, flying
machines occupied a high place on the list. Motor cars, guaranteed to
run over any kind of ice, came next. One man had a submarine boat that
he was sure would do the trick, though he did not explain how we were to
get up through the ice after we had traveled to the Pole beneath it.
Still another chap wanted to sell us a portable sawmill. It was his
enterprising idea that this should be set up on the shore of the central
polar sea and that I was to use it for shaping lumber with which to
build a wooden tunnel over the ice of the polar sea all the way to the
Pole. Another chap proposed that a central soup station be installed
where the other man would have set up his sawmill, and that a series of
hose lines be run thence over the ice so that the outlying parties
struggling over the ice to the Pole could be warmed and invigorated with
hot soup from the central station.
Perhaps the gem of the whole collection was furnished by an inventor who
desired me to play the part of the "human cannon-ball." He would not
disclose the details of his invention, apparently lest I should steal
it, but it amounted to this: If I could get the machine up there, and
could get it pointed in exactly the right direction, and could hold on
long enough, it would shoot me to the Pole without fail. This was surely
a man of one idea. He was so intent on getting me shot to the Pole that
he seemed to be utterly careless of what happened to me in the process
of landing there or of how I should get back.
Many friends of the expedition who could not send cash sent useful
articles of equipment, for the comfort or amusement of the men. Among
such articles were a billiard table, various games, and innumerable
books. A member of the expedition having said to a newspaper man, a
short time before the _Roosevelt_ sailed, that we had not much reading
matter, the ship was deluged with books, magazines, and newspapers,
which came literally in wagon loads. They were strewn in every cabin, in
every locker, on the mess tables, on the deck,--everywhere. But the
generosity of the public was very gratifying, and there was much good
reading among the books and magazines.
When the time came for the _Roosevelt_ to sail, we had everything which
we absolutely needed in the way of equipment, including boxes of
Christmas candy, one for every man on board, a gift from Mrs. Peary.
It is a great satisfaction to me that this whole expedition, together
with the ship, was American from start to finish. We did not purchase a
Newfoundland or Norwegian sealer and fix it over for our purposes, as in
the case of other expeditions. The _Roosevelt_ was built of American
timber in an American shipyard, engined by an American firm with
American metal, and constructed on American designs. Even the most
trivial items of supplies were of American manufacture. As regards
personnel almost the same can be said. Though Captain Bartlett and the
crew were Newfoundlanders, the Newfoundlanders are our next-door
neighbors and essentially our first cousins. This expedition went north
in an American-built ship, by the American route, in command of an
American, to secure if possible an American trophy. The _Roosevelt_ was
built with a knowledge of the requirements of arctic navigation, gained
by the experience of an American on six former voyages into the Arctic.
I was extremely fortunate in the personnel of this last and successful
expedition, for in choosing the men I had the membership of the previous
expedition to draw from. A season in the Arctic is a great test of
character. One may know a man better after six months with him beyond
the Arctic circle than after a lifetime of acquaintance in cities. There
is a something--I know not what to call it--in those frozen spaces, that
brings a man face to face with himself and with his companions; if he is
a man, the man comes out; and, if he is a cur, the cur shows as
quickly.
First and most valuable of all was Bartlett, master of the _Roosevelt_,
whose ability had been proved on the expedition of 1905-6. Robert A.
Bartlett, "Captain Bob," as we affectionately call him, comes from a
family of hardy Newfoundland navigators, long associated with arctic
work. He was thirty-three when we last sailed north. Blue-eyed,
brown-haired, stocky, and steel-muscled Bartlett, whether at the wheel
of the _Roosevelt_ hammering a passage through the floes, or tramping
and stumbling over the ice pack, with the sledges, or smoothing away the
troubles of the crew, was always the same--tireless, faithful,
enthusiastic, true as the compass.
Matthew A. Henson, my negro assistant, has been with me in one capacity
or another since my second trip to Nicaragua, in 1887. I have taken him
with me on each and all of my northern expeditions, except the first, in
1886, and almost without exception on each of my "farthest" sledge
trips. This position I have given him, primarily because of his
adaptability and fitness for the work; secondly on account of his
loyalty. He has shared all the physical hardships of my arctic work. He
is now about forty years old, and can handle a sledge better, and is
probably a better dog-driver, than any other man living, except some of
the best of the Eskimo hunters themselves.
Ross G. Marvin, my secretary and assistant, who lost his life on the
expedition; George A. Wardwell, chief engineer; Percy, the steward; and
Murphy, the boatswain, had all been with me before. Dr. Wolf, who was
the surgeon of the expedition of 1905-6, had made professional
arrangements which prevented him from going north again, and his place
was taken by Dr. J. W. Goodsell, of New Kensington, Pa.
Dr. Goodsell is a descendant of an old English family that has had
representatives in America for two hundred and fifty years. His great
grandfather was a soldier in Washington's army when Cornwallis
surrendered, and his father, George H. Goodsell, spent many adventurous
years at sea and fought through the Civil War in the Union army. Dr.
Goodsell was born near Leechburg, Pa., in 1873. He received his medical
degree from Pulte Medical College, Cincinnati, O., and has since
practised medicine at New Kensington, Pa., specializing in clinical
microscopy. He is a member of the Homeopathic Medical Society of
Pennsylvania and of the American Medical Association. At the time of his
departure on the expedition he was president of the Allegheny Valley
Medical Society. His publications include "Direct Microscopic
Examination as Applied to Preventive Medicine and the Newer Therapy" and
"Tuberculosis and Its Diagnosis."
As the scope of this expedition was wider than that of the previous
ones, contemplating more extensive tidal observations for the United
States Coast and Geodetic Survey, and, if conditions permitted, lateral
sledge trips east to Cape Morris K. Jesup and west to Cape Thomas
Hubbard, I enlarged my field party, as it may be called, and added to
the expedition Mr. Donald B. MacMillan, of Worcester Academy, and Mr.
George Borup, of New York City.
MacMillan is the son of a sea captain and was born at Provincetown,
Mass., in 1874. His father's ship sailed from Boston nearly thirty
years ago and was never heard from again. His mother died the next year,
leaving the son with four other young children. When MacMillan was
fifteen years old he went to live with his sister at Freeport, Me.,
where he was prepared in the local high school to enter Bowdoin College,
being graduated from my alma mater in 1898. Like Borup, MacMillan
excelled in undergraduate athletics, played half-back on the Bowdoin
'varsity eleven and won a place on the track team. From 1898 to 1900 he
was principal of the Levi Hall School at North Gorham, Me., going thence
to become head master of the Latin Department at Swarthmore Preparatory
School of Swarthmore, Pa. Here he remained until 1903 when he became
instructor in Mathematics and Physical Training at Worcester Academy,
Mass., where he remained until he went north with the expedition. He
holds the Humane Society's certificate for saving a number of lives some
years ago, an exploit which it is difficult to induce him to talk about.
George Borup was born at Sing Sing, N. Y., Sept. 2, 1885. He prepared
for Yale at Groton School, where he spent the years from 1889 to 1903,
and was graduated from Yale in 1907. At college he was prominent in
athletics, was a member of the Yale track and golf teams, and made a
reputation as a wrestler. After his graduation he spent a year as a
special apprentice in the machine shops of the Pennsylvania Railroad
Company at Altoona, Pa.
To Captain Bartlett I left the selection of his officers and men, with
the single exception of the chief engineer.
The personnel of the expedition, as finally completed when the
_Roosevelt_ left Sydney on the 17th of July, 1908, included twenty-two
men, as follows: Robert E. Peary, commanding expedition; Robert A.
Bartlett, master of the _Roosevelt_; George A. Wardwell, chief engineer;
Dr. J. W. Goodsell, surgeon; Prof. Ross G. Marvin, assistant; Donald B.
MacMillan, assistant; George Borup, assistant; Matthew A. Henson,
assistant; Thomas Gushue, mate; John Murphy, boatswain; Banks Scott,
second engineer; Charles Percy, steward; William Pritchard, cabin boy;
John Connors, John Coady, John Barnes, Denis Murphy, George Percy,
seamen; James Bently, Patrick Joyce, Patrick Skeans, John Wiseman,
firemen.
The supplies for the expedition were abundant in quantity, but not
numerous in variety. Years of experience had given me the knowledge of
exactly what I wanted and how much of it. The absolutely essential
supplies for a serious arctic expedition are few, but they should be of
the best quality. Luxuries have no place in arctic work.
Supplies for an arctic expedition naturally divide themselves into two
classes: those for the sledge work in the field; those for the ship,
going and returning, and in winter quarters. The supplies for sledge
work are of a special character, and have to be prepared and packed in
such a way as to secure the maximum of nourishment with the minimum of
weight, of bulk, and of tare (that is, the weight of the packing). The
essentials, and the only essentials, needed in a serious arctic sledge
journey, no matter what the season, the temperature, or the duration of
the journey--whether one month or six--are four: pemmican, tea, ship's
biscuit, condensed milk. Pemmican is a prepared and condensed food, made
from beef, fat and dried fruits. It may be regarded as the most
concentrated and satisfying of all meat foods, and is absolutely
indispensable in protracted arctic sledge journeys.
The food for use on shipboard and in winter quarters comprises standard
commercial supplies. My expeditions have been perhaps peculiar in
omitting one item--and that is meat. For this important addition to
arctic food I have always depended on the country itself. Meat is the
object of the hunting expeditions of the winter months--not sport, as
some have fancied.
Here are a few of the items and figures on our list of supplies for the
last expedition: Flour, 16,000 pounds; coffee, 1,000 pounds; tea, 800
pounds; sugar, 10,000 pounds; kerosene, 3,500 gallons; bacon, 7,000
pounds; biscuit, 10,000 pounds; condensed milk, 100 cases; pemmican,
30,000 pounds; dried fish, 3,000 pounds; smoking tobacco, 1,000 pounds.
CHAPTER III
THE START
From her berth beside the recreation pier at the foot of East
Twenty-fourth Street, New York, the _Roosevelt_ steamed north on the
last expedition, about one o'clock in the afternoon of July 6, 1908. As
the ship backed out into the river, a cheer that echoed over Blackwell's
Island went up from the thousands who had gathered on the piers to see
us off; while the yacht fleet, the tugboats and the ferryboats tooted
their good wishes. It was an interesting coincidence that the day on
which we started for the coldest spot on earth was about the hottest
which New York had known for years. There were thirteen deaths from heat
and seventy-two heat prostrations recorded in Greater New York for that
day, while we were bound for a region where sixty below zero is not an
exceptional temperature.
We started with about one hundred guests of the Peary Arctic Club on
board the _Roosevelt_, and several members of the Club, including the
president, General Thomas H. Hubbard; the vice-president, Zenas Crane;
and the secretary and treasurer, Herbert L. Bridgman.
As we steamed up the river the din grew louder and louder, the whistles
of the power-houses and the factories adding their salutations to the
tooting of the river craft. At Blackwell's Island many of the inmates
were out in force to wave us their good-bys, and their farewells were
not the less appreciated because given by men whom society had placed
under restraint for society's good. Anyhow, they wished us well. I hope
they are all enjoying liberty now, and, what is better, deserving it.
Near Fort Totten we passed President Roosevelt's naval yacht, the
_Mayflower_, and her small gun roared out a parting salute, while the
officers and men waved and cheered. Surely no ship ever started for the
end of the earth with more heart-stirring farewells than those which
followed the _Roosevelt_.
Just before we reached the Stepping Stone Light, Mrs. Peary, the members
and guests of the Peary Arctic Club, and myself were transferred to the
tug _Narkeeta_ and returned to New York. The ship went on to Oyster Bay,
Long Island, the summer home of President Roosevelt, where Mrs. Peary
and I were to lunch with the President and Mrs. Roosevelt the following
day.
Theodore Roosevelt is to me the most intensely vital man, and the
biggest man, America has ever produced. He has that vibrant energy and
enthusiasm which is the basis of all real power and accomplishment. When
it came to christening the ship by whose aid it was hoped to fight our
way toward the most inaccessible spot on earth, the name of _Roosevelt_
seemed to be the one and inevitable choice. It held up as ideals before
the expedition those very qualities of strength, insistence,
persistence, and triumph over obstacles, which have made the
twenty-sixth President of the United States so great.
In the course of that last luncheon at Sagamore Hill, President
Roosevelt reiterated what he had said to me so many times before, that
he was earnestly and profoundly interested in my work, and that he
believed I would succeed if success were possible.
After luncheon the President and Mrs. Roosevelt, with their three sons,
came on board the ship with Mrs. Peary and me. Mr. Bridgman was on deck,
to welcome them in the name of the Peary Arctic Club. The Roosevelt
party remained on board about an hour; the President inspected every
part of the ship, shook hands with every member of the expedition
present, including the crew, and even made the acquaintance of my Eskimo
dogs, North Star and the others, which had been brought down from one of
my islands in Casco Bay, on the coast of Maine. As he was going over the
rail, I said to him: "Mr. President, I shall put into this effort
everything there is in me--physical, mental, and moral." And he replied,
"I believe in you, Peary, and I believe in your success--if it is within
the possibility of man."
The _Roosevelt_ stopped at New Bedford for the whale-boats, and also
made a short stop at Eagle Island, our summer home on the coast of
Maine, to take aboard the massive, steel-bound spare rudder, which we
carried as a precaution against disaster in the coming battle royal with
the ice. On the former expedition, when we had no extra rudder, we could
have used two. But, as things turned out this time, when we had the
extra rudder we had no occasion to use it.
Our departure from Eagle Island was timed so that Mrs. Peary and I
should arrive by train at Sydney, Cape Breton, the same day as the ship.
I have a very tender feeling for the picturesque little town of Sydney.
Eight times have I headed north from there on my arctic quest. My
recollections of the town date back to 1886, when I went there with
Captain Jackman in the whaler _Eagle_, and lay at the coal wharves for a
day or two filling the ship with coal for my very first northern voyage,
the summer cruise to Greenland, during which journey the "arctic fever"
got a grip upon me from which I have never recovered.
Since that time the town has grown from a little settlement of one
decent hotel and a few houses, to a prosperous city with seventeen
thousand inhabitants, many industries, and one of the largest steel
plants in the western hemisphere. My reason for choosing Sydney as a
starting point was because of the coal mines there. It is the place
nearest to the arctic regions where a ship can fill with coal.
My feelings, on leaving Sydney this last time, though difficult to
describe, were different from those at the start of any previous
expedition. I felt no uneasiness once the lines were cast off, for I
knew that everything had been done which could be done to insure
success, and that every essential item of supplies was on board. On
former journeys I had sometimes felt anxiety, but through the whole of
this last expedition I allowed nothing to worry me. Perhaps this feeling
of surety was because every possible contingency had been discounted,
perhaps because the setbacks and knock-out blows received in the past
had dulled my sense of danger.
The _Roosevelt_ having coaled at Sydney, we crossed the bay to North
Sydney to take on some last items of supplies. When we started to leave
the wharf over there we discovered that we were aground, and had to wait
an hour or so for the tide to rise. In our efforts to move the ship, one
of the whale-boats was crushed between the davits and the side of the
pier; but after eight arctic campaigns one does not regard a little
accident like that as a bad omen.
We got away from North Sydney about half past three in the afternoon of
July 17, in glittering golden sunshine. As we passed the signal station,
they signaled us, "Good-by and a prosperous voyage"; we replied, "Thank
you," and dipped our colors.
A little tug, which we had chartered to take our guests back to Sydney,
followed the _Roosevelt_ as far as Low Point Light, outside the harbor;
there she ran alongside, and Mrs. Peary and the children, and Colonel
Borup, with two or three other friends, transferred to her. As my
five-year-old son, Robert, kissed me good-by, he said, "Come back soon,
dad." With reluctant eyes I watched the little tug grow smaller and
smaller in the blue distance. Another farewell--and there had been so
many! Brave, noble little woman! You have borne with me the brunt of all
my arctic work. But, somehow, this parting was less sad than any which
had gone before. I think that we both felt it was the last.
By the time the stars came out, the last items of supplies taken on at
North Sydney were stowed, and the decks at least were unusually free
for an arctic ship just starting northward--all but the quarter-deck,
which was piled high with bags of coal.
Inside the cabins, however, all was litter and confusion. My room was
filled so full of things--instruments, books, furniture, presents from
friends, supplies, et cetera--that there was no space for me. Since my
return some one has asked me if I played on the pianola in my cabin that
first day at sea. I did not, for the excellent reason that I could not
get near it. The thrilling experiences of those first few hours were
mainly connected with excavating a space some six feet long by two feet
broad in the region of my bunk, where I could lay myself down to sleep
when the time came.
I have a special affection for my little cabin on the _Roosevelt_. Its
size and the comfort of the bathroom adjoining were the only luxuries
which I allowed myself. The cabin is plain, of matched yellow pine,
painted white. Its conveniences are the evolution of long experience in
the arctic regions. It has a wide built-in bunk, an ordinary writing
desk, several book units, a wicker chair, an office chair, and a chest
of drawers, these latter items of furniture being Mrs. Peary's
contributions to my comfort. Hanging over the pianola was a photograph
of Mr. Jesup, and on the side wall was one of President Roosevelt,
autographed. Then there were the flags, the silk one made by Mrs. Peary,
which I had carried for years, the flag of my college fraternity, Delta
Kappa Epsilon, the flag of the Navy League, and the peace flag of the
Daughters of the American Revolution. There was also a photograph of
our home on Eagle Island, and a fragrant pillow made by my daughter
Marie from the pine needles of that island.
The pianola, a gift from my friend H. H. Benedict, had been my pleasant
companion on my previous voyage, and again on this it proved one of our
greatest sources of pleasure. There were at least two hundred pieces of
music in my collection, but the strains of "Faust" rolled out over the
Arctic Ocean more often than any other. Marches and songs were also
popular, with the "Blue Danube" waltz; and sometimes, when the spirits
of my party were at rather a low ebb, we had ragtime pieces, which they
especially enjoyed.
There was also in my cabin a fairly complete, arctic library--absolutely
complete in regard to all the later voyages. These books, with a large
assortment of novels and magazines, could be depended upon to relieve
the tedium of the long arctic night, and very useful they were found for
that purpose. Sitting up late at night means something when the night is
some months long.
On the second day out the carpenter began the repairs on the crushed
whale-boat, using lumber which we carried for such purposes. The sea was
rough, and the waist of the ship was awash nearly all day. My companions
were gradually getting settled in their cabins; and if any man had
qualms of homesickness, he kept them to himself.
Our living quarters were in the after deckhouse, which extends the full
width of the _Roosevelt_ from a little aft of the mainmast to the
mizzenmast. In the center is the engine-room, with the skylight and the
uptake from the boilers, and on either side are the cabins and the
messrooms. My own cabin occupied the starboard corner aft; forward from
this was Henson's room, the starboard messroom, and in the forward
starboard corner Surgeon Goodsell's room. On the port side aft was
Captain Bartlett's room, occupied by himself and Marvin, and forward
from this in succession the cabin of the chief engineer and his
assistant, the cabin of Percy, the steward, and the cabin of MacMillan
and Borup; then the mate and the boatswain were in the forward port
corner of the deckhouse, next the port messroom of the junior officers.
The starboard mess comprised Bartlett, Dr. Goodsell, Marvin, MacMillan,
Borup, and myself.
I shall not dwell at great length upon the first stage of the journey
from Sydney to Cape York, Greenland, for the reason that it is only a
pleasant summer cruise at that season of the year, such as any
fair-sized yacht may undertake without peril or adventure; and there are
more interesting and unusual things to write about. In passing through
the Straits of Belle Isle, "the graveyard of ships," where there is
always danger of encountering icebergs in the fog, or being swung upon
the shore by the strong and capricious currents, I remained up all
night, as any man would who had care for his ship. But I could not help
contrasting that easy summer passage with our return in November, 1906,
when the _Roosevelt_ was standing on end half the time, and the rest of
the time was rolling the rail under water, losing two rudders, being
smashed by the sea, creeping along the Labrador coast in the berg
season, through dense fog, and picking up Point Amour Light only when
within a stone's throw of the shore, guided only by the sirens at Point
Amour and Bald Head, and the whistles of the big steamships lying at the
entrance of the strait, afraid to attempt the passage.
CHAPTER IV
UP TO CAPE YORK
On Sunday, July 19, we sent a boat ashore at Point Amour Light with
telegrams back home--the last. I wondered what my first despatch would
be the following year.
At Cape St. Charles we dropped anchor in front of the whaling station.
Two whales had been captured there the day before, and I immediately
bought one of them as food for the dogs. This meat was stowed on the
quarter-deck of the _Roosevelt_. There are several of these "whale
factories" on the Labrador coast. They send out a fast steel steamer,
with a harpoon gun at the bow. When a whale is sighted they give chase,
and when near enough discharge into the monster a harpoon with an
explosive bomb attached. The explosion kills him. Then he is lashed
alongside, towed into the station, hauled out on the timberways, and
there cut up, every part of the enormous carcass being utilized for some
commercial purpose.
We stopped again at Hawks Harbor, where the _Erik_, our auxiliary supply
steamer, was awaiting us with some twenty-five tons of whale meat on
board; and an hour or two later, a beautiful white yacht followed us in.
I recognized her as Harkness's _Wakiva_ of the New York Yacht Club.
Twice during the winter she had lain close to the _Roosevelt_ in New
York, at the East Twenty-fourth Street pier, coaling between her
voyages; and now, by a strange chance, the two vessels lay side by side
again in this little out-of-the-way harbor on the Labrador coast. No two
ships could be more unlike than these two: one white as snow, her
brasswork glittering in the sun, speedy, light as an arrow; the other
black, slow, heavy, almost as solid as a rock--each built for a special
purpose and adapted to that purpose.
Mr. Harkness and a party of friends, including several ladies, came on
board the _Roosevelt_, and the dainty dresses of our feminine guests
further accentuated the blackness, the strength, and the not over
cleanly condition of our ship.
We stopped once more at Turnavik Island, a fishing station belonging to
Captain Bartlett's father, and took on a consignment of Labrador skin
boots, for which we should have use in the North. Just before reaching
the Island we encountered a furious thunderstorm. It was the most
northerly thunderstorm which I remember having experienced.
I recall, however, that on our upward voyage in 1905 we ran into very
heavy thunderstorms with electrical displays quite as sharp as any
encountered in Gulf storms on voyages in southern waters, though the
storms of 1905 were met in the neighborhood of Cabot Strait, far south
of those of 1908.
Our voyage to Cape York was a peaceful one, lacking even the small
excitement of the same journey three years before, when, not far from
Cape St. George, all hands were startled by an alarm of fire which
started in one of the main deck beams from the uptake of the boilers.
Nor were we so plagued with fog in the early stages of our journey as we
were in 1905. In fact, every omen was auspicious from the very start, so
auspicious indeed that perhaps the more superstitious of the sailors
thought our luck was too good to last, while one member of our
expedition was continually "knocking on wood," just as a precaution, as
he expressed it. It would be rash to say that his forethought had much
to do with our success, but it eased his mind, at all events.
As we steamed steadily northward the nights grew shorter and shorter,
and lighter and lighter, so that when we crossed the Arctic Circle, soon
after midnight on July 26, we were in perpetual daylight. I have crossed
the Circle some twenty times, going and coming, so the fine edge of that
experience has been somewhat dulled for me; but the arctic "tenderfeet"
among my party, Dr. Goodsell, MacMillan, and Borup, were appropriately
impressed. They felt as one feels in crossing the equator the first
time--that it is an event.
The _Roosevelt_, steaming ever northward, was now well on her way to one
of the most interesting of all arctic localities. It is the little oasis
amid a wilderness of ice and snow along the west coast of northern
Greenland midway between Kane Basin on the north and Melville Bay on the
south. Here, in striking contrast to the surrounding country, is animal
and vegetable life in plenty, and in the course of the last hundred
years some half dozen arctic expeditions have wintered here. Here, too,
is the home of a little tribe of Eskimos.
[Illustration: SNOWY OWL, CAPE SHERIDAN]
[Illustration: BRANT-GOOSE]
[Illustration: SABINE'S GULL]
[Illustration: RED-THROATED DIVER, MALE AND FEMALE]
[Illustration: KING EIDER, DRAKE]
This little refuge is about a 3,000 mile sail from New York and about
2,000 miles as the bird flies. It is about 600 miles north of the Arctic
Circle and about half way from that great latitudinal mark to the Pole
itself. Here the great arctic night averages one hundred and ten days in
winter, during which time no ray of light falls upon the sight, save
that of the moon and the stars, while in summer the sun is visible every
moment for an equal number of days. Within the limits of this little
country is found the favorite haunt of the reindeer, which find
sufficient pasturage. But we are interested for the present in this
unique spot only in passing and for the reason that here we picked up
the little denizens of the frigid zone who were to help us in our
struggle farther north.
Before we reached this odd little oasis, but several hundred miles
beyond the Arctic Circle, we came to a most significant point in our
upward journey, marking as it did the grimness of the task before us. No
civilized man can die in this savage Northland without his grave having
a deep meaning for those who come afterwards; and constantly, as we
sailed on, these voiceless reminders of heroic bones told their silent
but powerful story.
At the southern limit of Melville Bay we passed the Duck Islands, where
is the little graveyard of the Scotch whalers who were the pioneers in
forcing the passage of Melville Bay and who died there, waiting for the
ice to open. These graves date back to the beginning of the nineteenth
century. From this point on, the arctic highway is marked by the graves
of those who have fallen in the terrible fight with cold and hunger.
These rude rock piles bring home to any thoughtful person the meaning of
arctic exploration. The men who lie there were not less courageous, not
less intelligent, than the members of my own party; they were simply
less fortunate.
Let us look along that highway for a moment and consider these
memorials. At North Star Bay are one or two graves of men from the
British ship _North Star_, which wintered there in 1850. Out on the Cary
Islands is the nameless grave of one of the ill-fated Kallistenius
Expedition. Still farther north, at Etah, is the grave of Sontag, the
astronomer of Hayes's Expedition; and a little above it, that of Ohlsen
of Kane's party. On the opposite side are the unmarked places where
sixteen of Greely's ill-fated party died. Still farther north, on the
eastern or Greenland side, is the grave of Hall, the American commander
of the Polaris Expedition. On the western, or Grant Land side, are the
graves of two or three sailors of the British Arctic Expedition of 1876.
And right on the shore of the central Polar Sea, near Cape Sheridan, is
the grave of the Dane, Petersen, the interpreter of the British Arctic
Expedition of 1876. These graves stand as mute records of former efforts
to win the prize, and they give a slight indication of the number of
brave but less fortunate men who have given the last possession of
mortal life in their pursuit of the arctic goal.
The first time I saw the graves of the whalers on Duck Islands I sat
there, in the arctic sunlight, looking at those headboards, sobered with
a realization of what they meant. When I first saw Sontag's grave, at
Etah, I carefully replaced the stones around it, as a tribute to a brave
man. At Cape Sabine, where Greely's party died, I was the first man to
step into the ruins of the stone hut after the seven survivors were
taken away years before--the first man, and I stepped into those ruins
in a blinding snowstorm late in August, and saw there the mementos of
those unfortunates.
Passing the Duck Islands on the upward voyage, approaching Cape York in
1908, and thinking of the graves there, I little dreamed that a loved
member of my own party, Professor Ross G. Marvin, who ate at my table
and acted as my secretary, was fated to add his name to this long list
of arctic victims, and that his grave, in uncounted fathoms of black
water, was to be the most northerly grave on this earth.
We reached Cape York on the first day of August. Cape York is the bold,
bluff headland which marks the southern point of the stretch of arctic
coast inhabited by my Eskimos, the most northerly human beings in the
world. It is the headland whose snowy cap I have seen so many times
rising in the distance above the horizon line of Melville Bay as my
ships have steamed north. At the base of the headland nestles the most
southerly of all the Eskimo villages, and it has marked the point of
meeting, year after year, between the members of this tribe and myself.
At Cape York we were on the threshold of the actual work. I had on board
the ship when I arrived there all the equipment and assistance which the
civilized world could yield. Beginning there, I was to take on the
tools, the material, the personnel, that the arctic regions themselves
were to furnish for their own conquest. Cape York, or Melville Bay, is
the dividing line between the civilized world on the one side and the
arctic world on the other--the arctic world with its equipment of
Eskimos, dogs, walrus, seal, fur clothing, and aboriginal experience.
Behind me lay the civilized world, which was now absolutely useless, and
which could give me nothing more. Ahead of me lay that trackless waste
through which I must literally cut my way to the goal. Even the ship's
journey from Cape York to winter quarters on the north coast of Grant
Land is not "plain sailing"; in fact, it is not sailing at all during
the later stages; it is jamming and butting and dodging and hammering
the ice, with always the possibility that the antagonist will hit back a
body blow. It is like the work of a skilled heavy-weight pugilist, or
the work of an old Roman fighter with the cestus.
Beyond Melville Bay the world, or what we know as the world, is left
behind. On leaving Cape York, we had exchanged the multifarious purposes
of civilization for the two purposes for which there is room in those
wide wastes: food for man and dog, and the covering of miles of
distance.
Behind me now lay everything that was mine, everything that a man
personally loves, family, friends, home, and all those human
associations which linked me with my kind. Ahead of me lay--my dream,
the goal of that irresistible impulse which had driven me for
twenty-three years to measure myself, time after time, against the
frigid _No_ of the Great North.
Should I succeed? Should I return? Success in the attainment of 90°
North would not inevitably carry with it the safe return. We had learned
_that_ on recrossing the "big lead" in 1906. In the Arctic the chances
are always against the explorer. The inscrutable guardians of the secret
appear to have a well-nigh inexhaustible reserve of trump cards to play
against the intruder who insists upon dropping into the game. The life
is a dog's life, but the work is a man's work.
As we steamed northward from Cape York, on the first day of August,
1908, I felt that I was now in truth face to face with the final
struggle. Everything in my life appeared to have led up to this day. All
my years of work and all my former expeditions were merely preparations
for this last and supreme effort. It has been said that well-directed
labor toward a given end is an excellent kind of prayer for its
attainment. If that be so, then prayer has been my portion for many
years. Through all the seasons of disappointment and defeat I had never
ceased to believe that the great white mystery of the North must
eventually succumb to the insistence of human experience and will, and,
standing there with my back to the world and my face toward that
mystery, I believed that I should win in spite of all the powers of
darkness and of desolation.
CHAPTER V
WELCOME FROM THE ESKIMOS
As we approached Cape York, which is farther from the Pole in actual
distance than New York is from Tampa, Florida, it was with a peculiar
feeling of satisfaction that I saw the foremost of our Eskimo friends
putting out to meet us in their tiny kayaks, or skin canoes. Here is the
southernmost of the Eskimo villages, by which a permanent settlement is
not meant, for these barbarians are nomads. One year there may be two
families there; another year ten; and still another season none at all,
for the Eskimos seldom live more than a year or two in one place.
As we neared the Cape, the headland was encircled and guarded by an
enormous squadron of floating icebergs which made it difficult for the
_Roosevelt_ to get near shore; but long before we reached these bergs
the hunters of the settlement were seen putting out to greet us. The
sight of them skimming the water so easily in their frail kayaks was the
most welcome spectacle I had seen since we sailed from Sydney.
[Illustration: ESKIMOS COMING OFF TO THE ROOSEVELT IN KAYAKS]
It seems fitting to give a good deal of attention at this point to the
consideration of this interesting little race, the most northerly people
in all the world, for their help is one of the elements without which it
is possible that the North Pole might never have been reached. Some
years ago, in fact, I had occasion to write of these people a few
sentences that, as it has turned out, were so prophetic that it seems
appropriate to reproduce them here. Those sentences were:
"I have often been asked: Of what use are Eskimos to the world? They are
too far removed to be of value for commercial enterprises and,
furthermore, they lack ambition. They have no literature nor, properly
speaking, any art. They value life only as does a fox, or a bear, purely
by instinct. But let us not forget that these people, trustworthy and
hardy, will yet prove their value to mankind. With their help, the world
shall discover the Pole."
The hope that had been expressed in this language so long before was in
my mind as I saw my old friends coming out to meet us in their tiny
kayaks, for I realized that I was once more in contact with these
faithful dwellers of the North, who had been my constant companions for
so many years, through all the varying circumstances and fortunes of my
arctic work, and from whom I was again to select the pick and flower of
the hunters of the whole tribe, extending from Cape York to Etah, to
assist in this last effort to win the prize.
[Illustration: ESKIMO IN KAYAK]
Since 1891 I had been living and working with these people, gaining
their absolute confidence, making them my debtors for things given them,
earning their gratitude by saving, time after time, the lives of their
wives and children by supplying them with food when they were on the
verge of starvation. For eighteen years I had been training them in my
methods; or, to put it another way, teaching them how to modify and
concentrate their wonderful ice technic and endurance, so as to make
them useful for my purposes. I had studied their individual characters,
as any man studies the human tools with which he expects to accomplish
results, until I knew just which ones to select for a quick, courageous
dash, and just which dogged, unswerving ones would, if necessary, walk
straight through hell for the object I had placed before them.
I know every man, woman, and child in the tribe, from Cape York to Etah.
Prior to 1891 they had never been farther north than their own habitat.
Eighteen years ago I went to these people, and my first work was from
their country as a base.
Much nonsense has been told by travelers in remote lands about the
aborigines' regarding as gods the white men who come to them, but I have
never placed much credence in these stories. My own experience has been
that the average aborigine is just as content with his own way as we are
with ours, just as convinced of his own superior knowledge, and that he
adjusts himself with his knowledge in regard to things in the same way
that we do. The Eskimos are not brutes; they are just as human as
Caucasians. They know that I am their friend, and they have abundantly
proved themselves my friends.
When I went ashore at Cape York I found there four or five families,
living in their summer tupiks, or skin tents, From them I learned what
had happened in the tribe in the last two years; who had died, in what
families children had been born, where this family and that family were
then living--that is, the distribution of the tribe for that particular
summer. I thus learned where to find the other men I wanted.
It was about seven o'clock in the morning when we arrived at Cape York.
I selected the few men needed from that place, told them that when the
sun reached a certain point in the heavens that evening the ship would
sail, and that they and their families and possessions must be aboard
the ship. As hunting is the only industry in these Eskimo villages, and
as their goods are of an easily portable character, consisting mainly of
tents, dogs and sledges, a few skins, pots and pans, they were able to
transport themselves to the _Roosevelt_ in our boats without much loss
of time. As soon as they were on board we started north again.
There was no question of their willingness to follow me; they were only
too glad to go. These men knew from past experience that, once enrolled
as members of my expedition, there was no danger that their wives or
children would suffer from hunger; and they knew also that at the end of
the journey, when we brought them back to their homes, I would turn over
to them the remaining supplies and equipment of the expedition, which
would ensure living for another year in absolute plenty, that, in
comparison with the other members of their tribe, they would indeed be
multi-millionaires.
An intense and restless curiosity is one of the peculiar characteristics
of these people. As an illustration, one winter, years ago, when Mrs.
Peary was in Greenland with me, an old woman of the tribe walked a
hundred miles from her village to our winter quarters in order that she
might see a white woman.
It may perhaps be fairly said that it has been my fortune to utilize the
Eskimos for the purpose of discovery to a degree equaled by no other
explorer, and for that reason it may not seem amiss to suspend the
general narrative long enough to give a little information regarding
their characteristics, the more so as without some knowledge of these
peculiar people it would be impossible for any one really to understand
the workings of my expedition to the North Pole. It has been a
fundamental principle of all my arctic work to utilize the Eskimos for
the rank and file of my sledge parties. Without the skilful handiwork of
the women we should lack the warm fur clothing which is absolutely
essential to protect us from the winter cold, while the Eskimo dog is
the only tractive force suitable for serious arctic sledge work.
The members of this little tribe or family, inhabiting the western coast
of Greenland from Cape York to Etah, are in many ways quite different
from the Eskimos of Danish Greenland, or those of any other arctic
territory. There are now between two hundred and twenty and two hundred
and thirty in the tribe. They are savages, but they are not savage; they
are without government, but they are not lawless; they are utterly
uneducated according to our standard, yet they exhibit a remarkable
degree of intelligence. In temperament like children, with all a child's
delight in little things, they are nevertheless enduring as the most
mature of civilized men and women, and the best of them are faithful
unto death. Without religion and having no idea of God, they will share
their last meal with any one who is hungry, while the aged and the
helpless among them are taken care of as a matter of course. They are
healthy and pure-blooded; they have no vices, no intoxicants, and no bad
habits--not even gambling. Altogether, they are a people unique upon the
face of the earth. A friend of mine well calls them the philosophic
anarchists of the North.
I have been studying the Eskimos for eighteen years and no more
effective instruments for arctic work could be imagined than these
plump, bronze-skinned, keen-eyed and black-maned children of nature.
Their very limitations are their most valuable endowments for the
purposes of arctic work. I have a sincere interest in these people,
aside from their usefulness to me; and my plan from the beginning has
been to give them such aid and instruction as would fit them more
effectively to cope with their own austere environment, and to refrain
from teaching them anything which would tend to weaken their
self-confidence or to make them discontented with their lot.
The suggestions of some well-meaning persons that they be transported to
a more hospitable region would, if carried out, cause their
extermination in two or three generations. Our variable climate they
could not endure, as they are keenly susceptible to pulmonary and
bronchial affections. Our civilization, too, would only soften and
corrupt them, as their racial inheritance is one of physical hardship;
while to our complex environment they could not adjust themselves
without losing the very childlike qualities which constitute their chief
virtues. To Christianize them would be quite impossible; but the
cardinal graces of faith, hope, and charity they seem to have already,
for without them they could never survive the six-months' night and the
many rigors of their home.
Their feeling for me is a blending of gratitude and confidence. To
understand what my gifts have meant to them, imagine a philanthropic
millionaire descending upon an American country town and offering every
man there a brownstone mansion and an unlimited bank account. But even
this comparison falls short of the reality, for in the United States
even the poorest boy knows that there is a possibility of his attaining
for himself those things on which he sets his heart, if he will labor
and endure, while to the Eskimos the things which I have given them are
absolutely out of their world, as far beyond their own unaided efforts
as the moon and Mars are beyond the dwellers on this planet.
My various expeditions into that region have had the effect of raising
the Eskimos from the most abject destitution, lacking every appliance
and accessory of civilized life, to a position of relative affluence,
with the best material for their weapons, their harpoons and lances, the
best of wood for their sledges, the best of cutlery, knives, hatchets,
and saws for their work, and the cooking utensils of civilization.
Formerly they were dependent upon the most primitive hunting weapons;
now they have repeating rifles, breech-loading shotguns, and an
abundance of ammunition. There was not a rifle in the tribe when I first
went there. As they have no vegetables, and live solely on meat, blood,
and blubber, the possession of guns and ammunition has increased the
food-producing capacity of every hunter, and relieved the whole tribe
from the formerly ever-present danger of starvation for a family, or
even an entire village.
There is a theory, first advanced by Sir Clements Markham, ex-president
of the Royal Geographical Society of London, that the Eskimos are the
remnants of an ancient Siberian tribe, the Onkilon; that the last
members of this tribe were driven out on the Arctic Ocean by the fierce
waves of Tartar invasion in the Middle Ages, and that they found their
way to the New Siberian Islands, thence eastward over lands yet
undiscovered to Grinnell Land and Greenland. I am inclined to believe in
the truth of this theory for the following reasons:
Some of the Eskimos are of a distinctly Mongolian type, and they display
many Oriental characteristics, such as mimicry, ingenuity, and patience
in mechanical duplication. There is a strong resemblance between their
stone houses and the ruins of the houses found in Siberia. The Eskimo
girl brought home by Mrs. Peary, in 1894, was mistaken by Chinamen for
one of their own people. It has also been suggested that their
invocation of the spirits of their dead may be a survival of Asian
ancestor worship.
As a general rule the Eskimos are short in stature, as are the Chinese
and Japanese, though I could name several men who stand about five feet
ten inches. The women are short and plump. They all have powerful
torsos, but their legs are rather slender. The muscular development of
the men is astonishing, though their fatty roundness hides the
differentiation of the muscles.
These people have no written speech, and their language is
agglutinative, with complicated prefixes and suffixes, by which they
extend a word to a considerable length from the original stem. The
language is relatively easy to acquire, and during my first summer in
Greenland I gained a fair knowledge of it. In addition to their ordinary
speech, they have an esoteric language known only to the adults of the
tribe. I cannot say wherein it differs from the other, having made no
attempt to learn it, and I doubt if any white man has been fully taught
this secret speech, as the knowledge is carefully guarded by its
possessors.
The Eskimos of this region have not, as a rule, applied themselves to
the study of English, for they were clever enough to see that we could
learn their language more easily than they could learn ours.
Occasionally, however, an Eskimo will startle all hands by rolling out
an English phrase or sentence, and, like a parrot, he seems to have a
special aptitude in picking up from the sailors phrases of slang or
profanity.
On the whole, these people are much like children, and should be treated
as such. They are easily elated, easily discouraged. They delight in
playing tricks on each other and on the sailors, are usually
good-natured, and when they are sulky there is no profit in being vexed
with them. The methods which children characterize as "jollying" are
best for such emergencies. Their mercurial temperament is Nature's
provision for carrying them through the long dark night, for if they
were morose like the North American Indians, the whole tribe would long
ago have lain down and died of discouragement, so rigorous is their lot.
In managing the Eskimos it is necessary to make a psychological study of
them, and to consider their peculiar temperament. They are keenly
appreciative of kindness, but, like children, they will impose upon a
weak or vacillating person. A blending of gentleness and firmness is the
only effective method. The fundamental point in all my dealings with
them has been always to mean just what I say and to have things done
exactly as ordered. For instance, if I tell an Eskimo that if he does a
certain thing properly he will get a certain reward, he always gets the
reward if he obeys. On the other hand, if I tell him that a certain
undesirable thing will happen if he follows a course I have forbidden,
that thing invariably happens.
I have made it to their interest to do what I want done. For example,
the best all-round man on a long sledge journey got more than the
others. A record was always kept of the game secured by each Eskimo, and
the best hunter got a special prize. Thus I kept them interested in
their work. The man who killed the musk ox with the finest set of horns
and the man who killed the deer with the most magnificent antlers were
specially rewarded. I have made it a point to be firm with them, but to
rule them by love and gratitude rather than by fear and threats. An
Eskimo, like an Indian, never forgets a broken promise--nor a fulfilled
one.
It would be misleading to infer that almost any man who went to the
Eskimos with gifts could obtain from them the kind of service they have
given me; for it must be remembered that they have known me personally
for nearly twenty years. I have saved whole villages from starvation,
and the children are taught by their parents that if they grow up and
become good hunters or good seamstresses, as the case may be,
"Pearyaksoah" will reward them sometime in the not too distant future.
Old Ikwah, for example, who is the father of the girl for whose
possession hot-hearted young Ooqueah of my North Pole party fought his
way with me to the goal, was the first Eskimo I had, away back in 1891.
This young knight of the Northland is an illustration of the fact that
sometimes an Eskimo man or woman may be as intense in his or her affairs
of the heart as we are. As a rule, however, they are more like children
in their affections, faithful to their mates from a sort of domestic
habit, but easily consoled for the loss of them by death or otherwise.
[Illustration: DECK SCENE ON THE ROOSEVELT]
CHAPTER VI
AN ARCTIC OASIS
In a little arctic oasis lives the meager and scattered handful of the
Eskimo population--a little oasis along the frowning western coast of
Northern Greenland between Melville Bay and Kane Basin. This region is
three thousand miles north of New York City, as a steamer goes; it lies
about half way between the Arctic Circle and the Pole, within the
confines of the great night. Here, taking the mean latitude, for one
hundred and ten days in summer the sun never sets; for one hundred and
ten days in winter the sun never rises, and no ray of light save from
the icy stars and the dead moon falls on the frozen landscape.
[Illustration: THE ICE CLIFFS OF HUBBARD GLACIER]
There is a savage grandeur in this coast, carved by eternal conflict
with storms and glaciers, bergs and grinding ice-fields; but behind the
frowning outer mask nestle in summer many grass-carpeted,
flower-sprinkled, sun-kissed nooks. Millions of little auks breed along
this shore. Between the towering cliffs are glaciers which launch at
intervals their fleets of bergs upon the sea; before these cliffs lies
the blue water dotted with masses of glistening ice of all shapes and
sizes; behind the cliffs is the great Greenland ice cap, silent,
eternal, immeasurable--the abode, say the Eskimos, of evil spirits and
the souls of the unhappy dead.
In some places on this coast in summer, the grass is as thick and long
as on a New England farm. Here bloom poppies, with dandelions,
buttercups, and saxifrage, though to the best of my knowledge the
flowers are all devoid of perfume. I have seen bumblebees even north of
Whale Sound; there are flies and mosquitoes, and even a few spiders.
Among the fauna of this country are the reindeer (the Greenland
caribou), the fox--both blue and white--the arctic hare, the Polar bear,
and perhaps once in a generation a stray wolf.
But in the long sunless winter this whole region--cliffs, ocean,
glaciers--is covered with a pall of snow that shows a ghastly gray in
the wan starlight. When the stars are hidden, all is black, void, and
soundless. When the wind is blowing, if a man ventures out he seems to
be pushed backward by the hands of an invisible enemy, while a vague,
unnamable menace lurks before and behind him. It is small wonder the
Eskimos believe that evil spirits walk upon the wind.
During the winter these patient and cheerful children of the North live
in igloos, or huts, built of stones and earth. It is only when they are
traveling, as sometimes during the moonlit period of the month, that
they live in the snow igloos, which three good Eskimos can build in an
hour or two, and which we built at the end of every day's march on our
sledge journey to the Pole. In summer they live in the tupiks, or skin
tents. The stone houses are permanent, and a good one will last perhaps
a hundred years, with a little repairing of the roof in summer. Igloos
are found in groups, or villages, at intervals along the coast from
Cape York Bay to Anoratok. As the people are nomadic, these permanent
dwellings belong to the tribe, and not to individuals, constituting thus
a crude sort of arctic socialism. One year all the houses in a
settlement may be occupied; the next year none, or only one or two.
These houses are about six feet high by eight to ten feet wide by ten to
twelve feet long, and one may be constructed in a month. An excavation
is made in the earth, which forms the floor of the house; then the walls
are built up solidly with stones chinked with moss; long, flat stones
are laid across the top of the walls; this roof is covered with earth,
and the whole house is banked in with snow. The construction of the
arched roof is on the plan which engineers know as the cantilever, and
not that of the Roman arch. The long, flat stones which form the roof
are weighted and counter-weighted at the outer ends, and in all my
arctic experience I have never known the stone roof of an igloo to fall
upon the inmates. There are never any complaints made to the Building
Department. There is no door in the side, but a hole in the floor at the
entrance leads to a tunnel, sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen, or even
twenty-five, feet in length, through which the tenants crawl into their
home. There is always a small window in the front of the igloo. The
window space is not glazed, of course, but is covered with the thin,
intestinal membrane of seals, skilfully seamed together. To a traveler
across the dark and snowy winter waste, the yellow light from the
interior lamp is visible, sometimes, a long distance away.
At the farther end of the igloo is the bed platform, raised about a foot
and a half above the earthen floor. Usually this platform is not built,
but is the natural level of the earth, the standing space being dug
before it. In some houses, however, the bed platform is made of long,
flat stones raised upon stone supports. When the Eskimos are ready to
move into the stone houses in the fall, they cover the bed platform
first with grass, which they bring in by the sledge-load; the grass is
then covered with sealskins; above these are spread deerskins, or
musk-ox skins,--which form the mattress. Deerskins are used for
blankets. Pajamas are not in fashion with the Eskimos. They simply
remove all their clothes and crawl in between the deerskins.
The lamp, which stands on a large stone at the front of the bed platform
on one side, is kept burning all the time, whether the family is asleep
or awake. An imaginative person might liken this lamp to an ever-burning
sacred flame upon the stone altar of the Eskimo home. It serves also as
a stove for heating and cooking, and makes the igloo so warm that the
inhabitants wear little clothing when indoors. They sleep with their
heads toward the lamp, so the woman may reach out and tend it.
On the other side of the house food is generally stored. When two
families occupy one igloo, there may be a second lamp on the other side;
and in that case the food must be stored under the bed. The temperature
of these houses varies from eighty or ninety degrees Fahrenheit, on the
bed platform and near the roof, to something below freezing point at the
floor level. There is a little air-hole in the center of the roof, but
in the happy home of an Eskimo family, in winter, the atmosphere could
almost be handled with a shovel.
Often, in winter traveling, I have been obliged to sleep in one of these
hospitable igloos. On such occasions I have made the best of things, as
a man would if compelled to sleep in a tenth-rate railroad hotel or a
slum lodging-house, but I have tried to forget the experience as soon as
possible. It is not well for an arctic explorer to be too fastidious. A
night in one of these igloos, with the family at home, is an offense to
every civilized sense, especially that of smell; but there are times
when a man, after a long sledge journey in the terrible cold and wind,
hungry and footsore, will welcome the dim light shining through the
translucent window of an igloo as one welcomes the light of home. It
means warmth and comfort, supper, and blessed sleep.
There is no blinking the fact that my Eskimo friends are very dirty.
When I have them on the ship with me they make heroic efforts to wash
themselves occasionally; but in their own homes they practically never
do, and in winter they have no water except from melted snow. On rare
occasions, when the dirt gets too thick for comfort, they may remove the
outer layer with a little oil. I shall never forget the amazement with
which they made acquaintance with the white man's use of the
tooth-brush.
With the coming of the summer, the stone and earth houses become damp,
dark holes, and the roofs are taken off to dry and ventilate the
interior. The family then moves outside and sets up the tupik, or skin
tent, which is their home from about the first of June till some time in
September. The tupik is made of sealskins, with the hair on the inside.
Ten or twelve skins, sewed together in one large piece, make a tent. It
is stretched on poles, high in front and sloping toward the back, thus
offering the least possible resistance to the wind, the edges held down
with stones. The earth floor of these tents is six or eight feet wide
and eight or ten feet long, according to the size of the family.
In recent years my Eskimos have adopted an improvement upon the building
customs of the west coast natives, and many of them have an entrance
extension to their tents made of transparent tanned sealskins, thick
enough to keep out the rain but not the light. This adds to the
roominess and comfort of their summer dwellings. A usual practice among
the better class of Eskimos is to use the old tupik of the previous
summer for a rain or weather-guard to the new tent. In heavy winds or
heavy summer rains, the old tupik is simply spread over the new one,
thus giving a double thickness and protection to the owners.
The bed platform in the tupik is now generally made of lumber, which I
have furnished, raised on stones, and in pleasant weather the cooking is
done outside. Oil is the only fuel for heat, light, and cooking. The
Eskimo women trim the lamps so well that there is no smoke from them,
unless there is a draft in the tent or igloo. They cut small pieces of
blubber, which they lay on moss and ignite, and the heat from the moss
dries out the oil, making a surprisingly hot flame. Until I gave them
matches, they had only the primitive means of ignition by flint and
steel, which they obtained from a vein of pyrites. When I first went up
there, all their lamps and rectangular pots were made of soapstone, two
or three veins of which are found in that country. Their ability to
utilize the soapstone and pyrites is an illustration of their
intelligence and ingenuity.
As a rule little clothing is worn in the tupiks in warm weather, as the
normal summer temperature is around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and in the
strong sunlight may go as high as eighty-five or even ninety-five.
The trial marriage is an ineradicable custom among the Eskimos. If a
young man and woman are not suited with each other, they try again, and
sometimes several times; but when they find mates to whom they are
adapted, the arrangement is generally permanent. If two men want to
marry the same woman, they settle the question by a trial of strength,
and the better man has his way. These struggles are not fights, as the
disputants are amiable; they are simply tests of wrestling, or sometimes
of pounding each other on the arm to see which man can stand the
pounding the longer.
Their fundamental acceptance of the proposition that might is right in
such matters sometimes extends to a man saying to the husband of a
woman: "I am the better man." In such case the husband has either to
prove his superiority in strength, or yield the woman to the other. If a
man grows tired of his wife, he simply tells her there is not room for
her in his igloo. She may return to her parents, if they are living;
she may go to a brother or a sister; or she may send word to some man in
the tribe that she is now at liberty and is willing to start life again.
In these cases of primitive divorce, the husband keeps one or all of the
children if he wants them; if not, the woman takes them with her.
[Illustration: ESKIMO MOTHER AND CHILD]
The Eskimos do not have many children, two or three being the usual
number. The woman does not take her husband's name in any case.
Akatingwah, for instance, will remain Akatingwah, whether she has had
one husband or several. Children do not address their parents as father
and mother, but call them by their names, though sometimes very small
children use a diminutive which corresponds to our "mamma."
Among the Eskimos the woman is as much a part of the man's property as
his dog or sledge--except in some rare cases. The cause of the
suffragettes has as yet made little headway in this region. I remember
one instance in which an Eskimo woman had a difference of opinion with
her husband, and proved her right to independence by blackening the old
man's eye; but I am afraid that the more conservative members of the
tribe attributed this unfeminine behavior to the corrupting influence of
contact with civilization.
As there are more men than women among the Eskimos, the girls marry very
young, often about the age of twelve. In many cases the marriages are
arranged between the parents when the children are quite young; but the
boy and girl are not bound, and when they are old enough they are
permitted to decide for themselves. In fact, they can make several such
decisions without losing caste. On the last expedition, as on those of
former years, I found that a number of matrimonial changes had taken
place among my Northern friends since I was last among them.
[Illustration: ESKIMO CHILDREN]
It would be worse than useless to attempt to engraft our marriage
customs upon these naive children of Nature. Should an arctic explorer
consider it his duty to tell a young Eskimo that it was not right for
him to exchange wives with his friend, it would be well for the explorer
to have his supporting argument well prepared beforehand, for the
censured one would probably open wide his eyes and inquire, "Why not?"
These people of the ice-land, like all intelligent savages, are
remarkably curious. If confronted, say, with a package containing
various supplies unknown to them, they will not rest until they have
examined every article of the lot, touched it, turned it over, and even
tasted it, chattering all the while like a flock of blackbirds. They
exhibit, too, in marked degree, all the Oriental capacity for imitation.
Out of walrus ivory, in some respects their substitute for steel,--and a
surprisingly good substitute it is,--they will construct amazingly good
models or copies of various objects, while it does not take them long to
master the use of such tools of civilization as may be put into their
hands. It will easily be seen how valuable and useful a quality this has
proved for the purposes of the arctic explorer. If he could not rely on
the Eskimo to do the white man's work with the white man's tools, the
labors of the arctic traveler would be tremendously increased and the
size of his expedition would have to be enlarged to limits that might be
found unwieldy in the extreme.
[Illustration: KUDLAH, ALIAS "MISFORTUNE," WITH PUPPIES]
My own observations of this interesting people have taught me to repose
no confidence whatever in the tales of barbaric craft and cruelty which
I have heard of them. On the contrary, taking into consideration their
uncivilized state, they must be ranked as a humane people. Moreover,
they have always been quick to grasp the purposes that I have had in
view and to bend their energies toward achieving the ends for which my
expeditions have been striving.
Their humanity, as has been indicated, takes a form that would delight a
socialist. They are generous and hospitable in a crude way, almost
without exception. As a general rule, good and bad fortune are shared.
The tribe shares in the proceeds of good luck on the part of the hunters
and, as their existence depends on hunting, this accounts in large
measure for the preservation of the tribe.
CHAPTER VII
ODD CUSTOMS OF AN ODD PEOPLE
Hard as is the life of the Eskimo, his end is usually as rigorous. All
his life he is engaged in constant warfare with the inhospitable
elements of his country, and Death, when it arrives, usually comes in
some violent form. Old age has few terrors for the Eskimo, for he seldom
lives to reach it. He dies, as a rule, in harness, drowned by the
capsizing of his skin canoe, caught by the overturning of an iceberg, or
crushed by a snow-slide or a rock-slide. It is seldom that an Eskimo
lives to be more than sixty years of age.
Strictly speaking, the Eskimos have no religion, in the sense in which
we use the word. But they believe in the survival of the person after
death, and they believe in spirits--especially evil spirits. It may be
that their lack of any idea of a beneficent God, and their intense
consciousness of evil influences, result from the terrible hardships of
their lives. Having no special blessings for which to be grateful to a
kind Creator, they have not evolved a conception of Him, while the
constantly recurring menaces of the dark, the bitter cold, the savage
wind and gnawing hunger, have led them to people the air with invisible
enemies. The beneficent spirits are those of their ancestors (another
Oriental touch), while they have a whole legion of malevolent spirits,
led by Tornarsuk, the great devil himself.
They are constantly trying to propitiate Tornarsuk by incantations; and
when they kill game, an offering is made to him. The devil is supposed
to have a keen appreciation of these tidbits. On leaving a snow igloo
the Eskimos are careful to kick the front out of it, that the evil
spirits may not find shelter there, and when they throw away a worn-out
garment it is never left intact, but is torn in such a way that the
devil may not use it to warm himself. A comfortable devil is presumably
more dangerous than a shivering one. Any sudden and unexplained barking
or howling among the dogs indicates the invisible presence of Tornarsuk,
and the men will run out and crack their whips or fire their rifles to
scare away the invader. When, on board the _Roosevelt_ in winter
quarters, I was suddenly aroused from sleep by the crack of rifles, I
did not think there was a mutiny aboard--only that Tornarsuk had ridden
by upon the wind.
When the ice presses hard against the ship, an Eskimo will call on his
dead father to push it away; when the wind blows with special violence,
ancestors are again appealed to. Passing along a cliff, on a sledge
journey, a man will sometimes stop and listen and then say: "Did you
hear what the devil said just then?" I have asked the Eskimo to repeat
to me the words of Tornarsuk, up there on the cliff, and I would not
dream of laughing at my faithful friends at such a time; the messages of
Tornarsuk I receive with a respectful gravity.
There are no chiefs among these people, no men in authority; but there
are medicine men who have some influence. The angakok is generally not
loved--he knows too many unpleasant things that are going to happen, so
he says. The business of the angakok is mainly singing incantations and
going into trances, for he has no medicines. If a person is sick, he may
prescribe abstinence from certain foods for a certain number of moons;
for instance, the patient must not eat seal meat, or deer meat, but only
the flesh of the walrus. Monotonous incantations take the place of the
white man's drugs. The performance of a self-confident angakok is quite
impressive--if one has not witnessed it too many times before. The
chanting, or howling, is accompanied by contortions of the body and by
sounds from a rude tambourine, made from the throat membrane of a walrus
stretched on a bow of ivory or bone. The tapping of the rim with another
piece of ivory or bone marks the time. This is the Eskimo's only attempt
at music. Some women are supposed to possess the power of the angakok--a
combination of the gifts of the fortune teller, the mental healer, and
the psalmodist, one might say.
Once, years ago, my little brown people got tired of an angakok, one
Kyoahpahdo, who had predicted too many deaths; and they lured him out on
a hunting expedition from which he never returned. But these executions
for the peace of the community are rare.
Their burial customs are rather interesting. When an Eskimo dies, there
is no delay about removing the body. Just as soon as possible it is
wrapped, fully clothed, in the skins which formed the bed, and some
extra garments are added to insure the comfort of the spirit. Then a
strong line is tied round the body, and it is removed, always head
first, from the tent or igloo, and dragged head first over the snow or
ground to the nearest place where there are enough loose stones to cover
it. The Eskimos do not like to touch a dead body, and it is therefore
dragged as a sledge would be. Arrived at the place selected for the
grave, they cover the corpse with loose stones, to protect it from the
dogs, foxes, and ravens, and the burial is complete.
According to Eskimo ideas, the after-world is a distinctly material
place. If the deceased is a hunter, his sledge and kayak, with his
weapons and implements, are placed close by, and his favorite dogs,
harnessed and attached to the sledge, are strangled so that they may
accompany him on his journey into the unseen. If the deceased is a
woman, her lamp and the little wooden frame on which she has dried the
family boots and mittens are placed beside the grave. A little blubber
is placed there, too, and a few matches, if they are available, so that
the woman may light the lamp and do some cooking in transit; a cup or
bowl is also provided, in which she may melt snow for water. Her needle,
thimble, and other sewing things are placed with her in the grave.
In former years, if the woman had a small baby in the hood it was
strangled to keep her company; but I have, of course, discouraged this
practice, and during the last two expeditions I have not heard of any
strangled babies. Among the members of my own party I have simply
forbidden the practice, and have promised the relatives sufficient
condensed milk and other foods to keep the infant alive. If they have
reverted to the old custom during my absence, they have not mentioned
the fact to me, knowing of my disapproval.
If a death occurs in a tent, the poles are removed, and the tent is left
on the ground to rot or blow away. It is never used again. If the death
occurs in an igloo, the structure is vacated and not used again for a
long time. The relatives of the dead observe certain formalities in
regard to food and clothing, and the name of the lost one is never
mentioned. If any other members of the tribe have the same name, they
must take another until an infant is born to which the proscribed name
can be given. This appears to remove the ban.
Eskimos are children in their grief, as in their pleasure; they weep for
a dead friend a few days, then they forget. Even a mother who has been
inconsolable at the death of her baby soon laughs again and thinks of
other things.
In a country where the stars are visible for so many weeks at a time it
is not strange perhaps that they receive much attention from the
natives. The Eskimos are, within barbaric limits, astronomers. The
principal constellations visible in northern latitudes are well known to
them and they have given them their own names and descriptions. In the
Great Dipper they see a herd of celestial reindeer. The Pleiades are to
the Eskimos a team of dogs pursuing a solitary polar bear. Gemini they
describe as two stones in the entrance of an igloo. The moon and the sun
represent to the Eskimo, as to some of our North American Indian tribes,
a fleeing maiden and her pursuing admirer.
Time is, of course, of small value to the Eskimo, so far as he is
himself personally concerned, yet after the Eskimo has been trained to
the ways of the white man he seems to absorb an excellent notion of the
value of punctuality and will carry out orders with a surprising degree
of promptness and despatch.
The strength and capacity for enduring hardships exhibited by this
people is extraordinary and is not, I believe, exceeded by that shown by
any other aboriginal race now in existence. It is true that the average
size of the Eskimo is, judged by our own standards, small; but I could
give the names of several of them who stand five feet ten inches and
weigh 185 pounds. The popular idea that they are clumsily fashioned is
not correct. That notion is merely another case of judging a man by the
clothes he wears, and an Eskimo's garments are not precisely what we
should call of fashionable cut.
To my mind, the skin canoe of these Northern aborigines is, with its
hunting implements, one of the most complete and ingenious
manifestations of intelligence to be found in any aboriginal tribe. Over
a light framework, an almost infinite number of small pieces of wood
deftly lashed together with sealskin thongs, is stretched the tanned
skin of seals, the seams being neatly sewed by the women, and then
rendered water-tight by an application of seal oil and soot from the
native lamps. The result is a craft of great buoyancy, some grace, and
especial fitness and effectiveness for the purposes for which it is
intended, that is, to enable the hunter to creep softly and noiselessly
upon seal, walrus, or white whale. This canoe, while varying somewhat
with the size of the owner and maker, will average between twenty and
twenty-four inches in width by sixteen or eighteen feet in length. It
carries one man only. I may have helped the Eskimos a little in
perfecting it, by giving them more suitable material for the framework,
but the canoe is original with them.
It will scarcely be considered strange that I have grown to love this
childlike, simple people, as well as to value their many admirable and
useful qualities. For it must be borne in mind that for nearly a quarter
of a century they have been more thoroughly known to me than any other
group of human beings in the world. The present generation of
able-bodied Eskimos has practically grown up under my personal
observation. Every individual member of the tribe--man, woman, and
child--is known to me by name and sight as thoroughly as the patients of
an old-fashioned family physician are known to him, and perhaps the
feeling existing between us is not so very different. And the knowledge
of individuals gained in this intimate way has been priceless in the
work of reaching the Pole.
Take, for example, the quartet of young Eskimos who formed a portion of
the sledge party that finally reached the long-courted "ninety North."
The oldest of the four, Ootah, is about 34 years of age. This young man
is one of the sturdiest of the tribe. He stands about 5 feet 8 inches
and is a fine hunter. When I first saw him he was a young boy. Egingwah,
another of the group, is about 26 years old, a big chap weighing about
175 pounds. Seegloo and Ooqueah are about 24 and 20 respectively. All
four of them have been brought up to regard me as the patron,
protector, and guide of their people. Their capacities, peculiarities,
and individual characteristics were perfectly known to me, and they were
chosen out of the whole tribe for the final great effort because I knew
them to be most perfectly adapted to the work in hand.
[Illustration: THE DOG MARKET AT CAPE YORK]
Before taking up the story of our advance from Cape York, a word ought
to be said about those remarkable creatures, the Eskimo dogs, for
without their help success could never have crowned the efforts of the
expedition. They are sturdy, magnificent animals. There may be larger
dogs than these, there may be handsomer dogs; but I doubt it. Other dogs
may work as well or travel as fast and far when fully fed; but there is
no dog in the world that can work so long in the lowest temperatures on
practically nothing to eat. The male dogs average in weight from eighty
to one hundred pounds, though I had one which weighed one hundred and
twenty-five pounds. The females are somewhat smaller. Their special
physical characteristics are a pointed muzzle, great breadth between the
eyes, sharp-pointed ears, very heavy coat underlaid with a thick, soft
fur, powerful, heavy-muscled legs, and a bushy tail or brush similar to
that of the fox. There is only one breed of Eskimo dogs, but they are
variously marked and of different colors, black, white, gray, yellow,
brown, and mottled. Some scientists believe that they are the direct
descendants of the Arctic wolf, yet, as a rule, they are as affectionate
and obedient to their masters as our own dogs at home. Their food is
meat, and meat only. That they cannot live on any other food I know,
for I have made the experiment. For water they eat snow.
[Illustration: THE WHALE BOAT RETURNING TO THE SHIP FROM THE WALRUS
HUNT]
The dogs are not housed at any season of the year; but summer and winter
they are tied somewhere near the tent or igloo. They are never allowed
to roam at large, lest they be lost. Sometimes a special pet, or a
female that has young puppies, will be taken into the igloo for a time;
but Eskimo puppies only a month old are so hardy that they can stand the
severe winter weather.
[Illustration: KING ESKIMO DOG]
Enough has been said to give the reader a general idea of these strange
people, that have been so valuable to me in my arctic work. But I want
to say again, at the risk of being misunderstood, that I hope no efforts
will ever be made to civilize them. Such efforts, if successful, would
destroy their primitive communism, which is necessary to preserve their
existence. Once give them an idea of real-estate interest and
personal-property rights in houses and food, and they might become as
selfish as civilized beings; whereas now any game larger than a seal is
the common property of the tribe and no man starves while his neighbors
are gorging themselves. If a man has two sets of hunting implements, he
gives one of them to the man who has none. It is this feeling of
good-fellowship which alone preserves the race. I have taught them some
of the fundamental principles of sanitation and the care of themselves,
the treatment of simple diseases, of wounds, and other accidents; but
there I think their civilization should stop. This opinion is not based
on theory or prejudice, but on eighteen years of intimate study and
experience.
[Illustration: THE CAPE JESUP GRENADIERS]
CHAPTER VIII
GETTING RECRUITS
When on August 1 the _Roosevelt_ steamed out from Cape York, she had on
board several Eskimo families which we had picked up there and at Salvo
Island. We also had about one hundred dogs, bought from the Eskimos.
When I say "bought," I do not mean paid for with money, as these people
have no money and no unit of value. All exchange between them is based
on the principle of pure barter. For instance, if one Eskimo has a
deerskin which he does not need, and another has something else, they
exchange. The Eskimos had dogs which we wanted, and we had many things
which they wanted, such as lumber, knives and other cutlery, cooking
utensils, ammunition, matches, et cetera. So, as the Yankees say, we
traded.
[Illustration: PEARY DISTRIBUTING UTENSILS TO WIVES OF HIS HUNTERS AT
ETAH]
Steaming in a northwesterly course from Cape York, we passed the
"Crimson Cliffs," so named by Sir John Ross, the English explorer, in
1818. This vivid name was applied to the cliffs by reason of the
quantities of "red snow" which can be seen from a ship miles out at sea.
The color is given to the permanent snow by the _Protococcus nivalis_,
one of the lowest types of the single, living protoplasmic cell. The
nearly transparent gelatinous masses vary from a quarter inch in
diameter to the size of a pin-head, and they draw from the snow and the
air the scanty nourishment which they require. Seen from a distance, the
snow looks like blood. This red banner of the Arctic has greeted me on
all my northern journeys.
Sailing by these cliffs, which extend for thirty or forty miles, my
thoughts were busy with the work before us. First and most necessary of
all was the task of gathering our arctic personnel of Eskimos and dogs,
already begun before we left Cape York.
Our next stop, after Cape York, was on August 3, at North Star Bay,
Oomunnui, as the natives call it, on Wolstenholm Sound. Here I found the
_Erik_, which had become separated from us in Davis Strait several days
before during heavy weather. At Oomunnui we took on two or three
families of Eskimos and more dogs. Ooqueah, one of my North Pole party,
came aboard at this place; Seegloo had joined us at Cape York.
On the night of August 5, a clear and sunshiny night, between Hakluyt
and Northumberland Islands I left the _Roosevelt_ and transferred to the
_Erik_, taking Matt Henson with me, for a reconnaissance of the various
Eskimo settlements on Inglefield Gulf and along the coast. This detour
was for the purpose of picking up more Eskimos and dogs. The _Roosevelt_
was sent ahead to Etah, to get in shape for her coming battle royal with
the ice in Kane Basin and the channels beyond.
There was for me a strange mingling of pleasure and sadness in this
gathering together of our brown-skinned helpers, for I felt that it was
for the last time. The business consumed several days. I went first to
Karnah, on the Redcliffe Peninsula, thence to Kangerdlooksoah and
Nunatoksoah, near the head of the gulf. Returning on our course, we came
back to Karnah, then went south to the neighborhood of the Itiblu
Glacier, then northwest again by a devious course around the islands and
the points to Kookan, in Robertson Bay, then to Nerke, on C. Saumarez,
then on to Etah, where we joined the _Roosevelt_, having obtained all
the Eskimos and dogs we needed,--two hundred and forty-six of the
latter, to be exact.
There was no intention of taking to the far North all the Eskimos taken
aboard the _Erik_ and the _Roosevelt_--only the best of them. But if any
family wanted transportation from one settlement to another, we were
glad to accommodate them. It is to be doubted if anywhere on the waters
of the Seven Seas there was ever a more outlandishly picturesque vessel
than ours at this time--a sort of free tourist steamship for traveling
Eskimos, with their chattering children, barking dogs, and other goods
and chattels.
[Illustration: ESKIMO DOGS OF THE EXPEDITION (246 IN ALL) ON SMALL
ISLAND, ETAH FJORD]
Imagine this man-and-dog-bestrewn ship, on a pleasant, windless summer
day in Whale Sound. The listless sea and the overarching sky are a vivid
blue in the sunlight--more like a scene in the Bay of Naples than one in
the Arctic. There is a crystalline clearness in the pure atmosphere that
gives to all colors a brilliancy seen nowhere else--the glittering white
of the icebergs with the blue veins running through them; the deep reds,
warm grays, and rich browns of the cliffs, streaked here and there with
the yellows of the sandstone; a little farther away sometimes the
soft green grass of this little arctic oasis; and on the distant horizon
the steel-blue of the great inland ice. When the little auks fly high
against the sunlit sky, they appear like the leaves of a forest when the
early frost has touched them and the first gale of autumn carries them
away, circling, drifting, eddying through the air. The desert of
northern Africa may be as beautiful as Hichens tells us; the jungles of
Asia may wear as vivid coloring; but to my eyes there is nothing so
beautiful as the glittering Arctic on a sunlit summer day.
On August 11 the _Erik_ reached Etah, where the _Roosevelt_ was awaiting
her. The dogs were landed on an island, the _Roosevelt_ was washed, the
boilers were blown down and filled with fresh water, the furnaces
cleaned, and the cargo overhauled and re-stowed to put the vessel in
fighting trim for her coming encounter with the ice. About three hundred
tons of coal were transferred from the _Erik_ to the _Roosevelt_, and
about fifty tons of walrus and whale meat.
Fifty tons of coal were cached at Etah for the _Roosevelt's_ expected
return the following year. Two men, boatswain Murphy and Pritchard, the
cabin boy, with full provisions for two years, were left in charge.
Harry Whitney, a summer passenger on the _Erik_, who was ambitious to
obtain musk-oxen and polar bears, asked permission to remain with my two
men at Etah. The permission was granted, and Mr. Whitney's belongings
were landed.
At Etah, Rudolph Franke, who had come north with Dr. Cook in 1907, came
to me and asked permission to go home on the _Erik_. He showed me a
letter from Dr. Cook directing him to go home this season on a whaler.
An examination by Dr. Goodsell, my surgeon, showed that the man suffered
from incipient scurvy, and that he was in a serious mental state, so I
had no alternative but to give him passage home on the _Erik_. Boatswain
Murphy, whom I was to leave at Etah, was a thoroughly trustworthy man,
and I gave him instructions to prevent the Eskimos from looting the
supplies and equipment left there by Dr. Cook, and to be prepared to
render Dr. Cook any assistance he might require when he returned, as I
had no doubt he would as soon as the ice froze over Smith Sound
(presumably in January) so as to enable him to cross to Anoratok from
Ellesmere Land, where I had no doubt he then was.
On the _Erik_ were three other passengers, Mr. C. C. Crafts, who had
come north to take a series of magnetic observations for the department
of terrestrial magnetism of the Carnegie Institution in Washington, Mr.
George S. Norton, of New York, and Mr. Walter A. Larned, the tennis
champion. The _Roosevelt's_ carpenter, Bob Bartlett, of Newfoundland
(not related to Captain Bob Bartlett), and a sailor named Johnson also
went back on the _Erik_. That vessel was commanded by Captain Sam
Bartlett (Captain Bob's uncle), who had been master of my own ship on
several expeditions.
At Etah we took on a few more Eskimos, including Ootah and Egingwah, who
were destined to be with me at the Pole; and I left there all the
remaining Eskimos that I did not wish to take with me to winter quarters
in the North. We retained forty-nine--twenty-two men, seventeen women,
ten children--and two hundred and forty-six dogs. The _Roosevelt_, as
usual, was loaded almost to the water's edge with the coal that had been
crowded into her, the seventy tons of whale meat which we had bought in
Labrador, and the meat and blubber of nearly fifty walruses.
We parted company from the _Erik_ and steamed north on the 18th of
August, an intensely disagreeable day, with driving snow and rain, and a
cutting wind from the southeast which made the sea very rough. As the
two ships separated, they signaled "good-by and good luck" with the
whistles, and our last link with civilization was broken.
Since my return I have been asked if I did not feel deep emotion on
parting with my companions on the _Erik_, and I have truthfully replied
that I did not. The reader must remember that this was my eighth
expedition into the Arctic, and that I had parted from a supply ship
many times before. Constant repetition will take the edge from the most
dramatic experience. As we steamed north from the harbor of Etah, my
thoughts were on the condition of the ice in Robeson Channel; and the
ice in Robeson Channel is more dramatic than any parting--save from
one's nearest and dearest, and I had left mine three thousand miles
below at Sydney. We had some three hundred and fifty miles of almost
solid ice to negotiate before we could reach our hoped-for winter
quarters at Cape Sheridan. I knew that beyond Smith Sound we might have
to make our slow way rod by rod, and sometimes literally inch by inch,
butting and ramming and dodging the mountainous ice; that, if the
_Roosevelt_ survived, I should probably not have my clothes off, or be
able to snatch more than an hour or two of sleep at a time, for two or
three weeks. Should we lose our ship and have to make our way over the
ice southward from anywhere below Lady Franklin Bay, or possibly beyond
there--it was good-by to my life's dream and probably to some of my
companions.
CHAPTER IX
A WALRUS HUNT
The walrus are among the most picturesque and powerful fauna of the far
North. More than that, their pursuit and capture, a process by no means
devoid of peril, is an important part of every serious arctic
expedition, for on every expedition of mine these huge creatures,
weighing as they do all the way from 1,200 to 3,000 pounds, are hunted
for the purpose of obtaining the maximum of meat for dog food in a
minimum of time.
Wolstenholm and Whale Sounds, which are passed before reaching Etah, are
favorite haunts of the walrus. The hunting of these monsters is the most
exciting and dangerous sport in the arctic regions. The polar bear has
been called the tiger of the North; but a contest between one or two, or
even three, of these animals and a man armed with a Winchester repeating
rifle is an entirely one-sided affair. On the contrary, a contest with a
herd of walrus,--the lions of the North,--in a small whale-boat, will
give more thrills to the minute than anything else I know of within the
Arctic Circle.
On the last expedition I did not go after walrus myself, leaving that
exhilarating labor to the younger men. I have seen so much of it in the
past that my first vivid impression is somewhat blunted. I have
therefore asked George Borup to write for me an account of
walrus-hunting, as it appears to a novice, and his story is so vivid
that I give it to the reader in his own words, graphic with the keen
impressions of a young man and picturesque with college slang. He says:
"Walrus-hunting is the best sport in the shooting line that I know.
There is something doing when you tackle a herd of fifty-odd, weighing
between one and two tons each, that go for you whether wounded or not;
that can punch a hole through eight inches of young ice; that try to
climb into the boat to get at or upset you,--we never could make out
which, and didn't care, as the result to us would have been the
same,--or else try to ram your boat and stave holes in it.
"Get in a mix-up with a herd, when every man in the whale-boat is
standing by to repel boarders, hitting them over the head with oars,
boat-hooks, axes, and yelling like a cheering section at a football game
to try to scare them off; with the rifles going like young Gatling guns,
and the walruses bellowing from pain and anger, coming to the surface
with mad rushes, sending the water up in the air till you would think a
flock of geysers was turned loose in your immediate vicinity--oh, it's
great!
"When we were walrus-hunting, the _Roosevelt_ would steam along, with
all hands on the watch. Then suddenly a keen-eyed Eskimo would sing out,
'Awick soah!' or, possibly, 'Awick tedicksoah!' ('Walruses! A great many
walruses!')
"We would look to see if there were enough of the animals to make a raid
worth while; then, if the prospect was satisfactory, the _Roosevelt_
would steam along to leeward, for if they smelled her smoke they would
wake up and we would never see them again.
"Henson, MacMillan, and I used to take turns going after these brutes.
Four or five Eskimos, one sailor, and a whale-boat were assigned to each
of us. The boats were painted white to resemble pieces of ice, and the
row-locks were muffled, that we might steal along as noiselessly as
possible.
"As soon as we sighted a herd worthy of our lead, we would sing out to
our men, 'Shake her up!' and they would all come on the jump. After a
hurried though careful look to see if we had four or five oars, five
harpoons, lines, floats, two rifles, and ammunition, we would cry,
'Stand by to lower away'; and as the _Roosevelt_ slackened speed we
would slide down the davit ropes, man the oars, and go out to look for
trouble--which we usually found.
"We would get as near as possible to the walruses on the ice. If they
were sound asleep, we could row to within five yards and harpoon a
couple; but generally they would wake up, when we were about twenty
yards away, and begin to slide off into the water. We would then shoot,
and if they attacked us it was easy to harpoon them; while if they
started to leave the country, it might be a Marathon race before we got
close enough to make the harpoons fast in their hides.
"A walrus when killed will go to the bottom like a ton of lead, and our
business was to get a harpoon into him before that event took place. The
harpoon is fastened to the float by a long thong made of sealskin, and
a float is made of the entire skin of a seal filled with air for
buoyancy.
"A thing we soon learned to look out for was to let this thong, which
was neatly coiled up like a lasso before it was thrown, have the right
of way and all the space it needed; for if it happened to take a turn
around one of our legs when the other end was fast to a walrus, we would
be missing that useful member, and be pulled into the water--and
possibly drowned.
"Now a crew that goes through a scrimmage with these monsters develops
teamplay of a high order in a surprisingly short time. The sailor would
steer, four Eskimos would row, and in the bow would be the best
harpooner with one of us beside him. The two men forward would enable
the men rowing to be spelled, if we had a long chase.
"I shall never forget my first mix-up with a herd. We had sighted about
ten walruses two miles away, and MacMillan and I, Dennis Murphy, a
sailor, and three Eskimos manned a whale-boat, and off we went. About
two hundred yards from the walruses we quit rowing and let Murphy scull
us, while Mac and I crouched side by side in the bow, the Eskimos with
their harpoons being ready right behind us.
"When we were about twenty yards from the herd, one bull woke up, gave a
grunt, poked another, woke him, and then--bang! bang! bang! we opened
fire. Mac had a Winchester automatic rifle, and he got off five shots so
fast that before the first one left the muzzle the other four were
chasing it. He dropped a large bull, which gave a convulsive flop and
rolled into the water with a splash. I hit a couple, and with hoarse
grunts of pain and fury they all wriggled off the ice and dived out of
sight. The boat was hurried to within five yards of Mac's bull, and an
Eskimo hurled a harpoon, hit the large bull, and threw overboard the
sealskin float. At this stage of the game about forty other walruses,
that had been feeding below, came up to the surface to see what the
noise was about, spitting the clam shells out of their mouths and
snorting. The water was alive with the brutes, and many of them were so
close to us that we could hit them with the oars. A harpoon was driven
into another by a corking throw; and just then, when my magazine was
empty, things began to come our way.
"Suddenly a large bull, followed by two others, all wounded, came to the
surface twenty yards off, gave tongue to their battle-cry and charged.
The Eskimos were not pleased at the look of things. They grabbed the
oars and began to bang them on the gunwale of the boat, yelling like so
many steam sirens, hoping to scare the invaders off; but they might as
well have been crooning lullabies.
"Mac, who had never before shot anything larger than a bird, was cool,
and his automatic was going off like a pom-pom, when we cut loose on the
charging trio. Their numerous companions added to the general din; and
the reports of the rifles, the shouts and pounding of the Eskimos, with
the bellowing of the infuriated animals, sounded like Vesuvius blowing
its head off. We sank one walrus, then disabled another; but the biggest
one dived and came up with a snort right alongside of the boat, so that
he blew water in our faces. With our guns almost touching his head, we
let drive--and he began to sink. With a triumphant cheer, the Eskimos
harpooned him.
"Then we signaled to the _Roosevelt_ to come up, and as soon as the
friends and neighbors of the deceased smelled the smoke, they made for
parts unknown.
"In this hunt, as in all other walrus hunts I was in, I had a hard time
in trying not to take a crack at the floats. They were black, and jumped
around in the weirdest way, so that they appeared to be alive. I knew
that if I shot one, I would never hear the last of it, so took good
care.
"Another time we went for a herd of fifty-odd walruses that were
sleeping on the ice. The wind was blowing fairly hard, and it is never
easy to shoot accurately from a whale-boat which is doing a cake-walk in
the arms of a choppy sea. When we got twenty yards from the ice cake, we
began to fire. I hit a couple of walruses, but did not kill them, and
with fierce grunts the huge brutes wriggled into the sea. They were
coming our way, and all hands stood by to show the visitors how we loved
to speed the parting guest--our way of showing this being the vocal and
instrumental method already described.
"Wesharkoopsi, an Eskimo, who stood right behind me and who had been
telling us what an expert he was with the harpoon, was making
threatening gestures which boded ill for any walrus that came near us.
"Suddenly, with a loud 'Ook! Ook!' a bull rose like a giant
jack-in-the-box right alongside of me, giving us a regular shower bath,
and he got both tusks on the gunwale of the boat.
"Wesharkoopsi was not expecting a fight at such close quarters, and he
got badly rattled. Instead of throwing his harpoon he dropped it, yelled
madly, and began to spit in the monster's face. It is needless to state
that we never again took Wesharkoopsi walrus-hunting in a whale-boat.
"The others were shouting, swearing in English and Eskimo at
Wesharkoopsi, the walrus, and everything in general; some were trying to
hit the brute, others to back water.
"I was not eager just then to test the soundness of one arctic
explorer's dictum: 'If a walrus gets his tusks over the side of the
boat, you must not hit him, as such a course would induce him to back
water and upset you; but gently grasp the two-thousand-pound monster by
the tusks and drop him overboard'--or words to that effect. If this one
had got his tusks a quarter inch further my way, he would have had them
clear over the gunwale; so I held my rifle at port arms, stuck its
business end into the visitor's face, and let him have it--which settled
his account.
"That walrus had tried to upset us, but almost immediately another one
tried a new variation of the game, an almost successful effort to sink
us--a regular dive-tackle.
"He was a large bull that an Eskimo had harpooned. He showed what he was
made of by promptly attacking the float and putting it out of
commission, then he proceeded to make off with the harpoon, float, and
all. He happened to come near my end of the boat, and I shot at him; but
whether I hit the mark or not I do not know. Anyhow, he dived, and
while we were all looking over the side for him to appear, our craft
was hit a tremendous whack by something under the stern--so hard that it
upset the bosun, who was standing there peacefully sculling.
"Our friend was getting a little too strenuous; but he dived before I
could shoot again, and came up fifty yards off. Then I hit him with a
bullet, and he disappeared. Maybe we were not an anxious crowd in that
boat for the next few minutes, as we knew that that submarine earthquake
was due for another blow-up at any instant--but when and where! We
stared at the surface of the water, to see if possible from what
direction the next attack would come.
"One more such scrimmage as the last and we would be all in--both
literally and metaphorically; for he had put a big hole through the
bottom of the boat, and as she had a double bottom we could not check
the leak, and one man had to bale rapidly. We always carried along a lot
of old coats to stop holes in the boats, but in this case they might as
well have been pocket handkerchiefs.
"Suddenly an Eskimo who was looking over the side yelled: '_Kingeemutt!
Kingeemutt!_' ('Back her! Back her!') But the words were hardly out of
his mouth when--smash! rip! bang!--the stern of the boat rose under the
shock, the bosun was nearly knocked overboard, an Eskimo catching him on
the fly, and a hole I could have put both fists through suddenly
appeared within an inch of his foot, just above the water line.
"I looked over the gunwale. There the brute lay on his back, tusks
upright under the stern; then with a quick flop he dived. The men did
their usual stunts to scare him off. Up he came fifteen yards away, gave
his battle-cry, 'Ook! Ook! Ook!' to warn us to look out for trouble, and
came tearing along the surface of Whale Sound like a torpedo boat
destroyer, or an unmuffled automobile with a bicycle policeman on its
trail.
"I got my rapid-fire gun into the game and sank him; then we made for
the nearest cake of ice--and reached it none too soon."
[Illustration: HOISTING A WALRUS TO THE DECK OF THE ROOSEVELT]
To take up the story where Borup leaves it, when the first wounded
walrus had been despatched with a bullet, and the floats were all taken
in, an oar was erected in the boat for a signal, and the _Roosevelt_
steamed up. The floats and the lines were taken over the rail of the
ship, the walrus raised to the surface of the water, a hook inserted,
and the winch on deck hoisted the monster on board, to be later skinned
and cut up by the expert knives of the Eskimos. While this work was
going on, the deck of the ship looked like a slaughterhouse, with the
ravenous dogs--at this stage of the journey we had already about one
hundred and fifty--waiting, ears erect and eyes sparkling, to catch the
refuse thrown them by the Eskimos.
[Illustration: A NARWHAL KILLED OFF CAPE UNION, JULY, 1909. THE MOST
NORTHERLY SPECIMEN EVER CAPTURED]
In the Whale Sound region we sometimes obtained narwhal and deer, but
there was no narwhal hunting to speak of on the upward journey this last
time. Walrus, narwhal, and seal meat are valuable food for dogs, but a
white man does not usually enjoy it--unless he is nearly starved. Many
times, however, during my twenty-three years of arctic exploration, I
have thanked God for even a bite of raw dog.
CHAPTER X
KNOCKING AT THE GATEWAY TO THE POLE
From Etah to Cape Sheridan! Imagine about three hundred and fifty miles
of almost solid ice--ice of all shapes and sizes, mountainous ice, flat
ice, ragged and tortured ice, ice that, for every foot of height
revealed above the surface of the water, hides seven feet below--a
theater of action which for diabolic and Titanic struggle makes Dante's
frozen circle of the Inferno seem like a skating pond.
Then imagine a little black ship, solid, sturdy, compact, strong and
resistant as any vessel built by mortal hands can be, yet utterly
insignificant in comparison with the white, cold adversary she must
fight. And on this little ship are sixty-nine human beings, men, women,
and children, whites and Eskimos, who have gone out into the crazy,
ice-tortured channel between Baffin Bay and the Polar Sea--gone out to
help prove the reality of a dream which has bewitched some of the most
daring minds of the world for centuries, a will-o'-the-wisp in the
pursuit of which men have frozen, and starved, and died. The music that
ever sounded in our ears had for melody the howling of two hundred and
forty-six wild dogs, for a bass accompaniment the deep, low grumbling of
the ice, surging around us with the impulse of the tides, and for
punctuation the shock and jar of our crashing assaults upon the floes.
We steamed northward into the fog beyond Etah, Greenland, on the
afternoon of August 18, 1908. This was the beginning of the last stage
of the _Roosevelt's_ journey. All now on board would, if they lived, be
with me until my return the following year. As an ungentle reminder of
what was ahead of us, though going at half speed because of the fog, we
struck a small berg a little way out from the harbor. Had the
_Roosevelt_ been an ordinary ship instead of the sturdy ice-fighter that
she is, my story might have ended right here. As it was, the shock of
the impact jarred things considerably. But the berg suffered more than
the ship, which only shook herself like a dog coming out of the water,
and with the main mass of the berg swaying heavily on one side from the
blow we had given it, and a large fragment we had broken off churning
the water on the other side, the _Roosevelt_ scraped between them and
went on.
This little incident made a strong impression on the new members of my
party, and I did not think it necessary to tell them that it was only a
mosquito bite to the crunching and grinding between the jaws of the
heavier ice that was in store for us a little farther on. We were
working in a northwesterly direction toward the Ellesmere Land side, and
headed for Cape Sabine, of terrible memories. As we steamed on, the ice
became thicker, and we had to turn south to get out of the way of it,
worming our course among the loose floes. The _Roosevelt_ avoided the
heavier ice; but the lighter pack she shoved aside without much
difficulty. South of Brevoort Island we were fortunate in finding a
strip of open water, and steamed northward again, keeping close to the
shore.
It must be remembered that from Etah to Cape Sheridan, for the greater
part of the course, the shores on either side are clearly visible,--on
the east the Greenland coast, on the west the coast of Ellesmere Land
and Grant Land. At Cape Beechey, the narrowest and most dangerous part,
the channel is only eleven miles wide, and when the air is clear it
almost seems as if a rifle bullet might be fired from one side to the
other. These waters, save in exceptional seasons, are filled with the
heaviest kind of ice, which is constantly floating southward from the
Polar Sea toward Baffin Bay.
Whether this channel was carved in the solid land by the force of
pre-Adamite glaciers, or whether it is a Titanic cleft formed by the
breaking off of Greenland from Grant Land, is a question still
undetermined by geologists; but for difficulty and danger there is no
place to compare with it in the whole arctic region.
It is hard for a layman to understand the character of the ice through
which the _Roosevelt_ fought her way. Most persons imagine that the ice
of the arctic regions has been formed by direct freezing of the sea
water; but in the summer time very little of the floating ice is of that
character. It is composed of huge sheets broken off from the glacial
fringe of North Grant Land broken up by contact with other floes and
with the land, and driven south under the impetus of the violent flood
tides. It is not unusual to see there ice between eighty and one hundred
feet thick. As seven-eighths of these heavy floes are under water, one
does not realize how thick they are until one sees where a huge mass, by
the pressure of the pack behind it, has been driven upon the shore, and
stands there high and dry, eighty or a hundred feet above the water,
like a silver castle guarding the shore of this exaggerated and
ice-clogged Rhine.
The navigation of the narrow and ice-encumbered channels between Etah
and Cape Sheridan was long considered an utter impossibility, and only
four ships besides the _Roosevelt_ have succeeded in accomplishing any
considerable portion of it. Of these four ships, one, the _Polaris_, was
lost. Three, the _Alert_, the _Discovery_, and the _Proteus_, made the
voyage up and back in safety; but one of those, the _Proteus_, was lost
in an attempt to repeat the dash. The _Roosevelt_ had on the expedition
of 1905-6 made the voyage up and back, though she was badly smashed on
the return.
Going north, the _Roosevelt_ of necessity followed the coast a portion
of the way, as only close to the shore could any water be found which
would enable the ship to advance. With the shore ice on one side, and
the moving central pack on the other, the changing tides were almost
certain to give us an occasional opportunity to steam ahead.
This channel is the meeting place between the tides coming from Baffin
Bay on the south and from Lincoln Sea on the north, the actual point of
meeting being about Cape Frazer. South of that point the flood tide runs
north, and north of it the flood tide runs south. One may judge of the
force of these tides from the fact that on the shores of the Polar Sea
the mean rise is only a little over a foot, while in the narrowest part
of the channel the tide rises and falls twelve or fourteen feet.
As a rule, looking across the channel, there seems to be no
water--nothing but uneven and tortured ice. When the tide is at the ebb,
the ship follows the narrow crack of water between the shore and the
moving pack of the center, driving ahead with all her force; then, when
the flood tide begins to rush violently southward, the ship must hurry
to shelter in some niche of the shore ice, or behind some point of rock,
to save herself from destruction or being driven south again.
This method of navigation, however, is one of constant hazard, as it
keeps the vessel between the immovable rocks and the heavy and rapidly
drifting ice, with the ever-present possibility of being crushed between
the two. My knowledge of the ice conditions of these channels and their
navigation was absolutely my own, gained in former years of traveling
along the shores and studying them for this very purpose. On my various
expeditions I had walked every foot of the coast line, from Payer Harbor
on the south to Cape Joseph Henry on the north, from three to eight
times. I knew every indentation of that coast, every possible shelter
for a ship, every place where icebergs usually grounded, and the places
where the tide ran strongest, as accurately as a tugboat captain in New
York harbor knows the piers of the North River water front. When
Bartlett was in doubt as to making a risky run, with the chance of not
finding shelter for the ship, I could usually say to him:
"At such and such a place, so far from here, is a little niche behind
the delta of a stream, where we can drive the _Roosevelt_ in, if
necessary"; or:
"Here icebergs are almost invariably grounded, and we can find shelter
behind them"; or:
"Here is a place absolutely to be shunned, for the floes pile up here at
the slightest provocation, in a way that would destroy any ship afloat."
It was this detailed knowledge of every foot of the Ellesmere Land and
Grant Land coasts, combined with Bartlett's energy and ice experience,
that enabled us to pass four times between this arctic Scylla and
Charybdis.
The fog lifted about nine o'clock the first night out, the sun peeped
through the clouds, and as we passed Payer Harbor, on the Ellesmere Land
side, we saw, sharply outlined against the snow, the house where I
wintered in 1901-2. A flood of memories rushed over me at sight of the
place. It was in Payer Harbor that Mrs. Peary and my little daughter had
waited for me, on the _Windward_ from September, 1900, to May, 1901, the
ice being so heavy that year that the ship could neither reach Fort
Conger, three hundred miles beyond, where I was, nor regain the open
water to the south and return home. That was the spring when I had been
obliged to turn back at Lincoln Bay, because the exhaustion of my
Eskimos and dogs made a dash for the Pole impossible. It was at Payer
Harbor that I had rejoined my family; it was at Payer Harbor that I had
parted from them, determined to make one fight more to reach the goal.
"One fight more," I said in 1902; but I had only reached 84° 17´.
"One fight more," I had said in 1905; but I had only reached 87° 6´.
And now, at Payer Harbor again, on August 18, 1908, it was still "One
fight more!" Only this time I knew it was the last, in truth, whatever
the result.
At ten o'clock that night we were steaming past the desolate, wind-swept
and ice-ground rocks of Cape Sabine, the spot that marks one of the most
somber chapters in arctic history, where Greely's ill-fated party slowly
starved to death in 1884--seven survivors only being rescued out of a
party of twenty-four! The ruins of the rude stone hut built by these men
for shelter during the last year of their lives can still be seen on the
bleak northern shore of Cape Sabine, only two or three miles from the
extreme point. It is doubtful if a more desolate and unsheltered
location for a camp could be found anywhere in the arctic regions, fully
exposed to the biting winds from the north, cut off by the rocks back of
it from the rays of the southern sun, and besieged by the ice pack
surging down from Kane Basin in the north.
I first saw the place in August, 1896, in a blinding snowstorm, so thick
that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.
The impressions of that day will never be forgotten--the pity and the
sickening sense of horror. The saddest part of the whole story for me
was the knowledge that the catastrophe was unnecessary, that it might
have been avoided. My men and I have been cold and have been near to
starvation in the Arctic, when cold and hunger were inevitable; but the
horrors of Cape Sabine were not inevitable. They are a blot upon the
record of American arctic exploration.
From Cape Sabine north there was so much open water that we thought of
setting the lug sail before the southerly wind; but a little later the
appearance of ice to the north caused us to change our minds. About
sixty miles north of Etah, we came to a dead stop in the ice pack off
Victoria Head. There we lay for hours; but the time was not altogether
wasted, for we filled our tanks with ice from a floe.
In the afternoon of the second day out, the wind came on strong from the
south, and we slowly drifted northward with the ice. After some hours,
the wind began to form pools of open water through the pack, and we
steamed westward toward the land, with the spray flying clear across the
decks. An Eskimo declared that this was the devil spitting at us. After
a few miles, we ran into denser ice and stopped again.
Dr. Goodsell, MacMillan and Borup were busy storing food and medical
supplies in the boats, to be ready for an emergency. Had the _Roosevelt_
been crushed by the ice or sunk, we could have lowered the boats at a
moment's notice, fitted and equipped for a voyage, and retreated to the
Eskimo country--thence back to civilization on some whaler, or in a ship
which would have been sent up with coal the following year by the Peary
Arctic Club, though that, of course, would have meant the failure of the
expedition.
In each of the six whale-boats were placed a case containing twelve
six-pound tins of pemmican, the compressed meat food used on arctic
expeditions; two twenty-five pound tins of biscuit; two five-pound tins
of sugar, a few pounds of coffee and several cans of condensed milk; an
oil stove and five one-gallon tins of oil; a rifle with one hundred
rounds of ammunition and a shotgun with fifty rounds; matches, a
hatchet, knives, a can opener, salt, needles and thread; and the
following medical supplies: catgut and needles, bandages and cotton,
quinine, astringent (tannic acid), gauze, plaster-surgical liniment,
boracic acid, and dusting powder.
The boats were swung at the davits, with a full complement of oars,
mast, sails, etc., and the emergency outfit above described would have
fitted them for a voyage of a week or ten days. On leaving Etah the
essential items of supplies, such as tea, coffee, sugar, oil, pemmican,
and biscuit, had been stowed on deck, close to the rail on both sides,
ready instantly to be thrown over the rail onto the ice, in case the
ship should be crushed.
Every person on board, both the men of the ship and the Eskimos, was
ready with a little bundle packed to get right over the side at a
moment's notice, after lowering the boats and throwing onto the ice the
essential supplies stowed near the ship's rail. Nobody thought of
undressing regularly; and the bathtub in my cabin might as well have
been a trunk, for all the time I dared to spend in it between Etah and
Cape Sheridan.
CHAPTER XI
CLOSE QUARTERS WITH THE ICE
That no time should be lost on the upward voyage, and also that my
Eskimos might not have too much leisure in which to consider the dangers
which constantly threatened their floating home, I kept them all busy.
The men were put to work making sledges and dog-harness, so that when we
reached Cape Sheridan--if we reached it,--we might be ready for the fall
hunting. I had on board the raw materials, and each Eskimo built a
sledge for himself, putting his best work into it. This pride of the
Eskimo in personal achievement has been of great service to me, and has
been encouraged by special prizes and special praise.
The Eskimo women were put to work on our winter garments as soon as
possible after leaving Etah, so that, in the event of our losing the
ship, every man would have a comfortable outfit. In the North we wear
practically the same clothing as the Eskimos, including the fur
stockings with the fur on the inside. Otherwise we should have frozen
feet often instead of only occasionally. A man who could not live
without silk stockings would not be likely to attempt the North Pole. As
we had altogether, including the Eskimos, sixty-nine persons on board
the ship--men, women, and children--it will be seen that there was
considerable sewing to be done. Old garments had to be overhauled and
mended, and new ones made.
The worst of the ice fighting did not begin immediately, and the new
members of the expedition, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, were at
first much interested in watching the Eskimo women at their sewing. They
sit on anything that is convenient, a chair, a platform, or the floor.
In their own quarters they remove their footgear, put up one foot, and
hold one end of the fabric between their toes, sewing a seam over and
over from them, instead of toward them, as our women do. The foot of an
Eskimo woman is a sort of third hand, and the work is gripped between
the great toe and the second toe.
The Eskimo women have great confidence in their own skill at
garment-making, and they take suggestions from the inexperienced white
men with a good-natured and superior tolerance. When one of the northern
belles was shaping a garment for Bartlett to wear on the spring sledge
journey, he anxiously urged her to give him plenty of room. Her reply
was a mixed Eskimo and English equivalent for:
"You just trust me, Captain! When you get out on the road to the Nor
Pol, you'll need a draw-string in your jacket, and not gussets." She had
seen me and my men come back from previous sledge journeys, and she knew
the effect of long continued fatigue and scanty rations in making a
man's clothes fit him loosely.
The Eskimos had the run of the ship, but the port side of the forward
deck house was given to them entirely. A wide platform three or four
feet high, made of packing boxes, was placed around the wall of the deck
house for them to sleep on. Each family had its own quarters,
partitioned off by planks, and screened in front by a curtain. They
cooked their own meat and whatever else they desired, though Percy, the
ship's steward, provided them with tea and coffee. If they had baked
beans, or hash, or anything of that kind from the ship's store, it was
cooked for them by Percy; and he also furnished them with his famous
bread, which for lightness and crispness is unsurpassed in the round
world.
The Eskimos seemed always to be eating. There was no table for the crowd
of them, as they do not incline to regular meal hours; but each family
ate by itself, as appetite dictated. I gave them pots, pans, plates,
cups, saucers, knives, forks, and oil stoves. They had access to the
ship's galley, day and night; but Percy was always amiable, and the
Eskimos at length learned not to wash their hands in the water in which
he purposed to boil meat.
The third day out the weather was villainous. It rained steadily, and
there was a strong southerly wind. The group of dogs on the main deck
stood about with low, dejected heads and dripping tails. Only at feeding
time did they take courage even to fight or snap at one another. Most of
the time the ship was stationary, or drifting slowly with the ice toward
the mouth of Dobbin Bay. When at last the ice loosened, we made about
ten miles in open water--then the wheel rope broke, and we had to stop
for repairs, unable to take advantage of the stretch of water still
before us. The captain's remarks when the strands of that cable parted I
will leave to the imagination of the reader. Had the accident occurred
at a time when the ship was between two big floes, the fortress of the
North Pole might still remain uncaptured. It was after midnight before
we got under way, and half an hour later we were stopped again by the
impassable ice.
On the fourth day we lay quiet all day long, with a slight breeze from
Princess Marie Bay setting us slowly eastward; but, as the sun was
shining, we utilized the time in drying our clothing, wet and soggy from
the almost continuous rain and snow of the previous two days. As it was
still summertime in the Arctic, we did not suffer from cold. The pools
between the ice floes were slowly enlarging, and at nine in the evening
we were on our way again, but at eleven we ran into a thick fog. All
night we bored and twisted through the ice, which, though thick, was not
heavy for the _Roosevelt_, and only once or twice we had to back her. An
ordinary ship could have made no headway whatever.
Wardwell, the chief engineer, stood his eight-hour or twelve-hour watch
the same as his assistants, and during the passage of these dangerous
channels he was nearly always in the engine-room, watching the machinery
to see that no part of it got out of order at a crucial moment--which
would have meant the loss of the ship. When we were between two big
floes, forcing our way through, I would call down the tube leading from
the bridge to the engine-room:
"Chief, you've got to keep her moving until I give you word, no matter
what happens."
Sometimes the ship would get stuck between the corners of two floes
which were slowly coming together. At such a time a minute is an
eternity. I would call down the tube to Wardwell, "You've got to jump
her now, the length of fifty yards," or whatever it might be. And I
could feel the ship shaking under me as she seemed to take the flying
leap, under the impulse of live steam poured directly from the boilers
into the fifty-two-inch low-pressure cylinder.
The engines of the _Roosevelt_ have what is called a by-pass, by which
the live steam can be turned into the big cylinder, more than doubling
the power of the engines for a few minutes. This simple bit of mechanism
has saved us from being crushed flat by the ice on more than one
occasion.
The destruction of a ship between two ice floes is not sudden, like her
destruction by a submarine mine, for instance. It is a slow and
gradually increasing pressure from both sides, sometimes till the ice
meets in the vitals of the ship. A vessel might stay thus, suspended
between two floes, for twenty-four hours--or until the movement of the
tides relaxed the pressure, when she would sink. The ice might open at
first just sufficiently to let the hull go down, and the ends of the
yards might catch on the ice and break, with the weight of the
water-filled hull, as was the case with the ill-fated _Jeannette_. One
ship, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, was caught in the ice and dragged
over the rocks like a nutmeg over a nutmeg grater. The bottom was sliced
off as one would slice a cucumber with a knife, so that the iron
blubber tanks in the hold dropped out of her. The ship became nothing
but the sides and ends of a box. She remained some twenty-four hours,
gripped between the floes, and then went down.
On the 22d of August, the fifth day, our lucky stars must have been
working overtime; for we made a phenomenal run--more than a hundred
miles, right up the middle of Kennedy Channel, uninterrupted by ice or
fog! At midnight the sun burst gloriously through the clouds, just over
Cape Lieber. It seemed a happy omen.
Could such good fortune continue? Though my hopes were high, the
experience of former journeys reminded me that the brightest coin has
always a reverse side. In a day we had run the whole length of Kennedy
Channel, and immediately before us there was only scattered ice. But
beyond lay Robeson Channel, only some thirty miles away, and the
navigator who knows Robeson Channel will never be sanguine that it has
anything good in store for him.
Soon we encountered both ice and fog, and, while working slowly along in
search of an opening, we were forced clear across to the Greenland coast
at Thank God Harbor, the winter quarters of the _Polaris_ in 1871-72. I
have mentioned the lane of water which often lies at ebb tide between
the land and the moving central pack; but the reader must not fancy that
this is an unobstructed lane. On the contrary, its passage means
constant butting of the smaller ice, and constant dodging of larger
pieces.
Of course the steam is up at all times, ready, like ourselves, for
anything at a moment's notice. When the ice is not so heavy as to be
utterly impenetrable, the ship under full steam moves back and forth
continually, butting and charging the floes. Sometimes a charge will
send the ship forward half her length, sometimes her whole
length--sometimes not an inch. When, with all the steam of the boilers,
we can make no headway whatever, we wait for the ice to loosen up, and
economize our coal. We do not mind using the ship as a battering
ram--that is what she was made for; but beyond Etah coal is precious,
and every ounce of it must yield its full return of northward steaming.
The coal at present in our bunkers was all that we should have until our
return the following year, when the Peary Arctic Club would send a ship
to meet us at Etah.
[Illustration: THE MIDNIGHT SUN AS SEEN IN THE WHALE SOUND REGION]
It must be remembered that during all this time we were in the region of
constant daylight, in the season of the midnight sun. Sometimes the
weather was foggy, sometimes cloudy, sometimes sunny; but there was no
darkness. The periods of day and night were measured only by our
watches--not, during the passage of these channels, by sleeping and
waking, for we slept only in those brief intervals when there was
nothing else to do. Unresting vigilance was the price we paid for our
passage.
Bartlett's judgment was reliable, but the cabin had no attraction for me
when the ship and the fortunes of the expedition were swaying in the
balance. Then, too, when the ship was butting the ice, the shock of the
impact would have made Morpheus himself sit up and rub his eyes every
few minutes.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BARTLETT IN THE CROW'S NEST]
Owing to the stupendous and resistless character of the heavier ice, a
ship would be utterly helpless if she were ever caught fairly and
squarely between two giant floes. In such a case there would be no
escape for any structure which man could design or build. More than once
a brief nip between two big blue floes has set the whole one hundred and
eighty-four-foot length of the _Roosevelt_ vibrating like a violin
string. At other times, under the pressure on the cylinders of the
by-pass before described, the vessel would rear herself upon the ice
like a steeplechaser taking a fence. It was a glorious battle--this
charging of the ship against man's coldest enemy and possibly his
oldest, for there is no calculating the age of this glacial ice.
Sometimes, as the steel-shod stem of the _Roosevelt_ split a floe
squarely in two, the riven ice would emit a savage snarl that seemed to
have behind it all the rage of the invaded immemorial Arctic struggling
with the self-willed intruder, man. Sometimes, when the ship was in
special peril, the Eskimos on board would set up their strange barbaric
chant--calling on the souls of their ancestors to come from the
invisible realm and help us.
Often on this last expedition of the _Roosevelt_, as on the former one,
have I seen a fireman come up from the bowels of the ship, panting for a
breath of air, take one look at the sheet of ice before us, and mutter
savagely:
"By God, she's _got_ to go through!"
Then he would drop again into the stoke hole, and a moment later an
extra puff of black smoke would rise from the stack, and I knew the
steam pressure was going up.
During the worst parts of the journey, Bartlett spent most of his time
in the crow's nest, the barrel lookout at the top of the main mast. I
would climb up into the rigging just below the crow's nest, where I
could see ahead and talk to Bartlett, backing up his opinion with my
own, when necessary, to relieve him, in the more dangerous places, of
too great a weight of responsibility.
Clinging with Bartlett, high up in the vibrating rigging, peering far
ahead for a streak of open water, studying the movement of the floes
which pressed against us, I would hear him shouting to the ship below us
as if coaxing her, encouraging her, commanding her to hammer a way for
us through the adamantine floes:
"Rip 'em, Teddy! Bite 'em in two! Go it! That's fine, my beauty!
Now--again! Once more!"
At such a time the long generations of ice and ocean fighters behind
this brave, indomitable young Newfoundland captain seemed to be
re-living in him the strenuous days that carried the flag of England
'round the world.
[Illustration: TABULAR ICEBERG AND FLOE ICE]
CHAPTER XII
THE ICE FIGHT GOES ON
To recount all the incidents of this upward journey of the _Roosevelt_
would require a volume. When we were not fighting the ice, we were
dodging it, or--worse still--waiting in some niche of the shore for an
opportunity to do more fighting. On Sunday, the sixth day out from Etah,
the water continued fairly open, and we made good progress until one
o'clock in the afternoon, when we were held up by the ice pack as we
were nearing Lincoln Bay. A cable was run out, and the ship secured to a
great floe, which extended some two miles to the north and several to
the east. The tide, which was running north at the time, had carried the
smaller ice with it, leaving the _Roosevelt_ in a sort of lake. While we
were resting there, some of the men observed a black object far out on
the great ice floe to which we were attached, and Dr. Goodsell and
Borup, with two Eskimos, started out to investigate. This walking across
the floes is dangerous, as the ice is full of cracks, some of them quite
wide, and on the day in question the cracks were for the most part
concealed by a recent snowfall. In jumping across a lead, the men had a
narrow escape from drowning, and when they got within shooting distance
of the black object they were seeking, it proved to be only a block of
stone.
Before the return of Borup and the doctor the ice had already begun to
close in around the ship and, as soon as the men were safe on board, the
cable was hauled in and the _Roosevelt_ drifted south with the pack. So
close was the ice that night, that we had to swing the boats inward on
the davits to protect them from the great floes, which at times crowded
the rail. Finally, the captain worked the ship into another small lake
to the southeast of our former position by the great floe, and there we
remained several hours, steaming back and forth in order to keep the
pool open.
About eleven o'clock that night, for all our efforts, the ice closed in
again around the _Roosevelt_; but I observed a small lead to the
southeast, which led into another body of open water, and gave orders to
ram the vessel through, if possible. By working the nose of the ship
into the small opening, and then by butting the ice on alternate sides,
we succeeded in widening the lead sufficiently to allow of our passing
through to the pool of open water beyond.
At four o'clock the next morning we were again under way, working
northward through slack ice to a point a little beyond Shelter River,
where we were again stopped by ice about nine o'clock in the forenoon.
The _Roosevelt_ moved in near the shore and her head was shoved against
a big floe, to avoid her being jammed or carried southward by the now
swiftly running tide and the ice pack.
After supper that night, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, with two
Eskimos, started for the shore over the jammed ice, with the intention
of getting some game; but before they reached the shore there was so
much movement in the adjacent floes that I considered their journey too
hazardous for inexperienced men. A recall was sounded with the ship's
whistle, and they started back over the now moving floes. Their
movements were impeded by their guns, but fortunately they carried boat
hooks, without which they could never have made their way back.
Using the boat hooks as vaulting poles, they leaped from one floe to
another, when the leads were not too wide. When the open water was
impassable in that way, they crossed it on small floating pieces of ice,
using their hooks to push and pull themselves along. First the doctor
slipped on the edge of a floe, and went into the icy water to the waist,
but he was quickly hauled up by Borup. Then Borup slipped and went in to
the waist, but he was out again as quickly.
Meanwhile the ice had separated about the _Roosevelt_, leaving a wide
lane of water between her and the men; but by running the ship against
one of the larger floes, we enabled them to clamber aboard. They lost no
time in exchanging their wet garments for dry ones, and in a few minutes
they were all laughing and recounting their exploits to an
interested--and possibly amused--group of listeners.
A man who could not laugh at a wetting or take as a matter of course a
dangerous passage over moving ice, would not be a man for a serious
arctic expedition. It was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that I
watched these three men, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, my arctic
"tenderfeet," as I called them, proving the mettle of which they were
made.
I had selected these three men from among a host of applicants for
membership in the expedition, because of the special fitness of each
one. Dr. Goodsell was a solid, sturdy, self-made physician of
Pennsylvania stock. His specialism in microscopy I trusted might give
valuable results in a field not hitherto investigated in the North. He
was to make microscopic studies of the germ diseases of the Eskimos.
MacMillan, a trained athlete and physical instructor, I had known, and
known about, for years. I chose him because of his intense interest in
the work, his intense desire to be of the party, and his evident mental
and physical fitness for the rigorous demands of the Arctic.
Borup, the youngest member of the party, impressed me with his
enthusiasm and physical abilities. He had a record as a Yale runner, and
I took him on general principles, because I liked him, satisfied that he
was of the right stuff for arctic work. It was a fortunate selection, as
the photographs brought back by the expedition are due in a large
measure to his expert knowledge of film developing.
I have been asked how the members of my party amused themselves during
the long waits, when the ship was held up by the ice. The principal
amusement of the new members was in trying to acquire from the Eskimos
on board a smattering of their language. As interpreter, they had Matt
Henson. Sometimes, looking down from the bridge of the ship onto the
main deck, I would see one of these new men surrounded by a group of
Eskimos, gesticulating and laughing, and I knew that a language lesson
was in progress. The women were delighted at the opportunity to teach
Borup the Eskimo words for jacket, hood, boots, sky, water, food, et
cetera, as they seemed to be of the opinion that he was a fine boy.
The _Roosevelt_ lay quietly in open water all night on the 24th of
August, but in the forenoon of the 25th steamed northward nearly to Cape
Union. Beyond there the ice was densely packed. I climbed up into the
rigging to take a look but, finding no suitable shelter, decided to turn
back to Lincoln Bay, where we made the ship fast between two grounded
ice floes. The day before had been calm and sunny, but the 25th was
snowy and disagreeable, with a raw northerly wind. The snow was driving
in horizontal sheets across the decks, the water was black as ink, the
ice a spectral white, and the coast near us looked like the shores of
the land of ghosts. One of our berg pieces was carried away by the flood
tide, and we were obliged to shift our position to the inner side of the
other one; but there were other grounded bergs outside us to take the
impact of the larger floes.
On general principles, I landed a cache of supplies at this point on the
following day. The possibility of losing the ship was always present;
but if everything went well the cache could be made use of in the
hunting season. The supplies, in their wooden boxes, were simply piled
upon the shore. Wandering arctic hares, reindeer, and musk-oxen never
attempt to regale themselves on tin cans or wooden boxes.
I went ashore and walked over to Shelter River, living over again the
experiences there in 1906, when, during my absence at Cape Thomas
Hubbard, Captain Bartlett--for he was then, as now, the master of the
_Roosevelt_--had tried to drive the ship south from her exposed position
at Cape Sheridan to a more sheltered place in Lincoln Bay, where I was
to rejoin them.
At Shelter River, the _Roosevelt_ had been caught between the moving
pack and the vertical face of the ice-foot, receiving almost a fatal
blow. She had been lifted bodily out of the water, the stern-post and
rudder smashed into kindling wood, and a blade ripped off the propeller.
Everything was landed from the vessel in the expectation that when the
ice slacked off and she settled into the water, she would be leaking so
badly it would be impossible to keep her afloat.
Bartlett and his men worked manfully in stopping the leaks, as far as
possible; and when the pressure from the ice was partially released, the
ship was floated. But she lay there nearly a month, and twice during
that time even the rigging of the ship was landed, when it seemed
impossible that she could survive.
Here at Shelter River I had found the _Roosevelt_ on my return from
"farthest west." A new rudder was improvised, and the crippled and
almost helpless ship floated around into Lincoln Bay, whence she finally
limped home to New York.
After an hour of retrospection at this place I walked back to the ship.
Borup and MacMillan had also gone ashore, in the hope of obtaining game
but had not found any. It was a dull, raw, overcast day and MacMillan,
Borup, the doctor, and Gushue, the mate, amused themselves by
target-shooting with their Winchesters.
The next day was seemingly endless, and still we lay there at Lincoln
Bay, with a strong, raw, northeast wind blowing steadily and with
increasing violence. The edge of the moving pack was only a few yards
from the ship, but we were fairly well protected by large pieces which
had grounded outside of us. Every little while a big floe came rushing
past, crowding everything out of its way and giving our protectors a
shove that set them and us nearer the shore. From the crow's nest we
could see a little open water near the east coast of the channel, but
there was none in our vicinity--only ice, ice, ice, of every imaginable
shape and thickness.
Still another day, and the _Roosevelt_ was in the same position, with
the ice crowding against her; but at the crest of the high tide the
grounded floe-berg to which we were attached by cable went adrift, and
we all hurried on deck. The lines were hastily detached from the berg.
As the ice went south, it left a stretch of open water before us about a
mile long, and we steamed northward along the shore, pushing our way
behind the grounded bergs, trying to find another niche where we might
be secure from the now rapidly approaching pack.
It was well for us that the wind was blowing violently off shore, as it
eased the pressure of the pack against us. One place seemed secure, and
we were making ready to attach the cables, when an ice-floe, about an
acre in extent with a sharp, projecting point like the ram of a
battleship, came surging along toward the _Roosevelt_, and we were
obliged to shift our position. Before the ship was secured, she was
again threatened by the same floe, which seemed to be endowed with
malign intelligence and to follow us like a bloodhound. We retired to
still another position, and secured the vessel and finally the
threatening floe passed onwards to the south.
There was no sleep for any one that sunlit night. About ten o'clock the
berg fragment to which we were attached drifted loose under the pressure
of the furious wind and the rising tide. In contracted space, with the
ice whirling and eddying about us, we hastily got our lines in and
shifted to another place, only to be driven out of it. We sought still
another place of shelter, and in turn were also driven out of that. A
third attempt to find safety was successful, but before it was
accomplished the _Roosevelt_ had twice been aground forward, her heel
had been caught by a berg's spur, and her after rail smashed by the
onslaught of another berg.
Saturday, the 29th, was another day of delay but I found some comfort in
thinking of my little son in the far-away home. It was his fifth
birthday, and Percy, Matt, and I, his three chums, drank a bottle of
champagne in his honor. Robert E. Peary, Junior! What were they doing at
home? I wondered.
I think that none of the members of the expedition will ever forget the
following day, the 30th of August. The _Roosevelt_ was kicked about by
the floes as if she had been a football. The game began about four
o'clock in the morning. I was in my cabin trying to get a little
sleep--with my clothes on, for I had not dared to remove them for a
week. My rest was cut short by a shock so violent that, before I
realized that anything _had_ happened, I found myself on deck--a deck
that inclined to starboard some twelve or fifteen degrees. I ran, or
rather climbed the deck, to the port side and saw what had happened. A
big floe, rushing past with the current, had picked up the grounded berg
to which we were attached by the hawsers, as if that thousand-ton berg
had been a toy, and dashed it against the _Roosevelt_ and clear along
her port side, smashing a big hole in the bulwarks at Marvin's room. The
berg brought up against another one just aft of us, and the _Roosevelt_
slipped from between the two like a greased pig.
As soon as the pressure was relaxed and the ship regained an even keel,
we discovered that the cable which had been attached to the floe-berg at
the stern had become entangled with the propeller. It was a time for
lightning thought and action; but by attaching a heavier cable to the
parted one and taking a hitch round the steam capstan, we finally
disentangled it.
This excitement was no sooner over than a great berg that was passing
near us split in two of its own accord, a cube some twenty-five or
thirty feet in diameter dropping toward the ship, and missing our
quarter by only a foot or two. "Bergs to the right of them, bergs to the
left of them, bergs on top of them," I heard somebody say, as we caught
our breath at this miraculous escape.
The ship was now quite at the mercy of the drifting ice, and with the
pressure from the outer pack the _Roosevelt_ again careened to
starboard. I knew that if she were driven any higher upon the shore, we
should have to discharge a large part of the coal in order to lighten
her sufficiently to get her off again. So I decided to dynamite the ice.
I told Bartlett to get out his batteries and dynamite, and to smash the
ice between the _Roosevelt_ and the heavy floes outside, making a soft
cushion for the ship to rest on. The batteries were brought up from the
lazaret, one of the dynamite boxes lifted out with caution, and Bartlett
and I looked for the best places in the ice for the charges.
Several sticks of dynamite were wrapped in pieces of old bagging and
fastened on the end of long spruce poles, which we had brought along
specially for this purpose. A wire from the battery had, of course, been
connected with one of the primers buried in the dynamite. Pole, wire,
and dynamite were thrust down through cracks in the ice at several
places in the adjacent floes. The other end of each wire was then
connected with the battery, every one retreated to a respectful distance
on the far side of the deck, and a quick, sharp push on the plunger of
the battery sent the electric current along the wires.
_Rip! Bang! Boom!_ The ship quivered like a smitten violin string, and a
column of water and pieces of ice went flying a hundred feet into the
air, geyser fashion.
The pressure of the ice against the ship being thus removed, she righted
herself and lay quietly on her cushion of crushed ice--waiting for
whatever might happen next. As the tide lowered, the _Roosevelt_ was
bodily aground from amidships forward, heeling first to one side and
then to the other with the varying pressure of the ice. It was a new
variation of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"--one that sent Eskimo
babies, the dogs, the boxes, and even ourselves, tumbling about the
decks.
When the tide rose, efforts were made to dislodge the ship from her
stranded position. From the port side of the bow a line was made fast to
a stationary floe-berg, and the captain called for full steam, first
ahead, then astern. For some time there was no perceptible movement of
the ship. Finally, the pull on the port bow from the cable, with full
speed astern, had the desired effect and the vessel slid off and floated
free; but the ice was so heavily packed behind us that we could not move
her away. It was far from a pleasant spot.
CHAPTER XIII
CAPE SHERIDAN AT LAST
To put it mildly, the position in which we now found ourselves was
dangerous--even with the assistance of so experienced and steady an ice
fighter as Bartlett. As day followed day and still we hung there at
Lincoln Bay, we should doubtless have been extremely anxious had the
_Roosevelt_ not had a similar experience on the preceding voyage. But we
believed that sooner or later the movement of the ice would enable us to
steam the few remaining miles to Cape Sheridan, and possibly beyond
there; for our objective point was some twenty-five miles to the
northwest of our former winter quarters in 1905-06. We tried to possess
our souls in patience, and if sometimes the delay got on our nerves,
there was nothing to be gained by talking about it.
On the first of September the ice did not seem to be moving quite so
rapidly. The evening before MacMillan had been sent ashore to the bluffs
beyond Shelter River, and he had reported that there was considerable
open water along the shore. Bartlett then went forward to reconnoiter.
On his return he also reported open water, but with corners of big floes
barring it in every direction.
That the fall hunting might get under way, Ootah, Aletah, Ooblooyah, and
Ooqueah started off for the Lake Hazen region, with a sledge and eight
dogs, after musk-oxen and reindeer. It had been planned that they should
hunt there until joined by other Eskimos from the ship, after she
reached Cape Sheridan or Porter Bay. But in the absence of snow, the
going was too rough for even a light sledge, and the Eskimos returned.
At last, a little before midnight on the 2d, we got out of the _impasse_
at Lincoln Bay, where we had been held up for ten days. The cables were
taken in, and the _Roosevelt_, steaming first forward and then astern,
extricated herself from the shore pack. We felt as men must feel who are
released from prison. There was a narrow lane of open water following
the shore, and along that course we steamed, rounding Cape Union about
half an hour before midnight.
But we were soon held up again by the ice, a little below Black Cape, a
dark cone-shaped mountain standing alone, on the eastern side washed by
the waters of the sea, on the west separated by deep valleys from the
adjacent mountains. It was a scene of indescribable grandeur, for the
coast was lined for miles with bergs, forced shoreward, broken and
tilted at right angles. At Black Cape we had made half the distance
between our former position at Lincoln Bay and the longed-for shelter at
Cape Sheridan.
As we made fast against the land ice, a sixty-foot thick fragment of a
floe was driven with frightful force up on the shore a little to the
north of us. Had we been in the way of it--but a navigator of these
channels must not dwell too much on such contingencies.
As an extra precaution, I had the Eskimos with axes bevel off the edge
of the ice-foot abreast of the ship, to facilitate her rising if she
should be squeezed by the heavy floes outside. It was snowing lightly
all day long; but I went ashore, walking along the ice-foot to the next
river, and up to the summit of Black Cape. An occasional walk on land
was a relief from the stench and disorder of the ship, for the dogs kept
the _Roosevelt_ in a very unclean condition. Many persons have asked how
we could endure the presence of nearly two hundred and fifty dogs on the
deck of a small ship; but every achievement has its drawbacks, and it
must not be forgotten that without the dogs we could not have reached
the Pole.
At this point we landed another cache, similar to the one at Lincoln
Bay, to be ready for anything that might happen.
On the 4th, the wind came strong from the south, and as there seemed to
be a little open water ahead, at eight in the morning we started to get
out of our berth. It took an hour to break up the "slob" ice which had
cemented about the ship. We were happy to be under way again; but at the
delta just ahead of us the ice refused to open, the drift ice from the
south was coming up rapidly before the wind, and we were compelled to
hurry back to our former berth below Black Cape. We did not get in again
without some trouble as the strong wind made the _Roosevelt_ hard to
manage. The starboard quarter boat was badly smashed against the corner
of a big berg piece, and the starboard corner of the forward deck house
was almost ripped from the decking.
But all hands were stimulated by the thought that we were now only a few
miles from Cape Sheridan--so near our goal that we were restless to be
off again. That evening, with the ebb tide, the ice slackened, and the
order was given to steam ahead. After one or two narrow escapes between
the rapidly running floes, we reached the delta of Black Cape River, a
few miles beyond our former place. But when the tide turned we were
obliged to hurry back about a quarter of a mile to the shelter of a
grounded berg.
When the hawsers were made fast I went ashore and up to the delta to
look at the ice beyond. Not a crack or hole was visible to the north,
and the path by which we had retreated to our present position was now a
sea of solid ice. Should we _ever_ be able to make the few remaining
miles?
The wind continued to blow violently from the south, the ice began to
slack off a little behind us, and at three o'clock in the morning of the
5th of September there was a gradually widening lead to the north. I
felt that it was now or never, and the order went down for every pound
of steam and full speed. Thus we rounded Cape Rawson, and Cape Sheridan
was in view. At last! That sloping headland looked more beautiful than
the gates of paradise to our vigil-wearied eyes.
We rounded the cape at a quarter past seven, fifteen minutes later than
the time of our arrival in 1905. Since the 23d of August, thirteen days
before, neither Bartlett nor I had had our clothes off.
Should we stop here? There was still open water beyond. I gave orders to
steam ahead, hoping that we might reach Porter Bay. But after two miles
we came to another impassable barrier of ice, and it was decided that it
was Cape Sheridan again for this year's winter quarters. Back we went,
and the work of getting the _Roosevelt_ inside the tide crack was begun.
My heart was light. Those two miles beyond Cape Sheridan had given us
the record of "farthest north" which any vessel had ever reached under
her own steam, 82° 30´. One vessel only, Nansen's _Fram_, had been
farther north, but she had drifted there stern foremost, a plaything of
the ice. Again the little black, strenuous _Roosevelt_ had proven
herself the champion.
There are some feelings which a man cannot express in words. Such were
mine as the mooring lines went out onto the ice foot at Cape Sheridan.
We had kept the scheduled time of our program and had negotiated the
first part of the difficult proposition--that of driving a ship from New
York to a point within striking distance of the Pole. All the
uncertainties of ice navigation--the possible loss of the _Roosevelt_
and a large quantity of our supplies--were at an end. Another source of
gratification was the realization that this last voyage had further
accentuated the value of detailed experience in this arduous work.
Notwithstanding the delays which had sometimes seemed endless, we had
made the voyage with only a small percentage of the anxieties and injury
to the ship which we had experienced on the former upward journey in
1905.
Lying there, with the northern bounds of all known lands--except those
close to us--lying far to the south, we were in a position properly to
attack the second part of our problem, the projection of a sledge party
from the ship to the Pole itself. This rounding of Cape Sheridan was not
the ultimate achievement probable.
So great was our relief at having driven the _Roosevelt_ through the ice
of Robeson Channel, that as soon as the mooring lines were out at Cape
Sheridan we set to work unloading the ship with light-hearted eagerness.
The _Roosevelt_ was grounded inside the tide crack, and the first things
we got ashore were the two hundred and forty-six dogs, which had made
the ship a noisy and ill-smelling inferno for the last eighteen days.
They were simply dropped over the rail onto the ice, and in a few
minutes the shore in all directions was dotted with them, as they ran,
leaped and barked in the snow. The decks were washed down with hose, and
the work of unloading began. First the sledges came down from the bridge
deck, where they had been built during the upward voyage, a fine fleet
of twenty-three.
[Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT DRYING OUT HER SAILS AT CAPE SHERIDAN,
SEPTEMBER, 1908
(The Dark Spots on the Shore are the Supplies and Equipment of the
Expedition)]
We wanted to get the ship well inside the ice barrier where she would be
really safe, so we lightened her that she might float with the high
tide. We made chutes from planks, and down these we slid the oil cases
from the main deck and the hold. It was necessary to work carefully, as
the ice was thin at that season. Later two or three sledge loads of
supplies broke through, and the Eskimos with them; but as the water was
only five or six feet deep, and the supplies were packed in tins, no
serious damage was done.
While the oil was being unloaded, a party of men went out with ice
chisels, poles, saws, and so forth, chopping away the ice so that we
could warp the _Roosevelt_ in, broadside to the shore. Bartlett and I
were determined to get the ship beyond the floe-berg barrier and into
the shallow water of the ice-foot. We were not looking forward to
another winter of such torment as we had lived through on the last
previous expedition, with the ship just on the edge of the ice-foot and
subject to every movement of the hostile pack outside.
[Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1908
Marie Ahnighito Peary's Birthday]
After the oil cases came the tons of whale meat from the quarter-deck,
some of it in chunks as large as a Saratoga trunk. It was thrown over
the side onto the ice, sledged ashore by the Eskimos, some hundred yards
over the ice-foot, and heaped in great piles, protected by the bags of
coal which had also been taken from the quarter-deck. Then came the
whale-boats, which were lowered from the davits and run ashore like
sledges. They were later turned bottom side up for the winter and
weighted down, so that the wind could not move them.
[Illustration: "PEARY" SLEDGES ON BOARD THE ROOSEVELT]
The work of landing the supplies and equipment consumed several days.
This is the very first work of every well-managed arctic expedition on
reaching winter quarters. With the supplies ashore, the loss of the ship
by fire or by crushing in the ice, would mean simply that the party
might have to walk home. It would not interfere with the sledge work,
nor seriously cripple the expedition. Had we lost the _Roosevelt_ at
Cape Sheridan, we should have spent the winter in the box houses which
we constructed and in the spring should have made the dash for the Pole
just the same. We should then have walked the three hundred and fifty
miles to Cape Sabine, crossed the Smith Sound ice to Etah, and waited
for a ship.
The adjacent shore for a quarter of a mile was lined with boxes, each
item of provisions having a pile to itself. This packing-box village was
christened Hubbardville, in honor of General Thomas H. Hubbard,
president of the Peary Arctic Club. When the boxes which had served as a
bed platform in the Eskimo quarters of the _Roosevelt's_ forward deck
were removed, the place was swept and scrubbed; then a bed platform was
built of boards, divided into sections for the various families and
screened in front by curtains. Under the bed platform was an open space,
where the Eskimos could keep their cooking utensils and other personal
belongings. The fastidious reader who is shocked at the idea of keeping
frying-pans under the bed should see an Eskimo family in one of their
native houses of stone and earth, eight feet across, where meat and
drink, men, women, and children are crowded indiscriminately for month
upon month in winter.
We next landed about eighty tons of coal, so that, in case we should
have to live in the box houses, there would be plenty of fuel. At that
time of the year it was not very cold. On the 8th of September the
thermometer stood at 12 above zero, the next day at 4.
The heavier cases, containing the tins of bacon, pemmican (the condensed
meat food used in the Arctic), flour, et cetera, were utilized ashore
like so many blocks of granite in constructing three houses, about
fifteen feet by thirty. All the supplies were especially packed for this
purpose, in boxes of specified dimensions--one of the innumerable
details which made for the success of the expedition. In building the
houses the tops of the boxes were placed inside, the covers removed, and
the contents taken out as needed, as from a shelf, the whole house being
one large grocery.
The roofs were made of sails thrown over boat booms or spars, and later
the walls and roof were banked in solidly with snow. Stoves were set up,
so that, if everything went well, the houses could be used as workshops
during the winter.
So here we were, safely bestowed at Cape Sheridan, and the prize seemed
already in our grasp. The contingencies which had blocked our way in
1906 were all provided for on this last expedition. We knew just what we
had to do, and just how to do it. Only a few months of waiting, the fall
hunting, and the long, dark winter were all that lay between me and the
final start. I had the dogs, the men, the experience, a fixed
determination (the same impulse which drove the ships of Columbus across
the trackless western sea)--and the end lay with that Destiny which
favors the man who follows his faith and his dream to the last breath.
CHAPTER XIV
IN WINTER QUARTERS
When the removal of supplies had lightened the _Roosevelt_ so much that
Bartlett got her considerably farther in shore, she lay with her nose
pointing almost true north. It cheered us, for this was her constant
habit. It seemed almost like the purpose of a living creature. Whenever
on the upward voyage--either this time or on her first trip in 1905--the
ship was beset in the ice so that we lost control of her, she always
swung around of her own accord and pointed north. When twisting through
the ice, if we got caught when the ship was headed east or west, it was
only a little while before the pressure would swing her round till once
more she looked northward. Even on the return journey, in 1906, it was
the same--as if the ship realized she had not accomplished her purpose
and wanted to go back. The sailors noticed it, and used to talk about
it. They said the _Roosevelt_ was not satisfied, that she knew she had
not done her work.
When we got the vessel as near the shore as possible, the ship's people
began to make her ready for the winter. The engine-room force was busy
blowing down the boilers, putting the machinery out of commission,
removing every drop of water from the pipes and elbows so the cold of
winter should not burst them; and the crew was busy taking down the
sails, slacking off the rigging, so the contraction from the intense
cold of winter should not cause damage, with a thousand and one details
of like character.
Before the sails were taken down, they were all set, that they might be
thoroughly dried out by sun and wind. The ship was a beautiful sight,
held fast in the embrace of the ice and with her cables out, but with
every sail filled with wind like a yacht in a race.
While this work was going on small hunting parties of Eskimos were sent
to the Lake Hazen region, but they met with little success. A few hares
were secured, but musk-oxen seemed to have vanished. This troubled me,
for it raised a fear that the hunting of the former expedition had
killed off the game, or driven it away. The Eskimo women set their fox
traps all along the shore for five miles or so each way, and they were
more successful than the men, obtaining some thirty or forty foxes in
the course of the fall and winter. The women also went on fishing trips
to the ponds of the neighborhood, and brought in many mottled beauties.
The Eskimo method of fishing is interesting. The fish in that region
will not rise to bait but are captured by cutting a hole in the ice and
dropping in a piece of ivory carved in the shape of a small fish. When
the fish rises to examine this visitor, it is secured with a spear. The
Eskimo fish spear has a central shaft with a sharp piece of steel,
usually an old nail, set in the end. On each side is a piece of deer
antler pointing downward, lashed onto the shaft with a fine line, and
sharp nails, pointing inward, are set in the two fragments of antler.
When this spear is thrust down on the fish, the antlers spread as they
strike the fish's back; he is impaled by the sharp point above him, and
the sharp barbs on either side keep him from getting away.
The char (?) of North Grant Land is a beautiful mottled fish, weighing
sometimes as much as eleven or twelve pounds. I believe that the pink
fiber of these fish--taken from water never warmer than 35° or 40° above
zero--is the firmest and sweetest fish fiber in the world. During my
early expeditions in this region, I would spear one of these beauties
and throw him on the ice to freeze, then pick him up and fling him down
so as to shatter the flesh under the skin, lay him on the sledge, and as
I walked away pick out morsels of the pink flesh and eat them as one
would eat strawberries.
In September of 1900 with these fish a party of six men and twenty-three
dogs were supported for some ten days, until we found musk-oxen. We
speared the fish in the way the Eskimos taught us, using the regular
native spear.
The new members of the expedition were naturally anxious to go
sight-seeing. MacMillan had an attack of the grip, but Borup and Dr.
Goodsell scoured the surrounding country. Hubbardville could not boast
its Westminster Abbey nor its Arc de Triomphe, but there were Petersen's
grave and the _Alert_ and _Roosevelt_ cairns, both in the neighborhood,
and visible from the ship.
About a mile and a half southwest from our winter quarters was the
memorial headboard of Petersen, the Danish interpreter of the English
expedition of 1875-76. He died as the result of exposure on a sledge
trip, and was buried there abreast of the _Alert's_ winter quarters. The
grave is covered with a large flat slab, and at the head is a board
covered with a copper sheet from the boiler room of the _Alert_, with
the inscription punched in it. There may be a lonelier grave somewhere
on earth, but if so I have no knowledge of it. No explorer, not even the
youngest and most thoughtless, could stand before that "mute reminder of
heroic bones" without a feeling of reverence and awe. There is something
menacing in that dark silhouette against the white snow, as if the
mysterious Arctic were reminding the intruder that he might be chosen
next to remain with her forever.
Not far away is the _Alert's_ cairn, from which I took the British
record in 1905, a copy of it being replaced by Ross Marvin, according to
the custom of explorers. In view of his tragic end, in the spring of
1909, the farthest north of all deaths known to man, this visit of
Marvin's to the neighborhood of Petersen's grave has a peculiar pathos.
The _Roosevelt_ cairn, erected by Marvin in 1906, is directly abreast of
the ship's location at Cape Sheridan in 1905-06 and about one mile
inland. It is on a high point of land, about four hundred feet above the
water. The record is in a prune can, at the bottom of the pile of
stones, and was written by Marvin himself in lead-pencil. The cairn is
surmounted by a cross, made of the oak plank from our sledge runners. It
faces north, and at the intersection of the upright and the crosspiece
there is a large "R" cut in the wood. When I went up to see it, soon
after our arrival this last time, the cross was leaning toward the
north, as if from the intentness of its three years' northward gazing.
On the 12th of September we had a holiday, it being the fifteenth
birthday of my daughter, Marie Ahnighito, who was born at Anniversary
Lodge, Greenland--the most northerly born of all white children. Ten
years before, we had celebrated her fifth birthday on the Windward. Many
icebergs had drifted down the channels since then, and I was still
following the same ideal which had given my daughter so cold and strange
a birthplace.
There was a driving snowstorm that day, but Bartlett dressed the ship in
all the flags, the full international code, and the bright colors of the
bunting made a striking contrast to the gray-white sky. Percy, the
steward, had baked a special birthday cake, and we had it, surmounted
with fifteen blazing candles, on our supper table. Just after breakfast
the Eskimos came in with a polar bear, a female yearling six feet long,
and I determined to have it mounted for Marie's birthday bear. It should
be standing and advancing, one paw extended as if to shake, the head on
one side and a bearish smile on the face. The bear provided us with
juicy steaks, and we had a special tablecloth, our best cups and
saucers, new spoons, et cetera.
A day or two later we began to get the dogs made fast, in preparation
for the first sledge parties. There was now sufficient snow to begin the
transportation of supplies toward Cape Columbia, and Black Cliffs Bay
was frozen over. The Eskimos tied the dogs, in teams of five or six, to
stakes driven into the shore or holes cut in the ice. They made a fine
picture, looking shoreward from the ship--nearly two hundred and fifty
of them--and their barking could be heard at all hours.
It must be remembered that day and night were still determined only by
the clock, as the ever-circling sun had not yet set. By reason of the
industry of all hands on the upward voyage, everything was now ready for
the fall work. The Eskimos had built the sledges and made the dog
harnesses, and Matt Henson had finished the "kitchen boxes," which
enclosed our oil stoves in the field, while the busy needles of the
Eskimo women had provided every man with a fur outfit.
In the North we wear the regular Eskimo garments, with certain
modifications. First of all, there is the _kooletah_, a fur jacket with
no buttons, which goes on over the head. For summer wear the Eskimos
make it of sealskin, but for winter it is made of fox or deerskin.
For our own use, we had jackets made of Michigan sheepskin. We took the
skins up with us, and the women made the garments, but when it was very
cold we wore the deerskin or foxskin jacket of the Eskimos. Attached to
this jacket is a hood, and around the face is a thick roll made of
fox-tails.
The _ahteah_ is a shirt, usually of fawn skin, with the hair inside, and
the Eskimos wear it even in summer. In some of the photographs of
natives, the skilful piecing together of the skins in the shirt can be
traced. The Eskimo women are more adept at this work than are any of
the furriers of civilization. They sew the skins with the sinew taken
from the back of the deer--the jumping muscle. It is absolutely
unbreakable, and moisture does not rot it. For the coarser work of
sewing boots, canoes, and tents, they use the sinew from the tail of the
narwhal. The sewing is now done with the steel needles I have given
them; but in former years they used a punch made of bone, passing the
sinew through the hole, as a shoemaker uses a "waxed end." They do not
cut the skins with shears, as that would injure the fur; but with a
"woman's knife," similar to an old-fashioned mincemeat chopper.
The shaggy fur trousers are invariably made from the skins of the polar
bear. Then there are stockings of hareskin, and the _kamiks_, or boots,
of sealskin, soled with the heavier skin of the square-flipper seal. On
the ship, on sledge journeys, and in all the field work of the winter,
the regular footgear of the Eskimos was worn. Add the warm fur mittens,
and the winter wardrobe is complete.
It may reasonably be inquired whether the close housing for so long a
time of such a considerable number of human beings did not result in
personal friction, due to the inevitable accumulation of a thousand and
one petty irritations. To some extent it did. But the principal members
of the expedition were men of such character that they were able to
exercise an admirable self-restraint that prevented any unpleasant
results of consequence. Practically the only trouble of a personal sort
that was of any importance occurred between one of the sailors and an
Eskimo whom we called Harrigan.
Harrigan acquired this sobriquet on account of his ear for music. The
crew used to be fond of singing that energetic Irish air which was
popular for some years along Broadway and which concludes
ungrammatically with the words "Harrigan--that's me." The Eskimo in
question seemed fascinated by this song and in time learned those three
words and practised them with so much assiduity that he was ultimately
able to sing them in a manner not wholly uncouth.
In addition to his musical leanings, Harrigan was a practical joker, and
on one occasion he was exercising his humorous talents in the forecastle
to the considerable discomfort of one of the crew. Ultimately the
sailor, unable to rid himself of his persecutor in any other way,
resorted to the use of his fists. The Eskimos, while good wrestlers, are
far from adepts at the "manly art of self-defense," and the result was
that Harrigan emerged from the forecastle with a well-blackened eye and
a keen sense of having been ill used. He complained bitterly of his
treatment, but I gave him a new shirt and told him to keep away from the
forecastle where the sailors were, and in a few hours he had forgotten
it like a school boy, so that the affair passed off without leaving any
permanent ill feeling, and soon Harrigan was again cheerfully croaking
his "Harrigan--that's me."
CHAPTER XV
THE AUTUMN WORK
The main purpose of the autumn sledge parties was the transportation to
Cape Columbia of supplies for the spring sledge journey toward the Pole.
Cape Columbia, ninety miles northwest from the ship, had been chosen
because it was the most northerly point of Grant Land, and because it
was far enough west to be out of the ice current setting down Robeson
Channel. From there we could strike straight north over the ice of the
Polar Sea.
[Illustration: VIEW BETWEEN THE ROOSEVELT AND CAPE COLUMBIA]
The moving of thousands of pounds of supplies for men and dogs for a
distance of ninety miles, under the rigorous conditions of the Arctic,
presented problems for calculation. The plan was to establish stations
along the route, instead of sending each party through to Cape Columbia
and back. The first party was to go to Cape Belknap, about twelve miles
from the ship, deposit their supplies, and return the same day. The
second party was to go to Cape Richardson, about twenty miles away,
deposit their supplies, return part way and pick up the supplies at Cape
Belknap, taking them forward to Cape Richardson. The next station was at
Porter Bay, the next at Sail Harbor, the next at Cape Colan, and the
final station at Cape Columbia itself. Parties would thus be going back
and forth the whole time, the trail would constantly be kept open, and
hunting could be done along the way. The tractive force was, of course,
the Eskimo dogs, and sledges were the means of transportation. The
sledges were of two types: the Peary sledge, which had never been used
before this expedition, and the regular Eskimo sledge, increased
somewhat in length for special work. The Peary type of sledge is from
twelve to thirteen feet in length, two feet in width, and seven inches
in height; the Eskimo type of sledge is nine feet in length, two feet in
width, and seven inches in height. Another difference is that the Eskimo
sledge is simply two oak runners an inch or an inch and a quarter thick
and seven inches wide, shaped at the front to give the easiest curve for
passage over the ice, and shod with steel, while the Peary sledge has
oak sides rounded, both in front and behind, with two-inch wide bent ash
runners attached, the runners being shod with two-inch wide steel shoes.
The sides of both are solid, and they are lashed together with sealskin
thongs.
The Peary sledge is the evolution of twenty-three years of experience in
arctic work and is believed to be the strongest and easiest running
sledge yet used for arctic traveling. On a level surface this sledge
will support ten or twelve hundred pounds.
The Eskimos have used their own type of sledge from time immemorial.
When they had no wood, before the advent of the white man, they made
their sledges of bone--the shoulder-blades of the walrus, and the ribs
of the whale, with deer antlers for up-standers.
For dog harnesses, I have adopted the Eskimo pattern, but have used
different material. The Eskimo harness is made of sealskin--two loops
joined by a cross strip at the back of the neck and under the throat.
The dog's forelegs pass through the loops, and the ends are joined over
the small of the back, where the trace is attached. This harness is very
simple and flexible, and it allows the dog to exert his whole strength.
The objection to sealskin as a harness material is a gastronomic one.
When the dogs are on short rations they eat their harnesses at night in
camp. To obviate this difficulty, I use for the harnesses a special
webbing or belting, about two or two and a half inches in width, and
replace the customary rawhide traces of the Eskimos by a braided linen
sash cord.
The dogs are hitched to the sledge fanwise. The standard team is eight
dogs; but for rapid traveling with a heavy load, ten or twelve are
sometimes used. They are guided by the whip and the voice. The Eskimo
whip has a lash sometimes twelve, sometimes eighteen, feet long, and so
skilful are the Eskimos in its manipulation that they can send the lash
flying through the air and reach any part of any particular dog they
wish. A white man can learn to use an Eskimo whip, but it takes time. It
takes time also to acquire the exact Eskimo accent to the words
"_How-eh, how-eh, how-eh_," meaning to the right; "_Ash-oo, ash-oo,
ash-oo_," to the left; as well as the standard, "_Huk, huk, huk_," which
is equivalent to "go on." Sometimes, when the dogs do not obey, the
usual "_How-eh, how-eh, how-eh_," will reverse its accent, and the
driver will yell, "_How-ooooooo_," with an accompaniment of other words
in Eskimo and English which shall be left to the imagination of the
reader. The temperature of a new man trying to drive a team of Eskimo
dogs is apt to be pretty high. One is almost inclined to believe with
the Eskimos that demons take possession of these animals. Sometimes they
seem to be quite crazy. A favorite trick of theirs is to leap over and
under and around each other, getting their traces in a snarl beside
which the Gordian knot would be as nothing. Then, in a temperature
anywhere between zero and 60° below, the driver has to remove his heavy
mittens and disentangle the traces with his bare hands, while the dogs
leap and snap and bark and seem to mock him. And this brings me to an
incident which practically always happens when a new man starts out to
drive Eskimo dogs.
[Illustration: "PEARY" TYPE OF SLEDGE
12-1/2 ft. Long, 2 ft. Wide, 7 in. High; With Steel Shoes 2 in. Wide]
[Illustration: ESKIMO TYPE OF SLEDGE USED ON JOURNEY
9 ft. 6 in. Long, 2 ft. Wide, 8 in. High; With Steel Shoes 1-1/4 in.
Wide
Each has standard load of supplies for team and driver for fifty
days--pemmican, biscuit, milk, tea, oil, alcohol]
A member of the expedition--I, who have also suffered, will not give his
name away--started out with his dog team. Some hours later shouts and
hilarious laughter were heard from the Eskimos. It was not necessary to
inquire what had happened. The dog team had returned to the
ship--without the sledge. The new dog driver, in attempting to unsnarl
the traces of his dogs, had let them get away from him. Another hour or
two went by, and the man himself returned, crestfallen and angry clear
through. He was greeted by the derisive shouts of the Eskimos, whose
respect for the white man is based primarily on the white man's skill in
the Eskimo's own field. The man gathered up his dogs again and went back
for the sledge.
The gradual breaking in of the new men is one of the purposes of the
short trips of the fall. They have to become inured to such minor
discomforts as frosted toes and ears and noses, as well as the loss of
their dogs. They have to learn to keep the heavy sledges right side up
when the going is rough and sometimes, before a man gets hardened, this
seems almost to rip the muscles from the shoulder blades. Moreover, they
have to learn how to wear their fur clothing.
On the 16th of September the first train of supplies was sent to Cape
Belknap: Marvin, Dr. Goodsell, and Borup, with thirteen Eskimos, sixteen
sledges, and about two hundred dogs. They were an imposing procession as
they started northwest along the ice-foot, the sledges going one behind
the other. It was a beautiful day--clear, calm, and sunny,--and we could
hear, when they were a long distance away, the shouts of the Eskimo
drivers, "_Huk, huk, huk_," "_Ash-oo_," "_How-eh_," the cracking of the
whips, and the crisp rustle and creaking of the sledges over the snow.
It is often asked how we keep warm when riding on the sledges. We do not
ride, save in rare instances. We walk, and when the going is hard we
have to help the dogs by lifting the sledges over rough places.
The first party returned the same day with the empty sledges, and the
next day two Eskimo hunting parties came in with three deer, six hares,
and two eider ducks. Neither party had seen any tracks of musk-oxen. On
the 18th, the second sledge party was sent out to carry fifty-six cases
of crew pemmican to Cape Richardson, where they were to camp, bring up
the biscuit from Cape Belknap to Cape Richardson the following day, and
then return to the ship. That gave them one night in the field.
A man's first night in a canvas tent in the Arctic is likely to be
rather wakeful. The ice makes mysterious noises; the dogs bark and fight
outside the tent where they are tethered; and as three Eskimos and one
white man usually occupy a small tent, and the oil-stove is left burning
all night, the air, notwithstanding the cold, is not over-pure; and
sometimes the Eskimos begin chanting to the spirits of their ancestors
in the middle of the night, which is, to say the least, trying.
Sometimes, too, the new man's nerves are tried by hearing wolves howl in
the distance.
The tents are specially made. They are of light-weight canvas, and the
floor of the tent is sewed directly into it. The fly is sewed up, a
circular opening cut in it, just large enough to admit a man, and that
opening fitted with a circular flap which is closed by a draw-string,
making the tent absolutely snow-proof. An ordinary tent, when the snow
is flying, would be filled in no time.
The tent is pyramidal, with one pole in the center, and the edges are
usually held down by the sledge runners or by snowshoes used as tent
pegs. The men sleep on the floor in their clothes, with a musk-ox skin
under, and a light deerskin over them. I have not used sleeping bags
since my arctic trip of 1891-92.
The "kitchen box" for our sledge journeys is simply a wooden box
containing two double-burner oil-stoves, with four-inch wicks. The two
cooking pots are the bottoms of five-gallon coal-oil tins, fitted with
covers. When packed they are turned bottom side up over each stove, and
the hinged cover of the wooden box is closed. On reaching camp, whether
tent or snow igloo, the kitchen box is set down inside, the top of the
box is turned up and keeps the heat of the stove from melting the wall
of the igloo or burning the tent; the hinged front of the box is turned
down and forms a table. The two cooking pots are filled with pounded ice
and put on the stoves; when the ice melts one pot is used for tea, and
the other may be used to warm beans, or to boil meat if there is any.
Each man has a quart cup for tea, and a hunting knife which serves many
purposes. He does not carry anything so polite as a fork, and one
teaspoon is considered quite enough for a party of four. Each man helps
himself from the pot--sticks in his knife and fishes out a piece of
meat.
The theory of field work is that there shall be two meals a day, one in
the morning and one at night. As the days grow short, the meals are
taken before light and after dark, leaving the period of light entirely
for work. Sometimes it is necessary to travel for twenty-four hours
without stopping for food.
The Cape Richardson party returned on the evening of the 19th, and was
sent out again on the 21st, nineteen Eskimos and twenty-two sledges, to
take 6,600 pounds of dog pemmican to Porter Bay. MacMillan, being still
under the weather with the grip, missed this preliminary training; but I
felt certain that he would overtake the experience of the others as soon
as he was able to travel. When the third party returned, on the 24th,
they brought back the meat and skins of fourteen deer.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
CAPTAIN BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY
Panikpah, "Harrigan," Ooqueah, Bartlett. (A Typical Unit Division of the
Expedition)
(Tents Were Used for Shelter in Earlier Autumn Hunting and
Transportation of Supplies. In Winter Traveling and in the Sledge
Journey Igloos Were Used)]
On the 28th there was a general exodus from the ship: Henson, Ootah,
Alletah, and Inighito were to hunt on the north side of Lake Hazen;
Marvin, Poodloonah, Seegloo, and Arco on the east end and the south side
of Lake Hazen; and Bartlett, with Panikpah, Inighito, Ooqueah, Dr.
Goodsell, with Inighito, Keshungwah, Kyutah, and Borup, with Karko,
Tawchingwah, and Ahwatingwah, were to go straight through to Cape
Columbia.
I had planned from the beginning to leave most of the hunting and other
field work to the younger members of the expedition. Twenty odd years of
arctic experience had dulled for me the excitement of everything but a
polar-bear chase; the young men were eager for the work; there was much
to do on board ship in planning for the spring, and I wished to conserve
my energies for the supreme effort.
There was no systematic training, because I do not believe in it. My
body has always been able thus far to follow my will no matter what the
demands might be, and my winter's work was largely a matter of
refinement of equipment, and of mathematical calculations of pounds of
supplies and miles of distance. It was the lack of food which had forced
us to turn back at 87° 6´. Hunger, not cold, is the dragon which guards
the Rhinegold of the Arctic.
I did allow myself one break in the monotony of ship life--a trip to
Clements Markham Inlet, in October. Ever since April, 1902, when I had
looked around the angle of Cape Hecla into the unexplored depths of this
great fiord, I had had a longing to penetrate it. On the previous
expedition I had started twice with that purpose, but had been
prevented from carrying it out, partly on account of bad weather, partly
by reason of my anxiety for the _Roosevelt_, which I had left in a
precarious position. But now the _Roosevelt_ was safe; and though the
sun was circling near the horizon and the winter night would soon be
upon us, I decided to make the trip.
On the 1st of October I left the ship with three Eskimos, Egingwah,
Ooblooyah, and Koolatoonah, three sledges with teams of ten dogs each,
and supplies for two weeks only. With the sledges thus lightly loaded,
and the trail broken for us by the parties which had preceded us, we
made rapid progress, reaching Porter Bay, thirty-five miles from the
ship, for our first camp in a few hours.
Here we found two Eskimos, Onwagipsoo and Wesharkoopsi, who had been
sent out a day or two before. Onwagipsoo went back to the ship, but
Wesharkoopsi we took along with us to carry a load of supplies to Sail
Harbor, which we expected to reach on the next march; from there he also
would return to the ship.
Our camp at Porter Bay was in the permanent tent which had been erected
there by the first of the autumn parties, the canvas tent with the
sewed-in floor which has already been described. It was not very cold
that night, and we slept comfortably after a hearty supper of beans and
tea. Beans and tea! Perhaps it does not sound like a Lucullan feast, but
after a day in the field in Grant Land it tastes like one.
CHAPTER XVI
THE BIGGEST GAME IN THE ARCTIC
We slept splendidly on that banquet, and, breaking out early the next
morning, we passed up the ice of Porter Bay to its head, then, taking to
the land, crossed the five-mile-wide isthmus which separates Porter Bay
from the head of James Ross Bay. Every foot of this route was familiar
to me and rich with memories. Reaching the other side, we descended to
the ice again and made rapid progress along the western shore. The dogs
were lively and well-fed, trotting along with tails and ears erect; the
weather was good, and the sun, now low on the horizon, cast long,
fantastic shadows on the ice from every man and dog.
Suddenly the quick eyes of Egingwah spied a moving speck on the slope of
the mountain to our left. "_Tooktoo_," he cried, and the party came to
an instant standstill. Knowing that the successful pursuit of a single
buck reindeer might mean a long run, I made no attempt to go after him
myself; but I told Egingwah and Ooblooyah, my two stalwart, long-legged
youngsters, to take the 40-82 Winchesters and be off. At the word they
were flying across country, eager as dogs loosed from the traces,
crouching low and running quickly. They took a course which would
intercept the deer a little farther along the slope of the mountain.
I watched them through my glasses. The deer, when he caught sight of
them, started off leisurely in another direction, looking back every now
and then, suspiciously alert. When the deer halted suddenly and swung
round facing them, it was clear that they had given the magic call
taught by Eskimo father to Eskimo son through generation after
generation, the imitation call at which every buck reindeer stops
instantly--a peculiar hissing call like the spitting of a cat, only more
lingering.
The two men leveled their rifles, and the magnificent buck went down in
his tracks. The dogs had been watching, with heads and ears erect; but
at the report of the rifles they swung sharply to the shore, and the
next instant we were hurrying across the rocks and over the snow, the
dogs dragging the sledges as if they had been empty.
When we reached the two hunters they were standing patiently beside the
deer. I had told them not to disturb him, as some good photographs were
desired. He was a beautiful creature, almost snow-white, with
magnificent branching antlers. When the photographs were taken, all four
of the men set to work, skinning and cutting him up.
[Illustration: FAMILY GROUP OF PEARY CARIBOU (RANGIFER PEARYI), ARRANGED
BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT]
The scene is vivid in memory: the towering mountains on both sides of
James Ross Bay, with the snow-covered foreshore stretching down to the
white surface of the bay; in the south the low-lying sun, a great glare
of vivid yellow just showing through the gap of the divide, the air full
of slowly dropping frost crystals; and the four fur-clad figures grouped
around the deer, with the dogs and the sledges at a little
distance--the only signs of life in that great white wilderness.
When the deer was skinned and dressed, the pelt was carefully rolled and
put on one of the sledges, the meat was made into a pile for
Wesharkoopsi to take back to the ship when he returned from Sail Harbor
with empty sledge, and we pushed along the western shore of the bay;
then, taking to the land again, still westward across this second
peninsula and low divide, till we came to the little bight, called Sail
Harbor by the English, on the western side of Parry Peninsula.
Here, out at the mouth of the harbor, under the lee of the protecting
northern point, we made our second camp.
Wesharkoopsi deposited his load of supplies, and I wrote a note for
Bartlett, who was west of us on his way to Cape Columbia. That night we
had deer steak for supper--a feast for a king.
After a few hours' sleep we started, straight as the crow flies, across
the eastern end of the great glacial fringe, heading for the mouth of
Clements Markham Inlet. Reaching the mouth of the inlet, we kept on down
its eastern shore, finding very good going; for the tides rising in the
crack next the shore had saturated the overlying snow, then freezing had
formed a narrow but smooth surface for the sledges.
A part of this shore was musk-ox country, and we scanned it carefully,
but saw none of the animals. Some miles down the bay we came upon the
tracks of a couple of deer. A little farther on we were electrified by
a tense whisper from the ever sharp-sighted Egingwah:
"_Nanooksoah!_"
He was pointing excitedly toward the center of the fiord, and following
the direction of his finger we saw a cream-colored spot leisurely moving
toward the mouth of the fiord--a polar bear!
If there is anything that starts the blood lust in an Eskimo's heart
more wildly than the sight of a polar bear, I have yet to discover it.
Hardened as I am to arctic hunting, I was thrilled myself.
[Illustration: POLAR BEAR, ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND
PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT]
While I stood in front of the dogs with a whip in each hand, to keep
them from dashing away--for the Eskimo dog knows the meaning of
"_nanooksoah_" as well as his master--the three men were throwing things
off the sledges as if they were crazy.
When the sledges were empty, Ooblooyah's team shot by me, with Ooblooyah
at the up-standers. Egingwah came next, and I threw myself on his sledge
as it flew past. Behind us came Koolatoonah with the third team. The man
who coined the phrase "greased lightning" must have ridden on an empty
sledge behind a team of Eskimo dogs on the scent of a polar bear.
The bear had heard us, and was making for the opposite shore of the
fiord with prodigious bounds. I jumped to the up-standers of the flying
sledge, leaving Egingwah to throw himself on it and get his breath, and
away we went, wild with excitement, across the snow-covered surface of
the fiord.
When we got to the middle the snow was deeper, and the dogs could not go
so fast, though they strained ahead with all their might. Suddenly they
scented the trail--and then neither deep snow nor anything else could
have held them. Ooblooyah, with a crazy team and only himself at the
up-standers, distanced the rest of us, arriving at the farther shore
almost as soon as the leaping bear. He loosed his dogs immediately, and
we could see the bear in the distance, followed by minute dots that
looked hardly larger than mosquitoes swarming up the steep slope. Before
our slower teams got to the shore, Ooblooyah had reached the top of the
slope, and he signaled us to go around, as the land was an island.
When we reached the other side, we found where the bear had descended to
the ice again and kept on across the remaining width of the fiord to the
western shore, followed by Ooblooyah and his dogs.
A most peculiar circumstance, commented on by Egingwah as we flew along,
was that this bear, contrary to the custom of bears in Eskimo land, did
not stop when the dogs reached him, but kept right on traveling. This to
Egingwah was almost certain proof that the great devil himself--terrible
Tornarsuk--was in that bear. At the thought of chasing the devil, my
sledge companion grew even more excited.
On the other side of the island the snow was deeper and our progress
slower, and when we reached the western shore of the fiord, up which, as
on the island, we had seen from a distance the bear and Ooblooyah's dogs
slowly climbing, both we and our dogs were pretty well winded. But we
were encouraged by hearing the barking of the free dogs up somewhere
among the cliffs. This meant that the bear had at last been brought to
bay. When we reached the shore our dogs were loosed from the sledges.
They swarmed up the hot trail, and we followed as best we could.
A little farther on we came to a deep cañon, and as we could tell by the
sounds, the dogs and the bear were at the bottom. But where we stood the
walls were too precipitous for even an Eskimo to descend, and we could
not see our quarry. He was evidently under some projecting ledge on our
side.
Moving up the cañon to find a place of descent, I heard Egingwah shout
that the bear had started down the cañon and was climbing up the other
side. Hurrying back through the deep snow and over the rough rocks, I
suddenly saw the beast, perhaps a hundred yards away, and raised my
rifle. But I must have been too much winded to take good aim, for though
I fired two shots at him the bear kept right on up the cañon side.
Surely Tornarsuk was in him!
I found that I had given the stumps of both my feet--my toes were frozen
off at Fort Conger in 1899--some severe blows against the rocks; and as
they were complaining with vehemence, I decided not to follow the bear
any farther along the steep boulder-strewn bluffs.
Handing my rifle to Egingwah, I told him and Koolatoonah to go after the
bear while I went back down the bluffs to the sledges and followed along
the bay ice. But before I had gone far along the bay ice shouting was
heard in the distance, and soon an Eskimo appeared on a summit and waved
his hand--a signal that they had bagged the bear.
Just ahead, and abreast of where the Eskimo had appeared, was the mouth
of a ravine, and I stopped the sledge there and waited. In a little
while my men appeared slowly working their way down the ravine. The dogs
which had been in at the death were attached to the bear, as if he had
been a sledge, and they were dragging him after them. It was an
interesting scene: the steep and rocky ravine in its torn mantle of
snow, the excited dogs straining ahead with their unusual burden, the
inert cream-colored, blood-streaked form of the great bear, and the
shouting and gesticulating Eskimos.
When they finally got the bear down to the shore, and while I was taking
photographs of him, the Eskimos walked up and down excitedly discussing
the now certain fact that the devil had been in this animal, or he never
would have traveled as he did after the dogs overtook him. The
subtleties of arctic demonology being beyond the grasp of any mere white
man, I did not join in the argument as to whither the devil had betaken
himself when the rifle of Ooblooyah laid low his fleshly tenement.
Our prize was soon skinned and cut up by the skilful knives of the
Eskimos, the meat was piled on the shore for future parties to bring
back to the ship, the bearskin was carefully folded on one of the
sledges, and we returned to the place where we had first seen the bear,
on the other side of the bay.
There we found the supplies which had been thrown from the sledges to
lighten them for the bear chase; and as the men and dogs were tired out,
and we were satisfied with the day's work, we camped on the spot. Our
tent was unfolded and set up, the oil-stoves were lighted, and we had a
plentiful supply of bear steak--all the juicier, perhaps, for the recent
presence of Tornarsuk.
CHAPTER XVII
MUSK-OXEN AT LAST
On the next march we had gone only some six or seven miles when,
rounding a point on the eastern shore of the Inlet, we saw black dots on
a distant hillside.
"_Oomingmuksue!_" said Ooblooyah, excitedly, and I nodded to him, well
pleased.
To the experienced hunter, with one or two dogs, seeing musk-oxen should
be equivalent to securing them. There may be traveling over the roughest
kind of rough country, with wind in the face and cold in the blood; but
the end should always be the trophies of hides, horns, and juicy meat.
For myself, I never associate the idea of sport with musk-oxen--too
often in the years gone by the sighting of those black forms has meant
the difference between life and death. In 1896, in Independence Bay, the
finding of a herd of musk-oxen saved the lives of my entire party. On my
way back from 87° 6´, in 1906, if we had not found musk-oxen on Nares
Land, the bones of my party might now be bleaching up there in the great
white waste.
When we saw the significant black dots in the distance, we headed for
them. There were five close together, and another a little way off. When
we got within less than a mile, two of the dogs were loosed. They were
wild with excitement, for they also had seen the black dots and knew
what they meant; and as soon as the traces were unfastened they were
off--straight as the flight of a homing bee.
We followed, at our leisure, knowing that when we arrived the herd would
be rounded up, ready for our rifles. A single musk-ox, when he sees the
dogs, will make for the nearest cliff and get his back against it; but a
herd of them will round up in the middle of a plain with tails together
and heads toward the enemy. Then the bull leader of the herd will take
his place outside the round-up, and charge the dogs. When the leader is
shot, another takes his place, and so on.
A few minutes later I stood again, as I had stood on previous
expeditions, with that bunch of shaggy black forms, gleaming eyes and
pointed horns before me--only this time it did not mean life or death.
[Illustration: HEAD OF BULL MUSK-OX KILLED ON PARRY PENINSULA]
Yet, as I raised my rifle, again I felt clutching at my heart that
terrible sensation of life hanging on the accuracy of my aim; again in
my bones I felt that gnawing hunger of the past; that aching lust for
red, warm, dripping meat--the feeling that the wolf has when he pulls
down his quarry. He who has ever been really hungry, either in the
Arctic or elsewhere, will understand this feeling. Sometimes the memory
of it rushes over me in unexpected places. I have felt it after a hearty
dinner, in the streets of a great city, when a lean-faced beggar has
held out his hand for alms.
I pulled the trigger, and the bull leader of the herd fell on his
haunches. The bullet had found the vulnerable spot under the fore
shoulder, where one should always shoot a musk-ox. To aim at the head
is a waste of ammunition.
As the bull went down, out from the herd came a cow, and a second shot
accounted for her. The others, a second cow and two yearlings, were the
work of a few moments; then I left Ooblooyah and Koolatoonah to skin and
cut them up, while Egingwah and I started for the single animal, a
couple of miles away.
As the dogs approached this fellow, he launched up the hill and
disappeared over a nearby crest. The light surface snow along the path
he had taken was brushed away by the long, matted hair of his sides and
belly, which hung down to the ground.
The dogs had disappeared after the musk-ox, but Egingwah and myself were
guided by their wild barking. Our quarry had taken refuge among the huge
rocks in the bottom of a stream-bed, where his rear and both sides were
protected, and there he stood at bay with the yelping dogs before him.
One shot was enough; and leaving Egingwah to skin and cut up the animal,
I started to walk back to the other two men, as it had been decided to
camp at the place where they were cutting up the five musk-oxen. But as
I emerged from the mouth of the cañon, I saw up the valley still another
of the big, black shaggy forms. Quickly I retraced my steps, and
gathering in two of the dogs, secured this fellow as easily as the
others.
This last specimen was, however, of peculiar interest, as the white hair
of the legs, just above the hoofs, was dashed with a bright red--a
marking which I had never before seen in any of these arctic animals.
Taking the dogs with me and leaving the musk-ox, I went on to the place
selected for a camp. Ooblooyah and Koolatoonah were just finishing
cutting up the fifth musk-ox, and were immediately sent off with a
sledge and team of dogs, to help Egingwah with the two big bulls.
When they were gone, I set up the tent myself and began to prepare the
tea for our supper. As soon as the voices of the Eskimos were audible in
the distance, I put on the musk-ox steaks to broil and in a few minutes
we were enjoying the reward of our labor. Surely this was living on the
fat of the land indeed, deer steak the second night, bear steak last
night, to-night the luscious meat of the musk-ox!
[Illustration: HERD OF MUSK-OXEN ROUNDED UP]
In the morning we continued our course, and during the day three more
musk-oxen were gathered in, the meat being cached as before. That night
we camped at the head of the hitherto unexplored inlet, and I had the
satisfaction of knowing that one more stretch of previously unknown
territory had been added to the world's map.
Next day we started north along the west side of the inlet. We had been
traveling for hours and were just looking for a suitable place to camp,
being then at the foot of a steep bluff some fifty feet in height, when
suddenly the dogs made a break for the shore and attempted to climb the
bluff. Of course they could not do this on account of the sledges; but
we knew what their wild action meant--more musk-oxen.
[Illustration: WESHARKOOPSI AND MUSK-OX CALF]
In a moment Egingwah and I, with rifles in our hands, were climbing the
bluff. Peering over the top we saw a herd of five. It was nearly dark
now, the arctic twilight being so dense that we could simply make out
five dark spots. We waited for a moment to catch our breath, then I
motioned to Ooblooyah to bring two of the dogs, leaving Koolatoonah with
the others at the sledges. Notwithstanding the uncertain light, we made
short work of this herd.
Again I pitched the tent and prepared supper, while my brown friends
paid their final respects to the musk-oxen on the bluff. It is necessary
to eviscerate these animals as soon as they are killed, otherwise the
excessive heat of the great shaggy bodies will cause the meat to become
tainted. When the three Eskimos came down to the tent the darkness was
already upon us--a promise of the long black night to come.
The next day we completed the circuit of the western shore of the Inlet,
then started on a bee line for Sail Harbor, making this a forced march.
At Sail Harbor we found a note from Bartlett, showing that he had passed
there the previous day on his way back from Cape Columbia to the ship.
There we camped again; and in the morning, while the men were breaking
camp and lashing up the sledges, I started with the very first rays of
the morning light across the peninsula towards James Ross Bay. As I
crested the divide, I saw--down on the shore of the Bay--a group of dark
spots which were clearly recognized as a camp; and a little later I sang
out to the party, which comprised the divisions of Bartlett, Goodsell,
and Borup.
By the time the sleepy-eyed, stiff figures of the three men--who, as I
soon learned, had been asleep only an hour or so--emerged from the
tents, my sledges and Eskimos were close at my heels. I can see now the
bulging eyes of the men, and particularly of young Borup, when they saw
the sledge loads of shaggy skins. On the top of the leading sledge was
the magnificent snowy pelt of the polar bear, with the head forward;
behind this was the deerskin with its wide-antlered head, and more
musk-ox heads than they had had time to count.
"Oh, gee!" exclaimed Borup, when his open-mouthed astonishment would
permit of articulation.
I had no time for visiting, as I wanted to reach the ship on that march;
and after a few words left the men to finish their interrupted sleep. It
was long after dark when we reached the _Roosevelt_. We had been absent
seven sleeps, had traveled over two hundred miles, had accomplished the
exploration of Clements Markham Inlet, had made a rough map of it, and
incidentally had obtained magnificent specimens of the three great
animals of the arctic regions, thus adding a few thousand pounds of
fresh meat to our winter supply. So, with a feeling of entire
satisfaction, I had a hot bath in my cabin bathroom on the _Roosevelt_,
and then turned in to my bunk for a long and refreshing sleep.
[Illustration: BEAR KILLED IN CLEMENTS MARKHAM INLET]
Throughout the month of October the work of transporting supplies and of
hunting went on. The captain made two round trips from the ship to Cape
Columbia; but he was working backward and forward all the time along the
route. In the course of this work he obtained four musk-oxen.
[Illustration: MUSK-OX HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE ROOSEVELT]
[Illustration: CARIBOU HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE ROOSEVELT]
(From Photographs taken on the Return Voyage)
MacMillan recovered from his attack of grip, and on the 14th of October
was sent with two sledges, two Eskimos, and twenty dogs to make a survey
of Clements Markham Inlet and obtain musk-oxen and deer. He bagged five
of the former. The last of the month the doctor also had an attack of
grip, which kept him in bed for a week or two. Many small parties were
sent out on short hunting trips and there was hardly a day during the
fall when the men were all on the ship at one time.
While, from the time of our arrival at Cape Sheridan early in September
to the date of our departure from land for the Pole on March 1, every
member of the expedition was almost constantly engaged in work that had
for its object the completing of preparations for the final sledge
journey in the spring, no small part of this work was educational in
purpose and result. That is to say, it was intended to inure the
"tenderfeet" of the party to the hardships of long journeys over rough
going and through low temperatures, snow and wind. It taught them how to
take care of themselves under difficult conditions, how to defend
themselves against the ever-present peril of frost-bite, how to get the
greatest comfort and protection from their fur clothing, how to handle
their valuable dogs and how to manage their Eskimo helpers so as to get
the best results from their efforts.
An entry in Dr. Goodsell's journal is so typical of the chief troubles
of any arctic sledging journey that it is worth repeating here.
"Have been utilizing the time," wrote Dr. Goodsell, "in trying to dry
out stockings and boots. It is extremely difficult to dry out stockings
because of the cold and the necessity of economizing fuel. The general
procedure is to discard footgear when it is nearly saturated with
moisture. As long as the footgear is dry there is little danger of
frosting the feet, if ordinary precautions are taken. With wet footgear
one is in constant danger of freezing the feet. The oil-stove with the
three-inch burner is barely sufficient to dry the gloves, of which two
pairs are worn, an outer pair of bearskin, and an inner pair of
deerskin." Another journal entry deals with a different kind of peril:
"Toxingwa and Weesockasee were overcome by the lack of oxygen and the
fumes of alcohol while MacMillan was preparing tea. Weesockasee fell
back as though asleep. Toxingwa was twisting around, as though to get
his arm free from one sleeve of his jacket. He too, finally fell back.
MacMillan surmised the cause and kicked the door to one side. In about
fifteen or twenty minutes they came around all right. The Commander on
another of his expeditions nearly had a similar experience when he saw
his Eskimos acting strangely, and quickly kicked out the side of the
igloo."
Still another peril that is omnipresent in sledge journeys over a polar
sea is that of falling through thin ice and getting thoroughly wet.
Perhaps it is not necessary to enlarge upon the gravity of this danger,
since it was precisely such an accident that cost Professor Marvin his
life. Even if the victim of such an accident should be able to drag
himself out of the water, he would in all probability speedily freeze to
death. Death by freezing comes speedily to a water-soaked man when
temperatures are ranging anywhere from 20 to 60 degrees below zero.
"Just finished changing my boots for a dry pair," writes the doctor.
"Crossing a lead covered with thin ice and fissured in the center, my
left leg went in to the knee. Fortunately my right foot was forward on
firm ice and I threw myself ahead, going down on my left knee on the
edge of firm ice and drawing my leg out of the water. At another lead
the ice gave way as I sprang from its surface. My right foot dipped into
the water to the ankle. I do not understand why I did not go down bodily
into the water. Had I gone in to my waist there would have been a
serious result, for the sledges were some distance away and the
temperature was 47° below zero. In the absence of an igloo and a change
of clothes near at hand, a ducking in this temperature would certainly
have a serious termination."
Trying conditions these--yet the thing had its irresistible fascination,
and now and then came reflective moments like the one on February 25,
when the doctor, encamped on the way from the _Roosevelt_ to Cape
Columbia, wrote as follows:
"When I was nearing Point Good, insensibly I paused time and again to
view the scene. I could see Cape Hecla to the rear and the Parry
Peninsula. In advance the twin peaks of Cape Columbia beckoned us on to
the second point of departure in the Commander's northward march. To the
north as we progressed, beyond the comparatively smooth glacial fringe
loomed the floes and pinnacles of rough ice which will try us all to the
utmost for weeks to come. To the south the circumference of the horizon
was bounded by the sharp, jagged, serrated mountain ranges, mostly
parallel to the coast. Every day we have a glorious dawn lasting for
hours. A golden gleam is radiated from parallel ranges of serrated
mountains. Individual peaks reflect the light of the sun, which will
illuminate them with its direct rays in a few days. There is a cornea of
golden glow, crimson and yellow, with strata of darker clouds floating
parallel to the coast ranges--Turner effects for hours each day and for
days in succession, the effect increasing from day to day. I am writing
under difficulties, Inighito (an Eskimo) holding the candle. My hands
are so cold that I can scarcely guide my pencil, as I recline on the bed
platform of the igloo."
But all this anticipates. On the 12th of October the sun had bidden us
good-by for the year, and the rapidly darkening twilight increased the
difficulties of the field work. Our photographs grew daily less
satisfactory. We had not been able to take snapshots since about the
middle of September; for, when the sun is near the horizon, though the
light is apparently as brilliant as in summer, it seems to have no
actinic power. Our first time-exposures were five seconds; our last, on
the 28th of October, were ninety minutes. The temperature also was
gradually getting lower, and on the 29th of October it was 26° below
zero.
The fall work ended with the return of Bartlett and his party from Cape
Columbia, on November 5th, the other men having all returned before. By
that time the light had disappeared, and it would be necessary to wait
for the recurring moons of the long winter night before we could do any
more work.
We had gone up there in the arctic noon, had worked and hunted through
the arctic twilight, and now the night was upon us--the long arctic
night which seems like the valley of the shadow of death. With nearly
all the supplies for the spring sledge journey already at Cape Columbia,
with a good store of fresh meat for the winter, and our party all in
good health, we entered the Great Dark with fairly contented hearts. Our
ship was apparently safe; we were well housed and well fed; and if
sometimes the terrible melancholy of the dark clutched for a moment at
the hearts of the men, they bravely kept the secret from each other and
from me.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LONG NIGHT
It may well be doubted if it is possible for a person who has never
experienced four months of constant darkness to imagine what it is.
Every school boy learns that at the two ends of the earth the year is
composed of one day and one night of equal length, and the intervening
periods of twilight; but the mere recital of that fact makes no real
impression on his consciousness. Only he who has risen and gone to bed
by lamplight, and risen and gone to bed again by lamplight, day after
day, week after week, month after month, can know how beautiful is the
sunlight.
During the long arctic night we count the days till the light shall
return to us, sometimes, toward the end of the dark period, checking off
the days on the calendar--thirty-one days, thirty days, twenty-nine
days, and so on, till we shall see the sun again. He who would
understand the old sun worshipers should spend a winter in the Arctic.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
ILLUMINATION OF THE ROOSEVELT IN WINTER QUARTERS ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT
Showing the Ice Pressure Close to the Ship]
Imagine us in our winter home on the _Roosevelt_, four hundred and fifty
miles from the North Pole: the ship held tight in her icy berth, a
hundred and fifty yards from the shore, the ship and the surrounding
world covered with snow, the wind creaking in the rigging, whistling and
shrieking around the corners of the deck houses, the temperature ranging
from zero to sixty below and the ice-pack in the channel outside
groaning and complaining with the movement of the tides.
During the moonlit period of each month, some eight or ten days, when
the moon seems to circle round and round the heavens, the younger
members of the expedition were nearly always away on hunting trips; but
during the longer periods of utter blackness most of us were on the ship
together, as the winter hunting is done only by moonlight.
It must be understood that the arctic moon has its regular phases, its
only peculiarity being the course it appears to travel in the sky. When
the weather is clear there is starlight, even in the dark period; but it
is a peculiar, cold, and spectral starlight, which, to borrow the words
of Milton, seems but to make the "darkness visible."
When the stars are hidden, which may be much of the time, the darkness
is so thick that it seems as if it could almost be grasped with the
hand, and in a driving wind and snowstorm, if a man ventures to put his
head outside the cabin door, he seems to be hurled back by invisible
hands of demoniacal strength.
During the early part of the winter the Eskimos lived in the forward
deck house of the ship. There was always a fire in the galley stove, a
fire in the Eskimo quarters, and one in the crew's quarters; but though
I had a small cylindrical coal stove in my cabin, it was not lighted
throughout the winter. Leaving the forward door of my cabin open into
the galley a part of the time, kept my cabin comfortably warm. Bartlett
occasionally had a fire in his cabin, and the other members of the
expedition sometimes lighted their oil-stoves.
On the first of November we adopted the winter schedule of two meals a
day, breakfast at nine, dinner at four. This is the weekly bill of fare
which Percy, the steward, and I made out and which was followed
throughout the winter:
Monday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Beans and brown bread. Butter. Coffee.
_Dinner_: Liver and bacon. Macaroni and cheese. Bread and butter. Tea.
Tuesday. _Breakfast_: Oatmeal. Ham and eggs. Bread and butter. Coffee.
_Dinner_: Corned beef and creamed peas. Duff. Tea.
Wednesday. _Breakfast_: Choice of two kinds of cereal. Fish, forward
(that is, for the sailors); sausage, aft (for the members of the
expedition). Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Steak and tomatoes.
Bread and butter. Tea.
Thursday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Ham and eggs. Bread and butter. Coffee.
_Dinner_: Corned beef and peas. Duff. Tea.
Friday. _Breakfast_: Choice of cereal. Fish. Hamburger on starboard (our
own) table. Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Pea soup. Fish.
Cranberry pie. Bread and butter. Tea.
Saturday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Meat stew. Bread and butter. Coffee.
_Dinner_: Steak and tomatoes. Bread and butter. Tea.
Sunday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. "Brooze" (Newfoundland hard biscuit,
softened and boiled with salt codfish). Bread and butter. Coffee.
_Dinner_: Salmon trout. Fruit. Chocolate.
Our table conversation was mainly with regard to our work. We would
discuss the details of the last sledge trip, or talk over the plans for
the next one. There was always something going on, and the minds of the
men were so occupied that they did not have time to yield themselves to
the traditional, maddening winter melancholy of the Arctic. Moreover,
men of sanguine temperament had been selected, and much material in the
rough had been carried along in order to keep everybody busy working it
into shape for use.
On Sunday mornings I breakfasted in my cabin, thus leaving the men to
themselves. On these occasions conversation was less technical and
ranged from books to table manners, and sometimes Bartlett seized the
opportunity to give his companions half-serious, half-humorous advice on
the matter of table conduct, telling them that the time would come when
they must return to civilization, and that they must not allow
themselves to get into careless habits. Thus the academic and the
practical elements of the party met on even ground.
I have never adopted rigorous rules for the members of my expeditions,
because it is not necessary. There were regular hours for meals in the
mess rooms. It was understood that lights should be out at midnight, but
if any man wanted a light later, he could have it. These were our rules.
The Eskimos were allowed to eat when they pleased. They might sit up
late at night, if they chose, but their work of making sledges and fur
clothing had to proceed just the same the next day. There was only one
rigid rule for them: that no loud noises, such as chopping dog meat or
shouting, were to be made from ten o'clock at night until eight in the
morning.
While living on the _Roosevelt_, in winter quarters, we abandoned much
of the routine of ship life afloat. The only regular bells were those at
ten and twelve at night, the first a signal for all loud noises to
cease, the latter a signal for lights to be turned out. The only watches
were those of the regular day and night watchmen.
With the exception of a few cases of grip, the health of the party was
good during the whole period of our life at winter quarters. Grip in the
Arctic, coincident with epidemics in Europe and America, is rather an
interesting phenomenon. My first experience with it was in 1892,
following one of the peculiar Greenland storms, similar to those in the
Alps--a storm which evidently swept over the entire width of Greenland
from the southeast, raising the temperature from the minus thirties to
plus forty-one in twenty-four hours. Following that atmospheric
disturbance every member of my party, and even some of the Eskimos, had
a pronounced attack of grip. It was our opinion that the germs were
brought to us by this storm, which was more than a local disturbance.
Aside from rheumatism and bronchial troubles, the Eskimos are fairly
healthy; but the adults are subject to a peculiar nervous affection
which they call _piblokto_--a form of hysteria. I have never known a
child to have _piblokto_; but some one among the adult Eskimos would
have an attack every day or two, and one day there were five cases. The
immediate cause of this affection is hard to trace, though sometimes it
seems to be the result of a brooding over absent or dead relatives, or
a fear of the future. The manifestations of this disorder are somewhat
startling.
The patient, usually a woman, begins to scream and tear off and destroy
her clothing. If on the ship, she will walk up and down the deck,
screaming and gesticulating, and generally in a state of nudity, though
the thermometer may be in the minus forties. As the intensity of the
attack increases, she will sometimes leap over the rail upon the ice,
running perhaps half a mile. The attack may last a few minutes, an hour,
or even more, and some sufferers become so wild that they would continue
running about on the ice perfectly naked until they froze to death, if
they were not forcibly brought back.
When an Eskimo is attacked with _piblokto_ indoors, nobody pays much
attention, unless the sufferer should reach for a knife or attempt to
injure some one. The attack usually ends in a fit of weeping, and when
the patient quiets down, the eyes are bloodshot, the pulse high, and the
whole body trembles for an hour or so afterward.
The well-known madness among the Eskimo dogs is also called _piblokto_.
Though it does not seem to be infectious, its manifestations are similar
to those of hydrophobia. Dogs suffering from _piblokto_ are usually
shot, but they are often eaten by the Eskimos.
The first winter moon came early in November, and on the 7th MacMillan
started for Cape Columbia for a month of tidal observations, taking with
him Jack Barnes, a sailor, Egingwah, and Inighito and their wives.
Poodloonah, Ooblooyah and Seegloo went as MacMillan's supporting party,
to carry supplies, and Wesharkoopsi and Keshungwah started for Cape
Richardson to bring back the musk-ox skins which had been left there
during the fall hunting trips.
The tidal observations by MacMillan at Cape Columbia were made in
connection with the tidal observations which were constantly going on at
Cape Sheridan during the fall and winter, and with those taken later at
Cape Bryant on the other side of Robeson Channel. These tidal
observations of the expedition of 1908-09 were the farthest north of all
continuous series ever recorded anywhere, though similar observations
had been taken by the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition at Fort Conger, about
sixty miles southwest.
Marvin and Borup, during the November moon, continued the tidal
observations at Cape Sheridan. The tidal igloo, which was built on the
ice just inside the tide crack, about one hundred and eighty yards from
the ship, was an ordinary Eskimo snow igloo and was used as a protection
to the men in taking the observations at the tide staff. This staff,
about twelve feet long, was driven into the bottom, and its length was
marked off in feet and inches. As the tide rose and fell, the ice and
the igloo moved with the water, but the staff remained stationary, and
by the position of the ice upon the staff we measured the tides, varying
with the day, the moon and the season.
The tides along the north coast of Grant Land are remarkable for the
slightness of the rise and fall, which varies from an average of 1.8
feet at Cape Sheridan to .8 at Cape Columbia. As is well known to
navigators, the tides at Sandy Hook, New York, sometimes rise twelve
feet, while the tides in the Bay of Fundy are often over fifty feet; in
Hudson Strait they are about forty, and there are places on the coast of
China where the extreme rise is even greater.
The two Eskimo women were sent to Cape Columbia with MacMillan's party
because the Eskimo men like to have their families with them when they
go on long trips. The women are useful in drying and mending the fur
garments which are constantly going to pieces in the rough usage of the
sledge trips. Some of them can drive a dog team as well as the men, and
many of them are good shots. I have known them to shoot musk-oxen and
even bears. They do not attempt the walrus, yet they can paddle a kayak
as well as the men--to the limit of their strength.
The accomplishments of the Eskimo women are of the useful rather than
the ornamental kind. The handling of the native lamp, for instance,
requires great skill. If the lamp is well trimmed, it is as clear and
smokeless as our own lamps; if it is neglected, it smokes and smells
vilely. As the Eskimos are not highly romantic, a woman's skill in
dressing skins and in making clothes largely determines the quality of
husband she is likely to get. The Eskimo men have not a very critical
eye for feminine beauty, but they are strong in appreciation of domestic
accomplishments.
Even so early as November we began to be worried about the dogs. Many of
them had died; they were nearly all in poor condition, and the food was
none too abundant. It is always necessary to take up twice as many dogs
as will be needed, in order to provide for probable accidents. On the
8th of November there were only one hundred and ninety-three out of the
two hundred and forty-six with which we had left Etah in August. The
whale meat brought for them seemed to be lacking in nutrition.
Four more that were in the worst condition were killed, to save the dog
food, and on the 10th we had to kill five more. Then we tried the
experiment of feeding them on pork, with the result that seven more
died. I began to wonder whether we should have enough dogs left for the
spring journey toward the Pole.
It is absolutely impossible to figure on the Eskimo dog's uncertain
tenure of life. The creatures will endure the severest hardships; they
will travel and draw heavy loads on practically nothing to eat; they
will live for days exposed to the wildest arctic blizzard; and then,
sometimes in good weather, after an ordinary meal of apparently the best
food, they will lie down and die.
On the 25th of November we again overhauled and counted the dogs. There
were now only one hundred and sixty left, and ten of these were in bad
condition. But I discovered that day, on having the frozen walrus meat
ripped up on the forecastle, that we had a greater supply than we had
believed, and the discovery drove away the nightmare which had been
haunting us. From now on the dogs could be fed a little more generous
allowance of the best kind of food. For, after we had tried practically
everything, including our bacon, it was found that walrus meat agreed
with them better than anything else.
The importance of this matter must not be lost sight of for an instant.
Dogs, and plenty of them, were vitally necessary to the success of the
expedition. Had an epidemic deprived us of these animals, we might just
as well have remained comfortably at home in the United States. All the
money, brains and labor would have been utterly thrown away, so far as
concerned the quest of the North Pole.
CHAPTER XIX
THE ROOSEVELT'S NARROW ESCAPE
It is perfectly true that the building business is not extensive in the
arctic regions, but it is also a fact that if you expect to travel
extensively there you must know how to build your own dwellings. If you
neglect to instruct yourself in this direction the chances are that some
time or other you will regret it.
Toward the end of the autumn field work, the use of the canvas tents had
been discontinued, and snow igloos had been constructed along the line
of march. These were permanent, and were used by the various parties,
one after the other. The new members of the expedition were instructed
in the art of igloo building by Marvin, Henson, and the Eskimos. No man
should go into the field in the North in winter unless he knows how to
build a shelter for himself against the cold and the storm.
The size of the igloo depends usually upon the number of men in the
party. If built for three men, it will be about five by eight feet on
the inside; if for five men, it will be about eight by ten, in order to
give greater width to the sleeping platform.
Four good men can build one of these snow houses in an hour. Each takes
a saw knife from the up-standers of the sledge and sets to work cutting
snow blocks. The saw knives are about eighteen inches long and are
strong and stiff, with a cutting edge on one side and saw-teeth on the
other. The blocks of snow are of different sizes, those for the bottom
row being larger and heavier than those for the upper rows, and all are
curved on the inner side, so that when set together they will form a
circle. The thickness of the walls depends upon the hardness of the
snow. If it is closely packed, the walls may be only a few inches thick;
if the snow is soft, the blocks are thicker, that they may hold their
shape. The blocks for the bottom layer are sometimes two or three feet
long and two feet high; but sometimes they are much smaller, as there is
no ironclad rule about it.
When sufficient blocks have been cut to make an igloo, an Eskimo takes
his position on the spot (usually a sloping bank of snow) which is to be
the center of the structure. Then the others bring the snow blocks and
place them end to end, on edge, to form an egg-shaped ring about the man
in the center, who deftly joints and fits them with his snow knife. The
second row is placed on top of the first, but sloping slightly inward;
and the following rows are carried up in a gradually ascending spiral,
each successive layer leaning inward a little more, and each block held
in place by the blocks on either side, until finally an aperture is left
in the top to be filled with one block.
This block is then properly shaped by the man inside the igloo; he
pushes it up endwise through the aperture, turns it over by reaching
through the top, lowers it into place, and chips off with his knife
until it fits the hole like the keystone of an arch, firmly keying the
structure, whose general proportions are not unlike those of a beehive.
A hole just large enough for a man to crawl through is cut close to the
bottom on one side, and any superfluous snow inside the igloo is thrown
out through this hole. In the rear or larger end, the sloping floor is
leveled off to form a bed platform, and in front of this the floor is
dug down a foot or more for a standing space and a place for the
cookers.
Then the sleeping gear and cooking outfit are passed into the igloo,
and, after the dogs have been fed and tethered for the night, the
members of the party enter, the opening at the bottom is closed by a
large block of snow, the edges of which have been shaped and chipped by
a saw knife to make a tight joint, and everything is ready for the
night.
After the cookers are lighted, the igloo is soon comparatively warm, and
in the arctic regions, when men are tired out from a long march, they
generally fall asleep easily. Insomnia is not one of the arctic
annoyances.
We never carry alarm clocks in the field to arouse us in the morning.
The first man who has had his sleep out looks at his watch, and if it is
time to be on the march again, he wakes the others. After breakfast we
break camp and are out again.
I did not join the field parties during the winter moons this time, but
remained on the ship, going over and perfecting the plans for the spring
campaign--the sledge journey toward the Pole--and giving considerable
study to the new type of Peary sledge, to the improvement of details of
clothing, and to experimenting with the new alcohol stove which I had
designed for the spring work--determining the most effective charge of
alcohol, the most effective size of broken ice for melting, and so on.
The question of weights is a most important factor in all sledge
equipment, and it was necessary constantly to study to obtain the
maximum effectiveness with the minimum weight and bulk. For relaxation,
I devoted many hours to a new form of taxidermy.
About the middle of November I had a large snow igloo built on the top
of the hatch on the main deck of the _Roosevelt_, which we called "the
studio," and Borup and I began to experiment with flashlight pictures of
the Eskimos. They had become accustomed to seeing counterfeit
presentments of themselves on paper, and were very patient models. We
also got some good moonlight pictures--time exposures varying from ten
minutes to two or three hours.
On this last expedition I did not permit myself to dream about the
future, to hope, or to fear. On the 1905-06 expedition I had done too
much dreaming; this time I knew better. Too often in the past had I
found myself face to face with impassable barriers. Whenever I caught
myself building air castles, I would either attack some work requiring
intense application of the mind, or would go to sleep--it was hard
sometimes to fight back the dreams, especially in my solitary walks on
the ice-foot under the arctic moon.
On the evening of November 11, there was a brilliant paraselene, two
distinct halos and eight false moons being visible in the southern sky.
This phenomenon is not unusual in the Arctic, and is caused by the frost
crystals in the air. On this particular occasion the inner halo had a
false moon at its zenith, another at its nadir, and one each at the
right and left. Outside was another halo, with four other moons.
Sometimes during the summer we see the parhelion, a similar phenomenon
of the sun. I have seen the appearance of the false suns--or sun-dogs as
the sailors call them--so near that the lowest one would seem to fall
between me and a snow-bank twenty feet away, so near that by moving my
head backward and forward I could shut it out or bring it into view.
This was the nearest I ever came to finding the pot of gold at the foot
of the rainbow.
On the night of November 12, the ice of the channel pack, which for more
than two months had seemed unmindful of our intrusive presence, arose in
wrath and tried to hurl us upon the equally inhospitable shore.
All that evening the wind had been gradually increasing in violence, and
about half-past eleven the ship began to complain, creaking, groaning
and muttering to herself. I lay in my bunk and listened to the wind in
the humming rigging, while the moonlight, shining through the porthole,
filled the cabin with dim shadows. Toward midnight, mingled with the
noises of the ship, another and more ominous sound became audible--the
grinding of the ice in the channel outside.
I threw on my clothes and went on deck. The tide was running flood, and
the ice was moving resistlessly past the point of the cape. The nearer
ice, between us and the outer pack, was humming and groaning with the
steadily increasing pressure. By the light of the moon we could see the
pack as it began to break and pile up just beyond the edge of the
ice-foot outside us. A few minutes later the whole mass broke with a
rabid roar into a tumbling chaos of ice blocks, some upheaving, some
going under, and a big rafter, thirty feet high, formed at the edge of
the ice-foot within twenty feet of the ship. The invading mass grew
larger and larger and steadily advanced toward us. The grounded piece
off our starboard beam was forced in and driven against the big ice
block under our starboard quarter. The ship shook a little, but the ice
block did not move.
With every pulse of the tide the pressure and the motion continued, and
in less than an hour from the time I had come on deck, a great floe-berg
was jammed against the side of the _Roosevelt_ from amidships to the
stern. It looked for a minute as if the ship were going to be pushed
bodily aground.
All hands were called, and every fire on board was extinguished. I had
no fear of the ship being crushed by the ice, but she might be thrown on
her side, when the coals, spilled from a stove, might start that horror
of an arctic winter night, the "ship on fire." The Eskimos were
thoroughly frightened and set up their weird howling. Several families
began to gather their belongings, and in a few minutes women and
children were going over the port rail onto the ice, and making for the
box houses on the shore.
The list of the _Roosevelt_ toward the port or shore side grew steadily
greater with the increasing pressure from outside. With the turn of the
tide about half-past one in the morning, the motion ceased, but the
_Roosevelt_ never regained an even keel until the following spring. The
temperature that night was 25° below zero, but it did not seem so very
cold.
Marvin's tidal igloo was split in two, but he continued his
observations, which were of peculiar interest that night; and as soon as
the ice had quieted down Eskimos were sent out to repair the igloo.
Strange to say, none of the Eskimos was attacked with _piblokto_ because
of their fright, and I learned that one of the women, Ahtetah, had
remained quietly sewing in the Eskimo quarters during the whole
disturbance. After this experience, however, some of the Eskimo families
took up their winter residence in the box houses and in snow igloos
ashore.
The winter winds of the Far North are almost unimaginable by any one who
has never experienced them. Our winter at Cape Sheridan this last time
was less severe than the winter of 1905-06, but we had several storms
that reminded us of old times. The north and northwest winds sweeping
down along the coast are the coldest; but for absolutely insane fury the
winds from the south and the southwest, falling off the highland of the
coast with almost the impact of a wall of water, are unsurpassed
anywhere else in the arctic regions.
Sometimes these storms come on gradually, the wind from the northwest
steadily increasing in force and swinging through the west to the
southwest, gathering fury with every hour, until the snow is picked up
bodily from the land and the ice-foot and carried in blinding,
horizontal sheets across the ship. On deck it is impossible to stand or
move, except in the shelter of the rail, and so blinding is the cataract
of snow that the lamps, powerful as are their reflectors, are absolutely
indistinguishable ten feet away.
When a party in the field is overtaken by a storm, they have to stay in
the snow igloo until the fury is over. If there is no igloo near them,
they build one just as quickly as they can when they see the storm
approaching, or, if there is not time for that, they have to make a
dugout in a snow bank.
Thursday, the 26th of November, was proclaimed to be Thanksgiving Day in
Grant Land. For dinner we had soup, macaroni and cheese, and mince pie
made of musk-ox meat. During the December moon Captain Bartlett, with
two Eskimos, two sledges, and twelve dogs, went out to scour the region
between the ship and Lake Hazen for game. Henson, with similar
equipment, went to Clements Markham Inlet. Borup, with seven Eskimos,
seven sledges, and forty-two dogs, set out for Cape Colan and Cape
Columbia. Dr. Goodsell started at the same time with three Eskimos, two
sledges, and twelve dogs, to hunt in the region from Black Cliffs Bay to
James Ross Bay. The parties were to use the regular arctic ration of
tea, pemmican, and biscuit, unless they found game, in which case they
were to use fresh meat for both men and dogs. In addition to the
hunting, supplies for the spring sledge work were to be moved from one
cache to another along the coast.
To give variety to the work, the men who remained with the ship during
one moon went into the field the next. The ship's men, engineers and
sailors, seldom went on hunting trips but remained with the ship,
attending to their regular duties and sometimes helping with the work of
equipment.
I had in my cabin a good arctic library--absolutely complete as regards
the work of later years. This included Abruzzi's "On the _Polar Star_
in the Arctic Sea," Nansen's "Farthest North," Nares' "Voyage to the
Polar Sea," Markham's two volumes on arctic explorations, the narratives
of Greely, Hall, Hayes, Kane, Inglefield--in fact, all the stories of
the navigators of the Smith Sound region, as well as those who have
attempted the Pole from other directions, such as the Austrian
expedition under Payer and Weyprecht, Koldewey's East Greenland
expedition, and so forth.
Then, in antarctic literature I had Captain Scott's two magnificent
volumes, "The Voyage of the _Discovery_," Borchgrevink's "The _Southern
Cross_ Expedition to the Antarctic," Nordenskjöld's "Antarctica," the
"Antarctica" of Balch, and Carl Fricker's "The Antarctic Regions," as
well as Hugh Robert Mills' "Siege of the South Pole."
The members of the expedition used to borrow these books, one at a time,
and I think that before the winter was over they all knew pretty well
what had been done by other men in this field.
Every week or ten days throughout the winter we had to remove from our
cabins the ice caused by the condensation of the moist air where it came
in contact with the cold outer walls. Behind every article of furniture
near the outer wall the ice would form, and we used to chop it out from
under our bunks by the pailful.
The books were always placed far forward on the shelves, because if a
book were pushed back it would freeze solid to the wall. Then, if a
warmer day came, or a fire was built in the cabin, the ice would melt,
the water would run down and the leaves of the book would mold.
The sailors amused themselves after the manner of sailors everywhere,
playing dominoes, cards and checkers, boxing and telling stories. They
used to play at feats of strength, such as finger-pulling, with the
Eskimos. One of the men had an accordion, another a banjo, and as I sat
working in my cabin I used often to hear them singing "Annie Rooney,"
"McGinty," "The Spanish Cavalier," and sometimes "Home, Sweet Home."
Nobody seemed to be bored. Percy, who had special charge of the
phonograph, often treated the men to a concert, and all through the
winter I heard nobody complain of monotony or homesickness.
CHAPTER XX
CHRISTMAS ON THE ROOSEVELT
The four December field parties returned to the ship one after the
other. Captain Bartlett was the only one who had found any game, and he
got only five hares. During this trip the captain had an experience
which might have been decidedly uncomfortable for him, had it turned out
a bit less fortunately. He was up in the Lake Hazen region with his
Eskimos, and he had left them at the igloo while he looked around for
game. He had just found some deer tracks when the moon went behind a
bank of clouds and the night became suddenly black.
He waited an hour or two for the moon to come out that he might see
where he was, and meanwhile the two Eskimos, thinking he was lost, broke
camp and set out for the ship. As soon as there was light enough, he
started off to the south of the igloo, and after a time overtook his
companions. Had he gone even a little way to the north he would not have
met them, and would have had to walk back alone to the ship, without
supplies, a distance of seventy or eighty miles, with a storm brewing.
This party had bad weather nearly all the way home. The temperature was
comparatively mild, only ten or fifteen degrees below zero, and the sky
was overcast. The captain made the last march a long one,
notwithstanding the darkness. Of course he could not always keep the
trail. Sometimes he would be walking along over snow as level as a
floor, then suddenly the level would drop ten or fifteen feet, and,
walking right on in the dark, he would land on the back of his head with
such force that he saw stars which do not appear in any scientific
celestial map.
At one point in the journey they struck going so rough that it was
impossible to push ahead and drive the dogs without light. They had no
lantern, but Bartlett took a sugar tin, cut holes in the sides, and put
a candle in it. With this makeshift beacon he was able to keep somewhere
near the trail. But there was considerable wind, and he declared that he
used enough matches in relighting the candle on that march to keep an
Eskimo family cheerful throughout a whole winter.
The failure of these parties to obtain game was a serious matter. In
order to save food I had still further to reduce the number of dogs. We
overhauled them, and fourteen of the poorest--they would not have
survived the winter--were killed and used as food for the others.
I am often asked how the wild herbivorous animals, like the musk-ox and
the reindeer, survive the winter in that snow-covered land. By a strange
paradox, the wild winds that rage in that country help them in their
struggle for existence, for the wind sweeps the dried grasses and
scattered creeping willows bare of snow over great stretches of land,
and there the animals can graze.
December 22 marked the midnight of the "Great Night," the sun from that
day starting on the return journey north. In the afternoon all the
Eskimos were assembled on deck, and I went to them with my watch in my
hand, telling them that the sun was now coming back. Marvin rang the
ship's bell, Matt Henson fired three shots, and Borup set off some
flashlight powder. Then the men, women, and children formed in line and
marched into the after deck house by the port gangway, passing the
galley, where each one received, in addition to the day's rations, a
quart of coffee, with sugar and milk, ship's biscuit, and musk-ox meat;
the women were also given candy and the men tobacco.
After the celebration, Pingahshoo, a boy of twelve or thirteen, who
helped Percy in the galley, started confidently south over the hills to
meet the sun. After a few hours he returned to the ship, quite
crestfallen, and Percy had to explain to him that while the sun was
really on its way back, it would not get to us for nearly three months
more.
The next day after the winter solstice, our supply of water from the
Cape Sheridan River having failed, Eskimos were sent out to reconnoiter
the ponds of the neighborhood. The English expedition on the _Alert_ had
melted ice during their entire winter, and on the expedition of 1905-06
we had been obliged to melt ice for a month or two; but this year the
Eskimos sounded the ponds, and about fifteen feet of water was found in
one a mile inland from the _Roosevelt_. Over the hole in the ice they
built a snow igloo with a light wooden trap-door, so as to keep the
water in the hole from freezing too quickly. The water was brought to
the ships in barrels on sledges drawn by the Eskimo dogs.
As Christmas fell in the dark of the moon, all the members of the
expedition were on the ship, and we celebrated with a special dinner,
field sports, raffles, prizes, and so on. It was not very cold that day,
only minus 23°.
In the morning we greeted each other with the "Merry Christmas" of
civilization. At breakfast we all had letters from home and Christmas
presents, which had been kept to be opened on that morning. MacMillan
was master of ceremonies and arranged the program of sports. At two
o'clock there were races on the ice-foot. A seventy-five-yard course was
laid out, and the ship's lanterns, about fifty of them, were arranged in
two parallel rows, twenty feet apart. These lanterns are similar to a
railway brakeman's lantern, only larger. It was a strange sight--that
illuminated race-course within seven and a half degrees of the earth's
end.
The first race was for Eskimo children, the second for Eskimo men, the
third for Eskimo matrons with babies in their hoods, the fourth for
unencumbered women. There were four entries for the matrons' race, and
no one could have guessed from watching them that it was a running race.
They came along four abreast, dressed in furs, their eyes rolling,
puffing like four excited walruses, the babies in their hoods gazing
with wide and half-bewildered eyes at the glittering lanterns. There was
no question of cruelty to children, as the mothers were not moving fast
enough to spill their babies. Then there were races for the ship's men
and the members of the expedition, and a tug of war between the men aft
and forward.
Nature herself participated in our Christmas celebrations by providing
an aurora of considerable brilliancy. While the races on the ice-foot
were in progress, the northern sky was filled with streamers and lances
of pale white light. These phenomena of the northern sky are not,
contrary to the common belief, especially frequent in these most
northerly latitudes. It is always a pity to destroy a pleasant popular
illusion; but I have seen auroras of a greater beauty in Maine than I
have ever seen beyond the Arctic Circle.
Between the races and the dinner hour, which was at four o'clock, I gave
a concert on the æolian in my cabin, choosing the merriest music in the
rack. Then we separated to "dress for dinner." This ceremony consisted
in putting on clean flannel shirts and neckties. The doctor was even so
ambitious as to don a linen collar.
Percy, the steward, wore a chef's cap and a large white apron in honor
of the occasion, and he laid the table with a fine linen cloth and our
best silver. The wall of the mess room was decorated with the American
flag. We had musk-ox meat, an English plum pudding, sponge cake covered
with chocolate, and at each plate was a package containing nuts, cakes,
and candies, with a card attached: "A Merry Christmas, from Mrs. Peary."
After dinner came the dice-throwing contests, and the wrestling and
pulling contests in the forecastle. The celebration ended with a
graphophone concert, given by Percy.
But perhaps the most interesting part of our day was the distribution of
prizes to the winners in the various contests. In order to afford a
study in Eskimo psychology, there was in each case a choice between
prizes. Tookoomah, for instance, who won in the women's race, had a
choice among three prizes: a box of three cakes of scented soap; a
sewing outfit, containing a paper of needles, two or three thimbles, and
several spools of different-sized thread; and a round cake covered with
sugar and candy. The young woman did hot hesitate. She had one eye,
perhaps, on the sewing outfit, but both hands and the other eye were
directed toward the soap. She knew what it was meant for. The meaning of
cleanliness had dawned upon her--a sudden ambition to be attractive.
The last time that all the members of the expedition ate together was at
the four o'clock dinner on December 29, for that evening Marvin, the
captain, and their parties started for the Greenland coast; and when we
met together at the ship after my return from the Pole there was one who
was not with us--one who would never again be with us.
Ross Marvin was, next to Captain Bartlett, the most valuable man in the
party. Whenever the captain was not in the field, Marvin took command of
the work, and on him devolved the sometimes onerous, sometimes amusing
labor of breaking in the new members. During the latter part of the
former expedition in the _Roosevelt_, Marvin had grasped more fully than
any other man the underlying, fundamental principles of the work.
He and I together had planned the details of the new method of advance
and relay parties. This method, given a fixed surface over which to
travel, could be mathematically demonstrated, and it has proved to be
the most effective way to carry on an arctic sledge journey.
The party that started for the Greenland coast, across the ice of
Robeson Channel, on the evening of December 29, consisted of Marvin, the
captain, nine Eskimos, and fifty-four dogs. They were all to go south
along the coast to Cape Union, then cross the channel to Cape Brevoort,
Marvin, with his men and supporting parties, going north to Cape Bryant
for a month of tidal observations, the captain and his men going south
along the ice of Newman Bay and on to the Polaris Promontory to hunt.
The following day, Dr. Goodsell and Borup, each with his party of
Eskimos and dogs, started by way of Cape Belknap, the doctor to hunt in
Clements Markham Inlet, Borup to hunt in the region of the first glacier
north of Lake Hazen. No such extensive field work had ever before been
attempted by any arctic expedition, the radius of territory covered
being about ninety miles in all directions from our winter quarters.
While distributing material for the spring sewing among the Eskimo women
in the forward deck house and in the box houses and snow igloos on
shore, I learned that some of the Eskimo men felt somewhat shaky about
going north again on the ice of the polar sea. They had not forgotten
the narrow escape we had had in recrossing the "big lead" on the return
journey from the "farthest north" of 1906. Though I felt confident of my
ability to handle them when the time came, still, I realized that we
might have trouble with them yet. But I would not permit myself to worry
about the outcome.
The first of the January hunting parties, Dr. Goodsell's, came in on the
11th. They had had no luck, though they had seen fresh tracks of
musk-oxen. Borup came in the next morning with eighty-three hares, and
an interesting story. They were right up against the glacier when they
came across a whole colony of the little white arctic animals. He said
there must have been nearly a hundred of them. The arctic hares are not
wild; they will come so near to the hunter that he can almost grasp them
with his hand. They have not learned the fear of man, because in their
wilds man is practically unknown. Borup and the Eskimos surrounded the
hares, until finally they got so near to them that instead of using any
more ammunition they knocked the creatures over the heads with the butts
of their rifles.
One day, during this hunting trip, Borup and his Eskimos became confused
and were unable to find their igloo for twenty-four hours. The
saw-knives, essential in constructing a snow igloo, had been left
behind, and none of the men had even an ordinary knife which might have
been used as a substitute. There was a gale of wind, the moon was
obscured, the air was full of whirling snow, and it was very cold. They
spent most of the time walking to and fro to keep warm. At last, when
they were exhausted, they turned the sledges on their sides, the Eskimos
worked out with their feet snow blocks which reinforced the shelter, and
they were able to snatch a little sleep. When the weather cleared, they
found themselves half a mile from their igloo.
The day following Borup's return, the captain came in with his men and
Marvin's supporting party of four. We were just beginning to be worried
about them, as the ice of Robeson Channel in the dark of winter is not
the safest road for a sledge party. The captain reported that they had
been only six hours in crossing the channel; but, though he had
reconnoitered the whole plain of the Polaris Promontory, he had seen no
musk-oxen.
By the end of January we could see a faint redness in the south at noon,
and the twilight was increasing. The last moon of the winter was now
circling in the sky, and I wrote in my diary: "Thank Heaven, no more
moons!" No matter how many dark winters a man may have gone through in
the Arctic, the longing for the sun does not grow less intense.
In the February moon Bartlett went to Cape Hecla, Goodsell moved more
supplies from Hecla to Cape Colan, and Borup went to Markham Inlet on
another hunting trip. Before leaving, the doctor completed a record of
the approximate mean temperatures for the season, which showed that
every month except October had been colder than three years before. For
December the mean was eight degrees lower.
Marvin was still at Cape Bryant, but the last of the February parties
came in on the 9th, and from that time on we were all busy preparing for
the great and last journey. On Sunday night, February 14, I had a brief
talk with the Eskimo men, telling them what we proposed to do, what was
expected of them, and what each man who went to the farthest point with
me would get when he returned: boat, tent, Winchester repeater, shotgun,
ammunition, box of tobacco, pipes, cartridges, numerous knives,
hatchets, et cetera.
Their fears of the "big lead" took flight at the prospect of what to
them was untold riches; and when it came to the point of making up my
sledge parties, only one Eskimo, Panikpah, would admit any fears. They
had seen me return so many times that they were ready to take their
chances with me this one time more.
Bartlett left the ship on Monday, February 15, with instructions to go
straight through to Cape Columbia, then put in two or three days hunting
for musk-oxen in the neighborhood. The three divisions following
Bartlett had instructions to go to Cape Columbia with their loads; then
return to Cape Colan, where there was a cache, and take full loads from
there to Cape Columbia. Goodsell's division started on Tuesday, on
Wednesday it was stormy, and MacMillan and Henson got away on Thursday.
They were all to meet me at Cape Columbia on the last day of February.
Marvin and his party had come in from Cape Bryant about six o'clock on
Wednesday night. They were all well. Borup's division left the ship on
Friday, Marvin's division got away on Sunday, the 21st, and I was left
alone on the ship for one day.
That last day was one of perfect quiet and rest, free from interruption.
The morning I devoted to going over carefully the details of the work
already done, to see that no slenderest necessary thread had been
overlooked, and to considering again, point by point, the details of the
coming journey.
[Illustration: CRANE CITY, CAPE COLUMBIA, AT THE TIME OF DEPARTURE
March 1st, 1909]
When I had satisfied myself (as I had not been able to do during the
bustle and constant interruptions of the last two weeks) that everything
was in its place and every possible contingency provided for, I had a
few hours in which to look the situation squarely in the face, and to
think of those other times, when, as now, I was on the eve of departure
into the void and unknown North.
When at last I turned in for a few hours' sleep before the morning
start, it was with the consciousness that so far as my knowledge and
ability went, everything had been done, and that every member of the
party, as well as myself, would put into his efforts all there was in
him of will and sinew and vitality. This being settled, the outcome
rested with the elements--the vagaries of the arctic pack, and the
quality and amount of our own physical and mental stamina.
[Illustration: FACE OF THE LAND ICE, "GLACIAL FRINGE," OFF CAPE
COLUMBIA]
This was my final chance to realize the one dream of my life. The
morning start would be the drawing of the string to launch the last
arrow in my quiver.
[Illustration: PINNACLE NEAR THE SHORE]
CHAPTER XXI
ARCTIC ICE SLEDGING AS IT REALLY IS
Perhaps it will assist the reader to form a more vivid picture of the
sort of work that now lay before the expedition and which the expedition
eventually performed, if an effort is made to make him understand
exactly what it means to travel nearly a thousand miles with dog sledges
over the ice of the polar pack. In that belief, I shall at this point
endeavor to describe as briefly as is consistent with clearness the
conditions that confronted us and the means and methods by which those
conditions were met.
Between the winter quarters of the _Roosevelt_ at Cape Sheridan, and
Cape Columbia, the most northerly point on the north coast of Grant
Land, which I had chosen as the point of departure for the ice journey,
lay ninety miles in a northwesterly direction along the ice-foot and
across the land, which we must traverse before plunging onto the
trackless ice fields of the Arctic Ocean.
From Cape Columbia we were to go straight north over the ice of the
Polar Sea,--four hundred and thirteen geographical miles. Many persons
whose memories go back to the smooth skating ponds of their childhood,
picture the Arctic Ocean as a gigantic skating pond with a level floor
over which the dogs drag us merrily--we sitting comfortably upon the
sledges with hot bricks to keep our toes and fingers warm. Such ideas
are distinctly different from the truth, as will appear.
There is no land between Cape Columbia and the North Pole and no smooth
and very little level ice.
For a few miles only after leaving the land we had level going, as for
those few miles we were on the "glacial fringe." This fringe, which
fills all the bays and extends across the whole width of North Grant
Land, is really an exaggerated ice-foot; in some places it is miles in
width. While the outer edge in places is afloat and rises and falls with
the movement of the tides, it never moves as a body, except where great
fields of ice break off from it and float away upon the waters of the
Arctic Ocean.
Beyond the glacial fringe is the indescribable surface of the shore
lead, or tidal crack--that zone of unceasing conflict between the heavy
floating ice and the stationary glacial fringe. This shore lead is
constantly opening and shutting; opening when there are offshore winds,
or spring ebb-tides, crushing shut when there are northerly winds or
spring flood-tides. Here the ice is smashed into fragments of all sizes
and piled up into great pressure ridges parallel with the shore.
The ice is smashed into these pressure ridges by the sheer and
unimaginable force with which the floes are driven against the edge of
the glacial fringe, just as farther out the pressure ridges are caused
by the force with which the great floes themselves are crushed and
smashed together by the force of the wind and the tides.
These pressure ridges may be anywhere from a few feet to a few rods in
height; they may be anywhere from a few rods to a quarter of a mile in
width; the individual masses of ice of which they are composed may vary,
respectively, from the size of a billiard ball to the size of a small
house.
Going over these pressure ridges one must pick his trail as best he can,
often hacking his way with pickaxes, encouraging the dogs by whip and
voice to follow the leader, lifting the five-hundred-pound loaded
sledges over hummocks and up acclivities whose difficulties sometimes
seem likely to tear the muscles from one's shoulder-blades.
Between the pressure ridges are the old floes, more or less level. These
floes, contrary to wide-spread and erroneous ideas, are not formed by
direct freezing of the water of the Arctic Ocean. They are made up of
great sheets of ice broken off from the glacial fringe of Grant Land and
Greenland, and regions to the westward, which have drifted out into the
polar sea. These fields of ice are anywhere from less than twenty to
more than one hundred feet in thickness, and they are of all shapes and
sizes. As a result of the constant movement of the ice during the brief
summer, when great fields are detached from the glaciers and are driven
hither and thither under the impulse of the wind and the
tides--impinging against one another, splitting in two from the violence
of contact with other large fields, crushing up the thinner ice between
them, having their edges shattered and piled up into pressure
ridges--the surface of the polar sea during the winter may be one of
almost unimaginable unevenness and roughness.
At least nine-tenths of the surface of the polar sea between Cape
Columbia and the Pole is made up of these floes. The other one-tenth,
the ice between the floes, is formed by the direct freezing of the sea
water each autumn and winter. This ice never exceeds eight or ten feet
in thickness.
The weather conditions of the fall determine to a great extent the
character of the ice surface of the polar sea during the following
winter. If there have been continuous shoreward winds at the time when
the increasing cold was gradually cementing the ice masses together,
then the heavier ice will have been forced toward the shore; and the
edges of the ice-fields farther out, where they come in contact, will
have piled up into a series of pressure ridges, one beyond the other,
which any one traveling northward from the land must go over, as one
would go over a series of hills.
If, on the other hand, there has been little wind in the fall, when the
surface of the polar sea was becoming cemented and frozen over, many of
these great floes will have been separated from other floes of a like
size and character, and there may be stretches of comparatively smooth,
young, or new, ice between them. If, after the winter has set in, there
should still be violent winds, much of this thinner ice may be crushed
up by the movement of the heavier floes; but if the winter remains calm,
this smoother ice may continue until the general breaking up in the
following summer.
But the pressure ridges above described are not the worst feature of the
arctic ice. Far more troublesome and dangerous are the "leads" (the
whalers' term for lanes of open water), which are caused by the movement
of the ice under the pressure of the wind and tides. These are the
ever-present nightmare of the traveler over the frozen surface of the
polar ocean--on the upward journey for fear that they may prevent
further advance; on the return journey for fear they may cut him off
from the land and life, leaving him to wander about and starve to death
on the northern side. Their occurrence or non-occurrence is a thing
impossible to prophesy or calculate. They open without warning
immediately ahead of the traveler, following no apparent rule or law of
action. They are the unknown quantity of the polar equation.
Sometimes these leads are mere cracks running through old floes in
nearly a straight line. Sometimes they are zigzag lanes of water just
wide enough to be impossible to cross. Sometimes they are rivers of open
water from half a mile to two miles in width, stretching east and west
farther than the eye can see.
There are various ways of crossing the leads. One can go to the right or
the left, with the idea of finding some place where the opposite edges
of the ice are near enough together so that our long sledges can be
bridged across. Or, if there are indications that the lead is closing,
the traveler can wait until the ice comes quite together. If it is very
cold, one may wait until the ice has formed thick enough to bear the
loaded sledges going at full speed. Or, one may search for a cake of
ice, or hack out a cake with pickaxes, which can be used as a ferry-boat
on which to transport the sledges and teams across.
But all these means go for naught when the "big lead," which marks the
edge of the continental shelf where it dips down into the Arctic Ocean,
is in one of its tantrums, opening just wide enough to keep a continual
zone of open water or impracticable young ice in the center, as occurred
on our upward journey of 1906 and the never-to-be-forgotten return
journey of that expedition, when this lead nearly cut us off forever
from life itself.
A lead might have opened right through our camp, or through one of the
snow igloos, when we were sleeping on the surface of the polar sea.
Only--it didn't.
Should the ice open across the bed platform of an igloo, and precipitate
its inhabitants into the icy water below, they would not readily drown,
because of the buoyancy of the air inside their fur clothing. A man
dropping into the water in this way might be able to scramble onto the
ice and save himself; but with the thermometer at 50° below zero it
would not be a pleasant contingency.
This is the reason why I have never used a sleeping-bag when out on the
polar ice. I prefer to have my legs and arms free, and to be ready for
any emergency at a moment's notice. I never go to sleep when out on the
sea ice without my mittens on, and if I pull my arms inside my sleeves I
pull my mittens in too, so as to be ready for instant action. What
chance would a man in a sleeping-bag have, should he suddenly wake to
find himself in the water?
The difficulties and hardships of a journey to the North Pole are too
complex to be summed up in a paragraph. But, briefly stated, the worst
of them are: the ragged and mountainous ice over which the traveler must
journey with his heavily loaded sledges; the often terrific wind, having
the impact of a wall of water, which he must march against at times; the
open leads already described, which he must cross and recross, somehow;
the intense cold, sometimes as low as 60° below zero, through which he
must--by fur clothing and constant activity--keep his flesh from
freezing; the difficulty of dragging out and back over the ragged and
"lead" interrupted trail enough pemmican, biscuit, tea, condensed milk,
and liquid fuel to keep sufficient strength in his body for traveling.
It was so cold much of the time on this last journey that the brandy was
frozen solid, the petroleum was white and viscid, and the dogs could
hardly be seen for the steam of their breath. The minor discomfort of
building every night our narrow and uncomfortable snow houses, and the
cold bed platform of that igloo on which we must snatch such hours of
rest as the exigencies of our desperate enterprise permitted us, seem
hardly worth mentioning in comparison with the difficulties of the main
proposition itself.
At times one may be obliged to march all day long facing a blinding
snowstorm with the bitter wind searching every opening in the clothing.
Those among my readers who have ever been obliged to walk for even an
hour against a blizzard, with the temperature ten or twenty degrees
_above_ zero, probably have keen memories of the experience. Probably
they also remember how welcome was the warm fireside of home at the end
of their journey. But let them imagine tramping through such a storm all
day long, over jagged and uneven ice, with the temperature between
fifteen and thirty degrees _below_ zero, and no shelter to look forward
to at the end of the day's march excepting a narrow and cold snow house
which they would themselves be obliged to build in that very storm
before they could eat or rest. I am often asked if we were hungry on
that journey. I hardly know whether we were hungry or not. Morning and
night we had pemmican, biscuit and tea, and the pioneer or leading party
had tea and lunch in the middle of the day's march. Had we eaten more,
our food supply would have fallen short. I myself dropped twenty-five
pounds of flesh between my departure from the ship and my return to it.
But fortitude and endurance alone are not enough in themselves to carry
a man to the North Pole. Only with years of experience in traveling in
those regions, only with the aid of a large party, also experienced in
that character of work, only with the knowledge of arctic detail and the
equipment necessary to prepare himself and his party for any and every
emergency, is it possible for a man to reach that long sought goal and
return.
CHAPTER XXII
ESSENTIALS THAT BROUGHT SUCCESS
Something has already been said regarding the fact that our journey to
the North Pole was no haphazard, hit or miss "dash." It was not really a
"dash" at all. Perhaps it may properly be described as a "drive"--in the
sense that when the sledge journey got under way we pressed forward with
a speed at times almost breathless. But nothing was done impulsively.
Everything was done in accordance with a scheme long contemplated and
plotted out in advance with every possible care.
The source of our success was a carefully planned system, mathematically
demonstrated. Everything that could be controlled was controlled, and
the indeterminate factors of storms, open leads and accidents to men,
dogs and sledges, were taken into consideration in the percentage of
probabilities and provided for as far as possible. Sledges would break
and dogs would fall by the way, of course; but we could generally make
one sledge out of two broken ones, and the gradual depletion of the dogs
was involved in my calculations.
The so-called "Peary system" is too complex to be covered in a
paragraph, and involves too many technical details to be outlined fully
in any popular narrative. But the main points of it are about as
follows:
To drive a ship through the ice to the farthest possible northern land
base from which she can be driven back again the following year.
To do enough hunting during the fall and winter to keep the party
healthily supplied with fresh meat.
To have dogs enough to allow for the loss of sixty per cent. of them by
death or otherwise.
To have the confidence of a large number of Eskimos, earned by square
dealing and generous gifts in the past, so that they will follow the
leader to any point he may specify.
To have an intelligent and willing body of civilized assistants to lead
the various divisions of Eskimos--men whose authority the Eskimos will
accept when delegated by the leader.
To transport beforehand to the point where the expedition leaves the
land for the sledge journey, sufficient food, fuel, clothing, stoves
(oil or alcohol) and other mechanical equipment to get the main party to
the Pole and back and the various divisions to their farthest north and
back.
To have an ample supply of the best kind of sledges.
To have a sufficient number of divisions, or relay parties, each under
the leadership of a competent assistant, to send back at appropriate and
carefully calculated stages along the upward journey.
To have every item of equipment of the quality best suited to the
purpose, thoroughly tested, and of the lightest possible weight.
To know, by long experience, the best way to cross wide leads of open
water.
_To return by the same route followed on the upward march, using the
beaten trail and the already constructed igloos to save the time and
strength that would have been expended in constructing new igloos and in
trail-breaking._
To know exactly to what extent each man and dog may be worked without
injury.
To know the physical and mental capabilities of every assistant and
Eskimo.
Last, but not least, to have the absolute confidence of every member of
the party, white, black, or brown, so that every order of the leader
will be implicitly obeyed.
Bartlett's division was to pioneer the road, and keep one day ahead of
the main party. It was my plan at this time to keep the pioneer party
close to the main party, and thus prevent the possibility of its being
cut off from the main party by a rapidly forming lead, with insufficient
supplies either for a further advance or for regaining the main
division. Bartlett's pioneer division comprised himself and three
Eskimos, Poodloonah, "Harrigan," and Ooqueah, with one sledge and team
of dogs, carrying their own gear and five days' supplies for the
division.
Borup's division comprised himself and three Eskimos, Keshungwah,
Seegloo, and Karko, with four sledges and dog teams carrying nearly the
standard loads. His division was to act as an advance supporting party,
and was to accompany Bartlett for three marches and then return to Cape
Columbia in one march with empty sledges. He was to deposit his loads
and one sledge at the place where he left Bartlett, making a cache on
the line of march; then hurry back to Columbia, re-load, and overtake
the main party, which would leave the land one day after himself and
Bartlett.
By this arrangement, if there were no delays, the main party would begin
its third march at the same time when Borup started back; the evening of
the third day would find the main party at Borup's cache, and Borup at
Cape Columbia; the next morning, when the main party began its fourth
march, Borup would be leaving Cape Columbia three marches behind, which
difference, with a well-traveled trail to follow, he could probably
eliminate in three marches.
It chanced that this sending back of Borup for additional loads to
overtake the main party, with the later complications which grew out of
it, through the opening of leads between him and the main party, was a
link in the chain of delays which might have caused serious trouble, as
will be hereafter explained.
In order that the reader may understand this journey over the ice of the
polar sea, it is necessary that the theory and practise of both pioneer
and supporting parties should be fully understood. Without this system,
as has been amply demonstrated by the experience of previous
expeditions, it would be a physical impossibility for any man to reach
the North Pole, and return. The use of relay parties in arctic work is,
of course, not new, though the idea was carried further in the last
expedition of the Peary Arctic Club than ever before; but the pioneer
party is original with my expeditions and for that reason it is perhaps
worth while to describe it in detail.
The pioneer party was one unit division, made up of four of the most
active and experienced men of the expedition, with sledges lightly
loaded with five or six days' provisions, drawn by the best dog teams of
the entire pack. When we started from Cape Columbia, this pioneer party,
headed by Bartlett, went out twenty-four hours in advance of the main
party. Later on, when we reached the time of continuous daylight and
sunlight through the twenty-four hours, the pioneer party was but twelve
hours in advance of the main party.
The duty of this pioneer party was to make a march in every twenty-four
hours in spite of every obstacle--excepting, of course, some impassable
lead. Whether there was a snowstorm or violent winds to be faced, or
mountainous pressure ridges were to be climbed over, the march of the
pioneer party must be made; for past experience had proved that whatever
distance was covered by the advance party with its light sledges could
be covered in less time by the main party even with heavily loaded
sledges, because the main party, having the trail to follow, was not
obliged to waste time in reconnoitering. In other words, the pioneer
party, was the pace-maker of the expedition, and whatever distance it
made was the measure of accomplishment for the main party. The leader of
the pioneer party, in the first instance Bartlett, would start out ahead
of his division, usually on snowshoes; then the light sledges of the
party would follow him. Thus the leader of the pioneer division was
pioneering ahead of his own party, and that whole division was
pioneering ahead of the main party.
It is necessary that the arduous work of trail-breaking for the first
two-thirds of the distance over the rougher ice nearer the land should
be done by one division after another, in succession, in order to save
the strength of the main party for their final drive. One great
advantage which I had on this expedition was that, owing to the size of
my party, whenever the men in this pioneer division became exhausted
with their arduous labor and lack of sleep, I could withdraw them into
the main party, and send out another division to take their place.
Supporting parties are essential to success because, a single party,
comprising either a small or a large number of men and dogs, could not
possibly drag (in gradually lessening quantities) all the way to the
Pole and back (some nine hundred odd miles) as much food and liquid fuel
as the men and dogs of that party would consume during the journey. It
will be readily understood that when a large party of men and dogs
starts out over the trackless ice to the polar sea, where there is no
possibility of obtaining a single ounce of food on the way, after
several days' marching, the provisions of one or more sledges will have
been consumed by the men and dogs. When this occurs, the drivers and
dogs with those sledges should be sent back to the land at once. _They
are superfluous mouths which cannot be fed from the precious supply of
provisions which are being dragged forward on the sledges._
Still further on, the food on one or two more sledges will have been
consumed. These sledges also, with their dogs and drivers, must be sent
back, in order to ensure the furthest possible advance by the main
party. Later on, still other divisions must be sent back for the same
reason.
But my supporting parties had another duty to perform, only a little
less important than the one already noted; that was to keep the trail
open for the rapid return of the main party.
The magnitude of this duty is clear. The ice of the polar sea is not an
immovable surface. Twenty-four hours--or even twelve hours--of strong
wind, even in the depth of the coldest winter, will set the big floes
grinding and twisting among themselves, crushing up into pressure ridges
in one place, breaking into leads in another place.
Under normal conditions, however, this movement of the ice is not very
great in a period of eight or ten days, so that a party starting back
over an outward trail at the end of several days is able to knit
together all faults and breaks in the trail that have occurred during
that period by reason of the movement of the ice.
The second supporting party, starting back several days later from a
point still farther on, knits together the broken ends of the trail of
its own division; and when it comes upon the trail of the first
supporting party, reunites such other breaks as have occurred since the
first supporting party went over it on its way back to land. So with the
third and fourth supporting parties.
When I speak of knitting together breaks in the trail, I mean simply
that the passage of the supporting party from that point where the trail
was broken by the movement of the ice to the point where the trail went
on again, some distance either to the east or west, would itself renew
the broken trail, the passage of the men and dog teams packing down the
ice and snow. So that when the main party came back it would simply
follow the track of the supporting party, and not have to scout for the
trail.
As a result of this method of keeping the return trail continuously
open, when the main party starts to return it has a continuous trail
back to the land, which it can follow with from fifty to one hundred per
cent. greater speed than it was possible to make on the outward journey.
The reasons for this are obvious: no time is wasted in selecting and
breaking a trail; the dogs are more energetic when following a beaten
track and when on the road home; no time is wasted in making camp, the
snow igloos built on the outward journey being reoccupied on the return
journey.
[Illustration: TYPICAL TRAIL IN SOFT SNOW (LOOKING BACKWARD)]
It must be understood that when each supporting party reached the land
again, its work in regard to the polar dash was over. It did not come
back onto the ice with any further supplies for the main party.
At the very end, when the supporting parties have performed their
important work of trail-breaking and transportation of supplies, the
main party for the final journey _must_ be small and carefully selected,
as the small party resulting from the successive selection of the
fittest, can travel much faster than a large one.
Each division of four men was absolutely independent and had its
complete traveling outfit; in fact, except for the alcohol stove and
cooking utensils, each sledge was complete in itself. On each sledge
were the provisions for men and dogs, and clothing for the driver. The
standard sledge load would support the driver and the dog team for about
fifty days, and by sacrificing a few dogs and using them as food for the
other dogs and the men, this time could have been extended to sixty
days. Had any sledge and its provisions been cut off from the rest of
the division, the man with it would have had everything he needed,
except the cooking outfit. Had the sledge which carried the alcohol
stove been lost, either in a lead or otherwise, the party to which it
belonged would have had to double up with one of the other divisions.
[Illustration: TYPICAL VIEW OF THE ICE OF THE ARCTIC OCEAN, NORTH OF
GRANT LAND]
The new alcohol stove, the design of which I had perfected during the
winter, was used altogether on this northern sledge trip. We did not
carry oil-stoves at all, except some very small ones with two-inch
wicks, which we used for drying mittens.
The standard method for loading each sledge was as follows: On the
bottom was a layer of dog pemmican in red tins, covering the entire
length and width of the sledge; on this were two tins of biscuit, and
crew pemmican in blue tins; then the tins of alcohol and condensed milk,
a small skin rug for the man to sleep on at night in the igloo,
snowshoes and spare footgear, a pickax and a saw knife for cutting snow
blocks. Practically the only extra items of wearing apparel which were
carried were a few pairs of Eskimo sealskin _kamiks_ (boots), for it can
readily be imagined that several hundred miles of such walking and
stumbling over snow and ice would be rather hard on any kind of footgear
which could be made.
Compactness was the main idea in packing one of these sledges, the
center of gravity of the load being brought as low as possible in order
that the sledges might not easily overturn.
The standard daily ration for work on the final sledge journey toward
the Pole on all expeditions has been as follows:
1 lb. pemmican, 1 lb. ship's biscuit, 4 oz. condensed milk, 1/2 oz.
compressed tea, 6 oz. liquid fuel, alcohol or petroleum. A total of 2
lbs. 4-1/2 oz. of solids per man, per day.
On this ration a man can work hard and keep in good condition in the
lowest temperatures for a very long time. I believe that no other item
of food, either for heat or muscle building, is needed.
The daily ration for the dogs is one pound of pemmican per day; but so
hardy are these descendants of the arctic wolves that when there is a
scarcity of food they can work for a long time on very little to eat. I
have, however, always endeavored so to proportion provisions to the
length of time in the field, that the dogs should be at least as well
fed as myself.
A part of the scientific work of the expedition was a series of deep-sea
soundings from Cape Columbia to the Pole. The sounding apparatus of the
expedition on leaving Cape Columbia comprised two wooden reels of a
length equal to the width of the sledge, a detachable wooden crank to go
on each end of the reel, to each reel a thousand fathoms (six thousand
feet) of specially made steel piano wire of a diameter .028 inches, and
one fourteen-pound lead having at its lower end a small bronze
clam-shell device, self-tripping when it reached the bottom, for the
purpose of bringing up samples of the ocean bed. The weights of this
outfit were as follows: each thousand fathoms of wire 12.42 pounds, each
wooden reel 18 pounds, each lead 14 pounds. A complete thousand-fathom
outfit weighed 44.42 pounds. The two outfits, therefore, weighed 89
pounds, and a third extra lead brought this total up to 103 pounds.
Both the sounding leads and the wire were made especially for the
expedition, and so far as I know they were the lightest, for their
capacity, that have ever been used.
[Illustration: TYPICAL CAMP ON THE ICE]
One sounding apparatus was carried by the main division and the other by
the pioneer party, in the early stages of our progress. When there was a
lead we sounded from the edge of it; when there was no open water we
made a hole in the ice if we could find any that was thin enough for the
purpose.
Two men could readily make these deep-sea soundings by reason of the
lightness of the equipment.
The distance which we traveled day by day was at first determined by
dead reckoning, to be verified later by observations for latitude. Dead
reckoning was simply the compass course for direction, and for distance
the mean estimate of Bartlett, Marvin, and myself as to the length of
the day's march. On board ship dead reckoning is the compass course for
direction and the reading of the log for distance. On the inland ice of
Greenland my dead reckoning was the compass course, and the reading of
my odometer, a wheel with a cyclometer registering apparatus. This could
not possibly be used on the ice of the polar sea, as it would be smashed
to pieces in the rough going. One might say in general that dead
reckoning on the polar ice is the personal estimate of approximate
distance, always checked and corrected from time to time by astronomical
observations.
Three members of the expedition had had sufficient experience in
traveling over arctic ice to enable them to estimate a day's journey
very closely. These three were Bartlett, Marvin, and myself. When we
checked up our dead reckoning by astronomical observations, the mean of
our three estimates was found to be a satisfactory approximation to the
results of the observations.
It goes without saying that mere dead reckoning, entirely unchecked by
astronomical observations, would be insufficient for scientific
purposes. During the earlier stages of our journey there was no sun by
which to take observations. Later, when we had sunlight, we took what
observations were necessary to check our dead reckonings--but no more,
since I did not wish to waste the energies or strain the eyes of Marvin,
Bartlett, or myself.
As a matter of fact observations were taken every five marches, as soon
as it was possible to take them at all.
CHAPTER XXIII
OFF ACROSS THE FROZEN SEA AT LAST
The work of the expedition, to which all the former months of detail
were merely preliminary, began with Bartlett's departure from the
_Roosevelt_ on the 15th of February for the final sledge journey toward
the Pole. The preceding summer we had driven the ship through the almost
solid ice of the channels lying between Etah and Cape Sheridan; we had
hunted through the long twilight of the autumn to supply ourselves with
meat; we had lived through the black and melancholy months-long arctic
night, sustaining our spirits with the hope of final success when the
returning light should enable us to attack the problem of our passage
across the ice of the polar sea. Now these things were all behind us,
and the final work was to begin.
It was ten o'clock on the morning of February 22d--Washington's
Birthday--when I finally got away from the ship and started on the
journey toward the Pole. This was one day earlier than I had left the
ship three years before on the same errand. I had with me two of the
younger Eskimos, Arco and Kudlooktoo, two sledges and sixteen dogs. The
weather was thick, the air was filled with a light snow, and the
temperature was 31° below zero.
There was now light enough to travel by at ten o'clock in the morning.
When Bartlett had left the ship a week before, it was still so dark that
he had been obliged to use a lantern in order to follow the trail
northward along the ice-foot.
When I finally got away from the ship, there were in the field, for the
northern work, seven members of the expedition, nineteen Eskimos, one
hundred and forty dogs, and twenty-eight sledges. As already stated, the
six advance divisions were to meet me at Cape Columbia on the last day
of February. These parties, as well as my own, had all followed the
regular trail to Cape Columbia, which had been kept open during the fall
and winter by the hunting parties and supply-trains. This trail followed
the ice-foot along the coast the greater part of the way, only taking to
the land occasionally to cut across a peninsula and thus shorten the
road.
On the last day of February Bartlett and Borup got away to the North
with their divisions, as soon as it was light enough to travel. The
weather still remained clear, calm, and cold. After the pioneer division
had started north, all the remaining sledges were lined up, and I
examined them to see that each had the standard load and full equipment.
On leaving the _Roosevelt_ I had in the field exactly enough dogs to put
twenty teams of seven dogs each on the ice, and had counted on doing
this; but while we were at Cape Columbia the throat distemper broke out
in one team, and six dogs died. This left me only enough for nineteen
teams.
My plans were further disarranged by the disabling of two Eskimos. I had
counted on having a pickax brigade, composed of Marvin, MacMillan, and
Dr. Goodsell, ahead of the main party, improving the road, but found
that two Eskimos would be unfit to go on the ice--one having a frosted
heel, and the other a swollen knee. This depletion in the ranks of
sledge drivers meant that Marvin and MacMillan would each have to drive
a dog team, and that the pickax squad would be reduced to one man--Dr.
Goodsell. As it turned out, this did not make much difference. The going
was not so rough in the beginning as I had anticipated, and most of the
pickax work that was required could be done by the drivers of the
sledges as they reached the difficult places.
When I awoke before light on the morning of March 1st, the wind was
whistling about the igloo. This phenomenon, appearing on the very day of
our start, after so many days of calm, seemed the perversity of hard
luck. I looked through the peep-hole of the igloo and saw that the
weather was still clear, and that the stars were scintillating like
diamonds. The wind was from the east--a direction from which I had never
known it to blow in all my years of experience in that region. This
unusual circumstance, a really remarkable thing, was of course
attributed by my Eskimos to the interference of their arch enemy,
Tornarsuk--in plain English, the devil--with my plans.
After breakfast, with the first glimmer of daylight, we got outside the
igloo and looked about. The wind was whistling wildly around the eastern
end of Independence Bluff; and the ice-fields to the north, as well as
all the lower part of the land, were invisible in that gray haze which,
every experienced arctic traveler knows, means vicious wind. A party
less perfectly clothed than we were would have found conditions very
trying that morning. Some parties would have considered the weather
impossible for traveling, and would have gone back to their igloos.
But, taught by the experience of three years before, I had given the
members of my party instructions to wear their old winter clothing from
the ship to Cape Columbia and while there, and to put on the new outfit
made for the sledge journey when leaving Columbia. Therefore we were all
in our new and perfectly dry fur clothes and could bid defiance to the
wind.
One by one the divisions drew out from the main army of sledges and dog
teams, took up Bartlett's trail over the ice and disappeared to the
northward in the wind haze. This departure of the procession was a
noiseless one, for the freezing east wind carried all sounds away. It
was also invisible after the first few moments--men and dogs being
swallowed up almost immediately in the wind haze and the drifting snow.
I finally brought up the rear with my own division, after getting things
into some semblance of order, and giving the two disabled men left at
Cape Columbia their final instructions to remain quietly in the igloo
there, using certain supplies which were left with them until the first
supporting party returned to Cape Columbia, when they were to go back
with it to the ship.
An hour after I left camp my division had crossed the glacial fringe,
and the last man, sledge, and dog of the Northern party--comprising
altogether twenty-four men, nineteen sledges, and one hundred and
thirty-three dogs--was at last on the ice of the Arctic Ocean, about
latitude 83°.
[Illustration: WORKING THROUGH AN EXPANSE OF ROUGH ICE]
Our start from the land this last time was eight days earlier than the
start three years before, six days of calendar time and two days of
distance, our present latitude being about two marches farther north
than Cape Hecla, our former point of departure.
When we were far enough out on the ice to be away from the shelter of
the land, we got the full force of the violent wind. But it was not in
our faces, and as we had a trail which could be followed, even if with
heads down and eyes half closed, the wind did not impede us or cause us
serious discomfort. Nevertheless, I did not like to dwell upon the
inevitable effect which it would have upon the ice farther out--the
opening of leads across our route.
When we dropped off the edge of the glacial fringe onto the pressure
ridges of the tidal crack already described, in spite of the free use of
our pickaxes and the pickaxes of the pioneer division, which had gone
before, the trail was a most trying one for men, dogs, and sledges,
especially the old Eskimo type of sledge. The new "Peary" sledges, by
reason of their length and shape, rode much more easily and with less
strain than the others. Every one was glad to reach the surface of the
old floes beyond this crazy zone of ice which was several miles in
width. As soon as we struck the old floes the going was much better.
There appeared to be no great depth of snow, only a few inches, and this
had been hammered fairly hard by the winter winds. Still the surface
over which we traveled was very uneven, and in many places was
distinctly trying to the sledges, the wood of which was made brittle by
the low temperature, now in the minus fifties. On the whole, however, I
felt that if we encountered nothing worse than this in the first hundred
miles from the land we should have no serious cause for complaint.
[Illustration: PASSING THROUGH A DEFILE IN ROUGH ICE]
A little farther on, while walking alone behind my division, I met
Kyutah of Marvin's division, hurrying back with empty sledge. He had
smashed his sledge so badly that it seemed better to go back to Cape
Columbia for one of the reserve sledges there than to attempt to repair
the broken one. He was cautioned not to waste a minute and to be sure to
overtake us at our camp that night, and he was soon disappearing into
the wind haze in our rear.
Still farther on I met Kudlooktoo, returning on the same errand, and a
little later came upon some of the other divisions that had been obliged
to stop to repair their sledges which had suffered severely in their
encounters with the rough ice.
Finally I reached the captain's first camp, ten miles out. Here I took
one of the two igloos, and Marvin took the other. The divisions of
Goodsell, MacMillan, and Henson were to build their own igloos this
first night. Bartlett and Borup being in advance, would each build an
igloo at every one of their camps. I, being the oldest man in the party,
was to take one of these, and the order of precedence in which the
divisions of Marvin, MacMillan, Goodsell, and Henson were to occupy the
second of the already constructed igloos had been determined by lot at
Columbia, the first lot falling to Marvin. Later, when Bartlett's
division alone was in the lead, there was only one igloo already built
at each camp on the line of march.
The day twilight, which now lasted about twelve hours, had disappeared
entirely by the time the last sledge reached this first camp. It had
been a trying day for the sledges. The new "Peary" type, by reason of
its shape and greater length, had come off best. Though two of these had
suffered minor damages, none of them had been put out of commission. Two
of the old Eskimo type had been smashed completely, and another nearly
so.
The dogs were soon fed, and each division went for supper and rest to
its own igloo, leaving the rugged surface of the ice to the darkness,
and the howling wind and drift. The march had been a somewhat hard one
for me, because, for the first time in sixteen years, the leg which I
had broken in Greenland, in 1891, had been causing me considerable
trouble.
The door of my igloo had scarcely been closed by a block of snow, when
one of Henson's Eskimos came running over, blue with fright, to tell me
that Tornarsuk was in camp, and that they could not light the alcohol in
their new stove. I did not understand this, as the stoves had all been
tested on board ship and had worked to perfection; but I got out and
went over to Henson's igloo, where it appeared that he had used up a
whole box of matches in unsuccessful efforts to light his stove. Our
stoves were of an entirely new design, using no wicks, and a moment's
examination disclosed the trouble. It was so cold that there was no
vaporization from the alcohol, and it would not light directly as at
higher temperatures. A bit of paper dropped into it and lighted was the
solution, and there was no further trouble.
The failure of even one of our alcohol stoves would have seriously
impaired our chances, as the men of that division could not have boiled
the tea which is absolutely necessary for work in those low
temperatures. Kyutah, the Eskimo who had gone back to land with his
broken sledge, came in during the night, but Kudlooktoo failed to put in
an appearance. Thus the end of our first day over the polar ice found
the expedition one man short.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE FIRST OPEN WATER
The first serious obstacle of the sledge journey was encountered the
second day out from land. The day was cloudy, the wind continuing to
blow from the east with unabated violence. Again I intentionally brought
up the rear of my division, in order to see that everything was going
right and that every one was accounted for. The going was much the same
as on the previous day, rough and trying to the endurance of men, dogs
and sledges.
When we had made about three-quarters of a march we saw ahead of us a
dark ominous cloud upon the northern horizon, which always means open
water. There is always fog in the neighborhood of the leads. The open
water supplies the evaporation, the cold air acts as a condenser, and
when the wind is blowing just right this forms a fog so dense that at
times it looks as black as the smoke of a prairie fire.
Sure enough, just ahead of us were black spots against the snow which I
knew to be my various divisions held up by a lead. When we came up with
them I saw a lane of open water, about a quarter of a mile wide, which
had formed since the captain had passed the day before. The wind had
been getting in its work!
I gave the word to camp (there was nothing else to do), and while the
igloos were being built, Marvin and MacMillan made a sounding from the
edge of the lead, getting ninety-six fathoms.
This march to the edge of the lead put us beyond the British record of
83° 20´ made by Captain Markham, R. N., north of Cape Joseph Henry, May
12, 1876.
Before daylight the next morning we heard the grinding of the ice, which
told us that the lead was at last crushing together, and I gave the
signal to the other three igloos, by pounding with a hatchet on the ice
floor of my igloo, to fire up and get breakfast in a hurry. The morning
was clear again, excepting for the wind haze, but the wind still
continued to blow with unabated violence.
With the first of the daylight we were hurrying across the lead on the
raftering young ice, which was moving, crushing, and piling up with the
closing of the sides of the lead. If the reader will imagine crossing a
river on a succession of gigantic shingles, one, two, or three deep and
all afloat and moving, he will perhaps form an idea of the uncertain
surface over which we crossed this lead. Such a passage is distinctly
trying, as any moment may lose a sledge and its team, or plunge a member
of the party into the icy water. On the other side there was no sign of
Bartlett's trail. This meant that the lateral movement (that is east and
west) of the ice shores of the lead had carried the trail along with it.
After an hour or two of marching, we found ourselves in the fork of two
other leads, and unable to move in any direction. The young ice (that
is, the recently frozen ice) on the more westerly of these leads,
though too thin to sustain the weight of the sledges, was yet strong
enough to bear an Eskimo, and I sent Kyutah to the west to scout for the
captain's trail, while the other Eskimos built out of snow blocks a
shelter from the wind, and repaired some minor damages to our sledges.
In half an hour or so Kyutah returned from the west, signaling that he
had found Bartlett's trail. Soon after he reached us a movement of the
shores of the lead to the west crushed up the narrow ribbon of unsafe
young ice over which he had passed, and we were able to hurry across
with sledges and push west for the trail, which was about a mile and a
half distant.
When we reached the trail we saw, by the tracks of men and dogs pointing
south, that Borup had already passed that way on his return to Columbia,
in accordance with my program. He had probably crossed the lead and was
now scouting for our trail somewhere on the southerly side.
As soon as Marvin, who was following me, came up, I had Kyutah throw off
his sledge load, and sent Marvin and the Eskimo on the back trail to
"Crane City," Cape Columbia. I did this partly because of the
possibility that there might be complications there in which Borup, who
was new to the work, would feel the need of a man of Marvin's wider
experience, and partly because many of our alcohol and petroleum tins
had sprung leaks in the rough going of the last few days, and an
additional supply was needed to make up for present and possible future
loss. The change of the loads was effected in a few minutes, without
delay to the main party, which kept right on, and Marvin and his dusky
companion were soon out of sight.
The captain's third camp was reached before dark that night. All day
long the wind kept us company, and we could see by the water clouds all
about us that the leads were open here and there in every direction.
Fortunately none of them immediately crossed our trail, and the going
was much as on the previous day.
[Illustration: APPROACHING A LEAD THROUGH ROUGH ICE]
During this march we saw, above the summits of the great land mountains
which were still visible to the south of us, a flaming blade of yellow
light which reached half way to the zenith--in other words, after nearly
five months, we could almost see the sun again as he skimmed along just
under the southern horizon. Only a day or two more, and his light would
shine directly upon us. The feeling of the arctic traveler for the
returning sun after the long darkness is a feeling hard to interpret to
those who are accustomed to seeing the sun every morning.
On the following day, March 4, the weather changed. The sky was overcast
with clouds, the wind had swung completely around to the west during the
night, there were occasional squalls of light snow, and the thermometer
had risen to only 9° below zero. This temperature, after that of the
minus fifties, in which we had been traveling, seemed almost
oppressively warm. The leads were even more numerous than the day
before, and their presence was clearly outlined by the heavy black
clouds. A mile or two east of us there was a lead stretching far to the
north and directly parallel with our course, which did not cause us any
apprehension. But a broad and ominous band of black extending far to the
east and west across our course and apparently ten or fifteen miles to
the north of us, gave me serious concern. Evidently the ice was all
abroad in every direction, and the high temperature and snow
accompanying the west wind proved that there was a large amount of open
water in that direction.
The outlook was not pleasant, but as some compensation the going was not
quite so rough. As we advanced, I was surprised to find that as yet none
of the leads cut Bartlett's trail. Consequently we made good progress,
and though the march was distinctly longer than the previous one, we
reached Bartlett's igloo in good time.
[Illustration: STOPPED BY OPEN WATER]
Here I found a note from Bartlett which had evidently been despatched by
an Eskimo, informing me that he was in camp about a mile farther
north--held up by open water. This explained the black, ominous band
which I had been watching for hours on the northern horizon, and which
had gradually risen as we approached until it was now almost overhead.
Pushing on, we soon reached the captain's camp. There I found the
familiar unwelcome sight which I had so often before me on the
expedition of 1905-06--the white expanse of ice cut by a river of inky
black water, throwing off dense clouds of vapor which gathered in a
sullen canopy overhead, at times swinging lower with the wind and
obscuring the opposite shore of this malevolent Styx.
The lead had opened directly through the heavy floes, and, considering
that these floes are sometimes one hundred feet in thickness, and of
almost unimaginable weight, the force that could open such a river
through them is comparable with the forces that threw up the mountains
on the continents and opened the channels between the lands.
Bartlett told me that during the previous night in the camp a mile
farther south where I had found his note, the noise caused by the
opening of this great lead had awakened him from sleep. The open water
was now about a quarter of a mile in width, and extended east and west
as far as we could see when we climbed to the highest pinnacle of ice in
the neighborhood of our camp.
Two or three miles to the east of us, as we could see by the vapor
hanging over it, the north and south lead which had paralleled our last
two marches intersected the course of the lead beside which we were
encamped.
Though farther south than where we had encountered the "Big Lead" in
1906, north of Cape Hecla, this one had every resemblance to that great
river of open water which on the way up we had called "the Hudson," and
on our way back--when it seemed that those black waters had cut us off
forever from the land--we had renamed "the Styx." The resemblance was so
strong that even the Eskimos who had been with me on the expedition
three years before spoke about it.
I was glad to see that there was no lateral movement in the ice; that
is, that the two shores of the lead were not moving east or west, or in
opposite directions. The lead was simply an opening in the ice under the
pressure of the wind and the spring tides, which were now swelling to
the full moon on the 6th.
Captain Bartlett, with his usual thoughtfulness, had an igloo already
built for me near his own when I arrived. While the other three
divisions were building their igloos the captain took a sounding, and
obtained a depth of one hundred and ten fathoms. We were now about
forty-five miles north of Cape Columbia.
The next day, March 5, was a fine, clear day, with a light westerly
breeze, and a temperature of 20° below zero. For a little while about
noon the sun lay, a great yellow ball, along the southern horizon. Our
satisfaction at seeing it again was almost compensation for our
impatience at being delayed there--beside the gradually widening lead.
Had it not been cloudy on the 4th, we should have seen the sun one day
earlier.
During the night the lead had narrowed somewhat, raftering the young
ice. Then, under the impulse of the tidal wave, it had opened wider than
ever, leaving, in spite of the constantly forming ice, a broad band of
black water before us. I sent MacMillan back with three dog teams and
three Eskimos to bring up the load which Kyutah had thrown off before he
went back to the land with Marvin, and also to bring up a portion of
Borup's cache which we had not been able to load on our sledges.
MacMillan also took a note to leave at Kyutah's cache, telling Marvin
where we were held up, and urging him to hurry forward with all possible
speed. The remainder of the party occupied themselves repairing damaged
sledges and in drying their clothing over the little oil hand lamps.
All the next day we were still there beside the lead. Another day, and
we were still there. Three, four, five days passed in intolerable
inaction, and still the broad line of black water spread before us.
Those were days of good traveling weather, with temperatures ranging
from minus 5° to minus 32°, a period of time which might have carried
us beyond the 85th parallel but for those three days of wind at the
start which had been the cause of this obstruction in our course.
During those five days I paced back and forth, deploring the luck which,
when everything else was favorable--weather, ice, dogs, men, and
equipment--should thus impede our way with open water. Bartlett and I
did not talk much to each other during those days. It was a time when
silence seemed more expressive than any words. We looked at each other
occasionally, and I could see from the tightening of Bartlett's jaw all
that I needed to know of what was going on in his mind.
Each day the lead continued to widen before us, and each day we looked
anxiously southward along the trail for Marvin and Borup to come up. But
they did not come.
Only one who had been in a similar position could understand the gnawing
torment of those days of forced inaction, as I paced the floe in front
of the igloos most of the time, climbing every little while to the top
of the ice pinnacle back of the igloos to strain my eyes through the dim
light to the south, sleeping through a few hours out of each
twenty-four, with one ear open for the slightest noise, rising
repeatedly to listen more intently for the eagerly desired sound of
incoming dogs--all this punctuated, in spite of my utmost efforts at
self-control, with memories of the effect of the delay at the "Big Lead"
on my prospects in the previous expedition. Altogether, I think that
more of mental wear and tear was crowded into those days than into all
the rest of the fifteen months we were absent from civilization.
The additional supply of oil and alcohol, which Marvin and Borup were to
bring to me, was, I felt, vital to our success; but even if they did not
come in with it, I could not turn back here. While pacing the floe, I
figured out how we should use our sledges piecemeal as fuel in our
cookers, to make tea after the oil and alcohol were gone. By the time
the wood of the sledges was exhausted, it would be warm enough so that
we could suck ice or snow to assuage our thirst, and get along with our
pemmican and raw dog without tea. But, though I planned, it was a plan
of desperation. It was a harrowing time, that period of waiting.
CHAPTER XXV
SOME OF MY ESKIMOS LOSE THEIR NERVE
The protracted delay, hard as it was upon all the members of the
expedition, had a demoralizing psychological effect upon some of my
Eskimos. Toward the end of the period of waiting I began to notice that
some of them were getting nervous. I would see them talking together in
twos and threes, just out of earshot. Finally two of the older men, who
had been with me for years and whom I had trusted, came to me pretending
to be sick. I have had sufficient experience to know a sick Eskimo when
I see one, and the excuses of Poodloonah and Panikpah did not convince
me. I told them by all means to go back to the land just as quickly as
they could, and to take with them a note to Marvin, urging him to hurry.
I also sent by them a note to the mate of the ship, giving instructions
in regard to these two men and their families.
As the days went by, other Eskimos began to complain of this and that
imaginary ailment. Two of them were rendered temporarily unconscious by
the fumes of the alcohol cooker in their igloo, frightening all the rest
of the Eskimos half out of their wits, and I was seriously puzzled as to
what I should do with them. This was an illustration of the fact, which
may not have occurred to every one, that the leader of a polar
expedition has sometimes other things to contend with than the natural
conditions of ice and weather.
On the 9th or 10th we might possibly have crossed the lead on the young
ice, by taking desperate chances; but, considering our experience of
1906, when we had nearly lost our lives while recrossing the "Big Lead"
on the undulating ice, and also considering that Marvin _must_ be
somewhere near by this time, I waited these two more days to give him a
chance to catch up.
MacMillan was invaluable to me during this period. Seeing the
restlessness of the Eskimos, and without waiting for any suggestion from
me, he gave himself absolutely to the problem of keeping them occupied
and interested in games and athletic "stunts" of one kind and another.
This was one of those opportunities which circumstances give a man
silently to prove the mettle of which he is made.
On the evening of March 10, the lead being nearly closed, I gave orders
to get under way the next morning. The delay had become unendurable, and
I decided to take the chance of Marvin's overtaking us with the oil and
alcohol.
Of course there was the alternative of my going back to see what was the
trouble. But that idea was dismissed. There was little attraction in
ninety miles of extra travel, to say nothing of the psychological effect
on the members of the expedition.
I had no anxiety about the men themselves. Borup, I felt sure, had
reached the land without delay. Marvin, if he had been held up
temporarily by the opening of the shore lead, had the load which had
been thrown off by Kudlooktoo when his sledge was smashed, and this
load contained all essential items of supplies. But I could not believe
that the shore lead had remained open so long.
The morning of the 11th was clear and calm, with a temperature of minus
40°, which meant that all the open water was frozen over. We got under
way early, leaving in my igloo at this camp the following note for
Marvin:
4th CAMP, _March_ 11, 1909.
Have waited here (6) days. Can wait no longer. We
are short of fuel. Push on with all possible speed
to overtake us. Shall leave note at each camp.
When near us rush light sledge and note of
information ahead to overhaul us.
Expect send back Dr. & Eskimos 3 to 5 marches from
here. He should meet you & give you information.
We go straight across this lead (E. S. E.)
There has been no lateral motion of the ice during
7 days. Only open and shut. _Do not camp here._
CROSS THE LEAD. Feed full rations & speed your
dogs.
It is _vital_ you overtake us and give us fuel.
Leaving at 9 A.M., Thursday, Mar. 11.
PEARY.
P.S. On possibility you arrive too late to follow
us, have asked captain take general material from
your bags.
We crossed the lead without trouble, and made a fair march of not less
than twelve miles. This day we crossed seven leads, each being from half
a mile to one mile in width, all covered with barely negotiable young
ice. At this time the various divisions, including Bartlett's, were all
traveling together.
On this march we crossed the 84th parallel. That night the ice was
raftering about our camp with the movement of the tide. The continual
grinding, groaning, and creaking, as the pieces of ice crunched
together, kept up all night long. The noise, however, did not keep me
from sleeping, as our igloos were on a heavy ice-floe, which was not
likely itself to be broken up, most of the ice around it being young and
thin.
[Illustration: ATHLETIC SPORTS AT THE LEAD CAMP]
In the morning it was still clear, and the temperature was down to minus
45°. Again we made a fair march of not less than twelve nautical miles,
crossing in the first half many cracks and narrow leads, and in the
latter half traversing an unbroken series of old floes. I felt confident
that this zone of numerous leads which we had crossed in the last two
marches was the "Big Lead," and was of the opinion that we were now
safely across it.
We hoped that Marvin and Borup, with their men and vital supply of fuel,
would get across the "Big Lead" before we had any more wind; for six
hours of a good fresh breeze would utterly obliterate our trail, by
reason of the movement of the ice, and their search for us in the broad
waste of that white world would have been like the proverbial search for
a needle in a haystack.
[Illustration: PICKAXING A ROAD THROUGH ZONE OF ROUGH ICE]
The following march, on the 13th, was distinctly crisp. When we started
the thermometer was minus 53°, the minimum during the night having been
minus 55°; and when the twilight of evening came on it was down to minus
59°. With the bright sunshine at midday, and with no wind, in our fur
clothing we did not suffer from the cold. The brandy, of course, was
solid, the petroleum was white and viscid, and the dogs as they
traveled were enveloped in the white cloud of their own breath.
I traveled ahead of my division this march, and whenever I looked back
could see neither men nor dogs--only a low-lying bank of fog glistening
like silver in the horizontal rays of the sun behind it to the
south--this fog being the steam of the dog teams and the men.
[Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC VIEW OF THE EXPEDITION ON THE MARCH IN
FINE WEATHER
(Indian File Used to Economize the Strength of Men and Dogs and to
Accentuate the Trail. The Passage of Each Sledge Makes the Trail Easier
for the Ones Behind It)]
The going during this march was fairly good, except at the beginning,
where for about five miles we zigzagged through a zone of very rough
ice. The distance covered was at least twelve miles. Our camp that night
was on a large old floe in the lee of a large hummock of ice and snow.
Just as we had finished building our igloos, one of the Eskimos who was
standing on the top of the hummock shouted excitedly:
"Kling-mik-sue!" (Dogs are coming.)
In a moment I was on the hummock beside him. Looking south I could see,
a long distance away, a little bank of silvery white mist lying on our
trail. Yes, it was surely the dogs. A little later Seegloo, of Borup's
party, dashed up on a light sledge drawn by eight dogs, with a note from
Marvin containing the welcome news that he, Borup, and their men had
slept the previous night at our second camp back; that they would sleep
the next night at our first camp back, and catch up with us on the
following day. The rear party, with its precious loads of oil and
alcohol, was over the "Big Lead!"
Henson at once received instructions to get away early the next morning
with his division of Eskimos and sledges, to pioneer the road for the
next five marches. The doctor was informed definitely that he was to
return to the land the next morning with two men. The rest of the party
would remain here repairing sledges and drying clothes until Marvin and
Borup came in, when I could reapportion my loads, and send back all
superfluous men, dogs, and sledges.
That night, my mind again at rest, I slept like a child. In the morning
Henson got away early to the north with his pioneer division of three
Eskimos, Ootah, Ahwatingwah, Koolootingwah, and sledges and teams. A
little later Dr. Goodsell with two Eskimos, Wesharkoopsi and Arco, one
sledge, and twelve dogs took the back trail.
The doctor had assisted me in every possible way; but his services in
the field were gratuitous and were understood so to be. His place was
naturally at the ship, where the greater number still remained, for the
moral effect of his presence even if his medical services should not be
much needed, and I did not feel justified in subjecting him further to
the dangers of the leads with their treacherous young ice. The latitude
where the doctor turned back was about 84° 29´.
In the latter part of the afternoon, March 14, another cloud of silvery
smoke was seen advancing along our trail, and a little later Marvin came
swinging in at the head of the rear division, men and dogs steaming like
a squadron of battle-ships, and bringing in an ample supply of fuel.
Otherwise his loads were light, to permit rapid traveling. Many times in
the past had I been glad to see the true eyes of Ross Marvin, but never
more glad than this time.
The sledges which were now repaired were laden with the standard loads
already described, and I found that I had just twelve. This left some
men and dogs over, so that it was not serious news when MacMillan called
my attention to a frosted heel with which he had been worrying along for
several days without saying anything to any one about it. I saw at once
that the only thing for him to do was to turn back.
It was a disappointment to me to lose MacMillan so early, as I had hoped
that he would be able to go to a comparatively high latitude; but his
disability did not affect the main proposition. I had ample personnel,
as well as provisions, sledges, and dogs; and the men, like the
equipment, were interchangeable.
Here it may be well to note that, beyond my saying to Bartlett at Cape
Columbia that I hoped conditions might be such as to give me the benefit
of his energy and sturdy shoulders to some point beyond Abruzzi's
farthest, no member of the party knew how far he was to go, or when he
was to turn back. Yet this made no difference in the eagerness of their
work. Naturally I had my definite program; but conditions or accidents
might necessitate such instant and radical modifications of it that it
seemed hardly worth while to make it known. Few, if any, other explorers
have had so efficient and congenial a party as mine this last time.
Every man was glad to subordinate his own personal feelings and
ambitions to the ultimate success of the expedition.
Marvin made a sounding about a half mile north of the camp and got eight
hundred and twenty-five fathoms, which substantiated my belief that we
had crossed the "Big Lead." This lead probably follows the continental
shelf which this sounding showed to be between there and Camp No. 4
(with the probability of its being between Camp Nos. 4 and 5), probably
at about the 84th parallel. The continental shelf is simply a submerged
plateau surrounding all the continent, the "Big Lead" marking the
northern edge of that shelf where it dips into the polar sea.
Monday, March 15, was also clear and cold, with a temperature between
45° and 50° below zero. The wind had shifted again to the east and was
very penetrating. Bartlett and Marvin started off with the pickaxes as
soon as they had finished their morning tea and pemmican, and their
divisions, with Borup and his division, followed as soon as their
sledges were stowed.
MacMillan got away for Columbia with two Eskimos, two sledges, and
fourteen dogs. The main expedition now comprised sixteen men, twelve
sledges, and one hundred dogs. One sledge had been broken up to repair
the others, three had been taken back with the returning parties, and
two were left at this camp to be utilized on the return. Of the sledges
that now went on, seven were the new type of Peary sledge and five were
the old Eskimo pattern.
After saying good-by to MacMillan I followed the other three divisions
to the north, bringing up the rear as previously. The going in this
march was similar to that of the previous one, fairly good, as it was
over the old floes. The soreness in my fractured leg which had troubled
me more or less all the way from Cape Columbia was now almost entirely
gone.
Late in the afternoon we began to hear loud reports and rumblings among
the floes, as well as the more sibilant sound of the raftering young ice
in various directions. This meant more open water ahead of us. Soon an
active lead cut right across our path, and on the farther or northern
side of it we could see that the ice was moving. The lead seemed to
narrow toward the west, and we followed it a little way until we came to
a place where there were large pieces of floating ice, some of them
fifty or a hundred feet across. We got the dogs and sledges from one
piece of ice to another--the whole forming a sort of pontoon bridge.
As Borup was getting his team across the open crack between two pieces
of floating ice, the dogs slipped and went into the water. Leaping
forward, the vigorous young athlete stopped the sledge from following
the dogs, and, catching hold of the traces that fastened the dogs to the
sledge, he pulled them bodily out of the water. A man less quick and
muscular than Borup might have lost the whole team as well as the sledge
laden with five hundred pounds of supplies, which, considering our
position far out in that icy wilderness, were worth more to us than
their weight in diamonds. Of course, had the sledge gone in, the weight
of it would have carried the dogs to the bottom of the sea. We drew a
long breath, and, reaching the solid ice on the other side of this
pontoon bridge, plunged on to the north. But we had gone only a short
distance when right in front of us the ice separated with loud reports,
forming another open lead, and we were obliged to camp.
The temperature that night was 50° below zero; there was a fresh breeze
from the southeast and enough moisture in the open water close by us to
give the wind a keen edge, which made the time occupied in building
igloos decidedly unpleasant. But we were all so thankful over our escape
from losing that imperiled sledge with its precious load that personal
discomforts seemed indeed of small account.
CHAPTER XXVI
BORUP'S FARTHEST NORTH
That night was one of the noisiest that I have ever spent in an igloo,
and none of us slept very soundly. Hour after hour the rumbling and
complaining of the ice continued, and it would not have surprised us
much if at any moment the ice had split directly across our camp, or
even through the middle of one of our igloos. It was not a pleasant
situation, and every member of the party was glad when the time came to
get under way again.
In the morning we found a passage across the lead a short distance to
the east of our camp over some fragments which had become cemented
together during the cold night. We had only gone forward a few hundred
yards when we came upon the igloo which Henson had occupied. This did
not indicate rapid progress.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
A TYPICAL EXAMPLE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF WORKING SLEDGES OVER A PRESSURE
RIDGE]
At the end of six hours we came upon another of Henson's igloos--not
greatly to my surprise. I knew, from experience, that yesterday's
movement of the ice and the formation of leads about us would take all
the spirit out of Henson's party until the main party should overtake
them again. Sure enough, the next march was even shorter. At the end of
a little over four hours we found Henson and his division in camp,
making one sledge out of the remains of two. The damage to the
sledges was the reason given for the delay.
This march having been largely over a broad zone of rough rubble ice,
some of my own sledges had suffered slight damage, and the entire party
was now halted and the sledges were overhauled.
After a short sleep I put Marvin ahead to pick the trail, with
instructions to try to make two long marches to bring up the average.
Marvin got away very early, followed a little later by Bartlett, Borup,
and Henson, with pickaxes to improve further the trail made by Marvin.
After that came the sledges of their divisions, I, as usual, bringing up
the rear with my division, that I might have everything ahead of me and
know just how things were going. Marvin gave us a good march of not less
than seventeen miles, at first over very rough ice, then over larger and
more level floes, with a good deal of young ice between.
At the end of this march, on the evening of the 19th, while the Eskimos
were building the igloos, I outlined to the remaining members of my
party, Bartlett, Marvin, Borup, and Henson, the program which I should
endeavor to follow from that time on. At the end of the next march
(which would be five marches from where MacMillan and the doctor turned
back) Borup would return with three Eskimos, twenty dogs, and one
sledge, leaving the main party--twelve men, ten sledges, and eighty
dogs. Five marches farther on Marvin would return with two Eskimos,
twenty dogs, and one sledge, leaving the main party with nine men, seven
sledges, and sixty dogs. Five marches farther on Bartlett would return
with two Eskimos, twenty dogs, and one sledge, leaving the main party
six men, forty dogs, and five sledges.
I hoped that with good weather, and the ice no worse than that which we
had already encountered, Borup might get beyond 85°, Marvin beyond 86°,
and Bartlett beyond 87°. At the end of each five-march section I should
send back the poorest dogs, the least effective Eskimos, and the worst
damaged sledges.
As will appear, this program was carried out without a hitch, and the
farthest of each division was even better than I had hoped. At this camp
the supplies, equipment, and personal gear of Borup and his Eskimos were
left for them to pick up on their way home, thus avoiding the
transportation of some two hundred and fifty pounds out and back over
the next march.
The 19th was a brilliant day of yellow sunlight. The season was now so
far advanced that the sun, circling as always in this latitude around
and around the heavens, was above the horizon nearly half the time, and
during the other half there was almost no darkness--only a gray
twilight.
The temperature this day was in the minus fifties, as evidenced by the
frozen brandy and the steam-enshrouded dogs; but bubbles in all my
spirit thermometers prevented a definite temperature reading. These
bubbles were caused by the separation of the column, owing to the
jolting of the thermometer with our constant stumbling over the rough
ice of the polar sea. The bubbles might be removed at night in camp, but
this required some time, and the accurate noting of temperatures during
our six or seven weeks' march to the Pole and back did not seem
sufficiently vital to our enterprise to make me rectify the thermometer
every night. When I was not too tired, I got the bubbles out.
Again Marvin, who was still pioneering the trail, gave us a fair march
of fifteen miles or more, at first over heavy and much-raftered ice,
then over floes of greater size and more level surface. But the reader
must understand that what we regard as a level surface on the polar ice
might be considered decidedly rough going anywhere else.
The end of this march put us between 85° 7´ and 85° 30´, or about the
latitude of our "Storm Camp" of three years before; but we were
twenty-three days ahead of that date, and in the matter of equipment,
supplies, and general condition of men and dogs there was no comparison.
Bartlett's estimate of our position at this camp was 85° 30´, Marvin's
85° 25´, and my own 85° 20´. The actual position, as figured back later
from the point where we were first able, by reason of the increasing
altitude of the sun, to take an observation for latitude, was 85° 23´.
In the morning Bartlett again took charge of the pioneer division,
starting early with two Eskimos, sixteen dogs, and two sledges. Borup, a
little later, with three Eskimos, sixteen dogs, and one sledge, started
on his return to the land.
I regretted that circumstances made it expedient to send Borup back from
here in command of the second supporting party. This young Yale athlete
was a valuable member of the expedition. His whole heart was in the
work, and he had hustled his heavy sledge along and driven his dogs
with almost the skill of an Eskimo, in a way that commanded the
admiration of the whole party and would have made his father's eyes
glisten could he have seen. But with all his enthusiasm for this kind of
work, he was still inexperienced in the many treacheries of the ice; and
I was not willing to subject him to any further risks. He had also, like
MacMillan, frosted one of his heels.
It was a serious disappointment to Borup that he was obliged to turn
back; but he had reason to feel proud of his work--even as I was proud
of him. He had carried the Yale colors close up to eighty-five and a
half degrees, and had borne them over as many miles of polar ice as
Nansen had covered in his entire journey from his ship to his "farthest
north."
I can still see Borup's eager and bright young face, slightly clouded
with regret, as he turned away at last and disappeared with his Eskimos
and steaming dogs among the ice hummocks of the back trail.
A few minutes after Borup went south, Henson with two Eskimos, three
sledges, and twenty-four dogs began to follow Bartlett's trail to the
north. Marvin and myself, with four Eskimos, five sledges, and forty
dogs, were to remain in camp twelve hours longer in order to give
Bartlett one march the start of us. With the departure of Borup's
supporting party, the main expedition comprised twelve men, ten sledges,
and eighty dogs.
From this camp on, each division comprised three men instead of four;
but I did not reduce the division daily allowance of tea, milk, and
alcohol. This meant a slightly greater individual consumption of these
supplies, but so long as we kept up the present rate of speed I
considered it justified. With the increasing appetite caused by the
continuous work, three men were easily able to consume four men's tea
rations. The daily allowance of pemmican and biscuit I could not
increase. Three men in an igloo were also more comfortable than four,
and the smaller igloos just about balanced in time and energy the lesser
number of men that were left to build them.
We had now resumed the program of advance party and main party, which
had been interrupted during the last two marches. The now continuous
daylight permitted a modification of the previous arrangement so as to
bring the two parties in touch every twenty-four hours. The main party
remained in camp for about twelve hours after the departure of the
advance. The advance party made its march, camped, and turned in. When
the main party had covered the march made by the advance party and
arrived at their igloos, the advance party broke out and started on
while the main party occupied their igloos and turned in for sleep.
Thus I was in touch with Bartlett and his division every twenty-four
hours, to make any changes in the loads that seemed advisable, and to
encourage the men if necessary. At this stage in our journey Henson's
party traveled with Bartlett's pioneer party, and Marvin and his men
traveled with mine.
This arrangement kept the parties closer together, relieved the pioneers
of all apprehension, and reduced by fifty per cent. the chance of
separation of the parties by the opening of a lead.
Occasionally I found it advisable to transfer an Eskimo from one
division to another. Sometimes, as has been seen, these odd people are
rather difficult to manage; and if Bartlett or any other member of the
expedition did not like a certain Eskimo, or had trouble in managing
him, I would take that Eskimo into my own division, giving the other
party one of my Eskimos, because I could get along with any of them. In
other words, I gave the other men their preferences, taking myself the
men who were left. Of course, when I came to make up my division for the
final dash, I took my favorites among the most efficient of the Eskimos.
At the next camp Marvin made a sounding and to our surprise reached
bottom at only three hundred and ten fathoms, but in the process of
reeling up the wire it separated, and the lead and some of the wire were
lost.
Soon after midnight we got under way, Marvin taking a sledge, and after
a short march--only some ten miles--we reached Bartlett's camp. He had
been delayed by the breaking of one of his sledges, and I found one of
his men and Henson's party still there repairing the sledge. Bartlett
himself had gone on, and Henson and the other men got away soon after
our arrival.
Marvin made another sounding of seven hundred fathoms and no bottom,
unfortunately losing two pickaxes (which had been used in place of a
lead) and more of the wire in hauling it up. Then we turned in. It was a
fine day, with clear, brilliant sunlight, a fine breeze from the north,
and temperature in the minus forties.
The next march, on the 22d, was a fair one of not less than fifteen
miles. The going was at first tortuous, over rough, heavy ice, which
taxed the sledges, dogs, and drivers to the utmost; then we struck a
direct line across large and level floes. At the end of this march I
found that Bartlett and one of his men had already left; but Henson and
his party were in their igloo. Ooqueah, of Bartlett's party, whose
sledge had broken down the day before, was also in camp. I turned
Marvin's sledge over to Ooqueah, so that Bartlett should have no further
hindrance in his work of pioneering, and started him and Henson's party
off. The damaged sledge I turned over to Marvin, giving him a light
load. We were not without our difficulties at this period of the
journey, but our plan was working smoothly and we were all hopeful and
in excellent spirits.
CHAPTER XXVII
GOOD-BY TO MARVIN
Up to this time no observations had been taken. The altitude of the sun
had been so low as to make observations unreliable. Moreover, we were
traveling at a good clip, and the mean estimate of Bartlett, Marvin, and
myself, based on our previous ice experience, was sufficient for dead
reckoning. Now, a clear, calm day, with the temperature not lower than
minus forty, made a checking of our dead reckoning seem desirable. So I
had the Eskimos build a wind shelter of snow, in order that Marvin might
take a meridian altitude for latitude. I intended that Marvin should
take all the observations up to his farthest, and Bartlett all beyond
that to his farthest. This was partly to save my eyes, but principally
to have independent observations with which to check our advance.
The mercury of the artificial horizon was thoroughly warmed in the
igloo; a semi-circular wind-guard of snow blocks two tiers high was put
up, opening to the south; a musk-ox skin was laid upon the snow inside
this; my special instrument box was placed at the south end and firmly
bedded into the snow in a level position; the artificial horizon trough,
especially devised for this kind of work, was placed on top and the
mercury poured into it until it was even full, when it was covered
with the glass horizon roof.
[Illustration: MARVIN TAKING AN OBSERVATION IN A SNOW SHELTER]
Marvin, then lying full length upon his face, with his head to the south
and both elbows resting upon the snow, was able to hold the sextant
steady enough to get his contact of the sun's limb in the very narrow
strip of the artificial horizon which was available. A pencil and open
note-book under the right hand offered the means of noting the altitudes
as they were obtained.
The result of Marvin's observations gave our position as approximately
85° 48´ north latitude, figuring the correction for refraction only to a
temperature of minus 10 F., the lowest temperature for which we had
tables. It was from this point that, reckoning twenty-five miles for our
last two marches, we calculated the position of Camp 19, where Borup
turned back, as being 85° 23´, as against our respective dead reckoning
estimates of 85° 20´, 85° 25´, and 85° 30´. This observation showed that
we had thus far averaged eleven and a half minutes of latitude _made
good_ for each actual march. Included in these marches had been four
short ones resulting from causes the recurrence of which I believed I
could prevent in future. I was confident that if we were not interrupted
by open water, against which no calculations and no power of man can
prevail, we could steadily increase this average from this time on.
The next march was made in a temperature of minus thirty and a misty
atmosphere which was evidently caused by open water in the neighborhood.
About five miles from camp we just succeeded by the liveliest work in
getting four of our five sledges across an opening lead. Getting the
last sledge over caused a delay of a few hours, as we had to cut an ice
raft with pickaxes to ferry the sledge, dogs, and Eskimo driver across.
This impromptu ferry-boat was cut on our side and was moved across the
lead by means of two coils of rope fastened together and stretching from
side to side. When the cake was ready, two of my Eskimos got on it, we
threw the line across to the Eskimo on the other side, the Eskimos on
the ice raft took hold of the rope, the Eskimos on either shore held the
ends, and the raft was pulled over. Then the dogs and sledge and the
three Eskimos took their place on the ice cake, and we hauled them over
to our side. While we were engaged in this business we saw a seal
disporting himself in the open water of the lead.
At the end of the next march, which was about fifteen miles, and which
put us across the 86th parallel, we reached Bartlett's next camp, where
we found Henson and his party in their igloo. I got them out and under
way at once, sending by one of them a brief note of encouragement to
Bartlett, telling him that his last camp was beyond 86°, that he would
probably sleep that night beyond the Norwegian record, and urging him to
speed us up for all he was worth.
In this march there was some pretty heavy going. Part of the way was
over small old floes, which had been broken up by many seasons of
unceasing conflict with the winds and tides. Enclosing these more or
less level floes were heavy pressure ridges over which we and the dogs
were obliged to climb. Often the driver of a heavily loaded sledge would
be forced to lift it by main strength over some obstruction. Those who
have pictured us sitting comfortably on our sledges, riding over
hundreds of miles of ice smooth as a skating pond, should have seen us
lifting and tugging at our five-hundred-pound sledges, adding our own
strength to that of our dogs.
The day was hazy, and the air was full of frost, which, clinging to our
eyelashes, almost cemented them together. Sometimes, in opening my mouth
to shout an order to the Eskimos, a sudden twinge would cut short my
words--my mustache having frozen to my stubble beard.
This fifteen mile march put us beyond the Norwegian record (86° 13´ 6´´;
see Nansen's "Farthest North," Vol. 2, page 170) and fifteen days ahead
of that record. My leading sledge found both Bartlett and Henson in
camp; but they were off again, pioneering the trail, before I, bringing
up the rear as usual, came in. Egingwah's sledge had been damaged during
this march, and as our loads could now be carried on four sledges, owing
to what we had eaten along the way, we broke up Marvin's damaged sledge
and used the material in it for repairing the other four. As Marvin and
two Eskimos were to turn back from the next camp, I left here his
supplies for the return and part of his equipment, in order to save
unnecessary transportation out and back. The time employed in mending
the sledges and shifting the loads cut into our hours of sleep, and
after a short rest of three hours we were again under way, with four
sledges and teams of ten dogs each.
The next march was a good one. Bartlett had responded like a
thoroughbred to my urging. Favored by good going, he reeled off full
twenty miles, notwithstanding a snowstorm part of the time, which made
it hard to see. The temperature, which varied from 16° to 30° below
zero, indicated that there was more or less open water to the west, from
which direction the wind came. During this march we crossed several
leads covered with young ice, treacherous under the recently fallen
snow. Along the course of one of these leads we saw the fresh track of a
polar bear going west, over two hundred miles from land.
[Illustration: REPAIRING SLEDGES IN CAMP]
At half-past ten on the morning of the 25th I came upon Bartlett and
Henson with their men, all in camp, in accordance with my instructions
to wait for me at the end of their fifth march. I turned them all out,
and every one jumped in to repair the sledges, redistribute the loads,
weed out the least efficient dogs, and rearrange the Eskimos in the
remaining divisions.
While this work was going on, Marvin, favored by clear weather, took
another meridian observation for latitude and obtained 86° 38´. This
placed us, as I expected, beyond the Italian record, and showed that in
our last three marches we had covered a distance of fifty minutes of
latitude, an average of sixteen and two-thirds miles per march. We were
thirty-two days ahead of the Italian record in time.
I was doubly glad of the result of the observations, not only for the
sake of Marvin, whose services had been invaluable and who deserved the
privilege of claiming a higher northing than Nansen and Abruzzi, but
also for the honor of Cornell University, to the faculty of which he
belonged, and two of whose alumni and patrons had been generous
contributors to the Peary Arctic Club. I had hoped that Marvin would be
able to make a sounding at his farthest north, but there was no young
ice near the camp through which a hole could be made.
[Illustration: A MOMENTARY HALT IN THE LEE OF A BIG HUMMOCK NORTH OF
88°]
About four o'clock in the afternoon Bartlett, with Ooqueah and Karko,
two sledges, and eighteen dogs, got away for the advance. Bartlett
started off with the determination to bag the 88th parallel in the next
five marches (after which he was to turn back), and I sincerely hoped
that he would be able to reel off the miles to that point, as he
certainly deserved such a record.
Later I learned that he had intended to cover twenty-five or thirty
miles in his first march, which he would have done had conditions not
been against him. Though tired with the long march and the day's work in
camp, after a short sleep the night before, I was not able to turn in
for several hours after Bartlett got away. There were numerous details
which required personal attention. There were letters to write and
orders for Marvin to take back, together with his instructions for his
projected trip to Cape Jesup.
The next morning, Friday, March 26, I rapped the whole party up at five
o'clock, after a good sleep all round. As soon as we had eaten our usual
breakfast of pemmican, biscuit, and tea, Henson, Ootah, and Keshungwah,
with three sledges and twenty-five dogs, got away on Bartlett's trail.
Marvin, with Kudlooktoo and "Harrigan," one sledge, and seventeen dogs,
started south at half-past nine in the morning.
No shadow of apprehension for the future hung over that parting. It was
a clear, crisp morning, the sunlight glittered on the ice and snow, the
dogs were alert and active after their long sleep, the air blew cold and
fresh from the polar void, and Marvin himself, though reluctant to turn
back, was filled with exultation that he had carried the Cornell colors
to a point beyond the farthest north of Nansen and Abruzzi, and that,
with the exception of Bartlett and myself, he alone of all white men had
entered that exclusive region which stretches beyond 86° 34´ north
latitude.
I shall always be glad that Marvin marched with me during those last few
days. As we tramped along together we had discussed the plans for his
trip to Cape Jesup, and his line of soundings from there northward; and
as he turned back to the land his mind was glowing with hope for the
future--the future which he was destined never to know. My last words to
him were:
"Be careful of the leads, my boy!"
So we shook hands and parted in that desolate white waste, and Marvin
set his face southward toward his death, and I turned again northward
toward the Pole.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WE BREAK ALL RECORDS
By an odd coincidence, soon after Marvin left us on his fatal journey
from 86° 38´ back to land, the sun was obscured and a dull, lead-colored
haze spread over all the sky. This grayness, in contrast to the dead
white surface of the ice and snow and the strangely diffused quality of
the light, gave an indescribable effect. It was a shadowless light and
one in which it was impossible to see for any considerable distance.
That shadowless light is not unusual on the ice-fields of the polar sea;
but this was the first occasion on which we had encountered it since
leaving the land. One looking for the most perfect illustration of the
arctic inferno would find it in that gray light. A more ghastly
atmosphere could not have been imagined even by Dante himself--sky and
ice seeming utterly wan and unreal.
Notwithstanding the fact that I had now passed the "farthest north" of
all my predecessors and was approaching my own best record, with my
eight companions, sixty dogs, and seven fully loaded sledges in far
better condition than I had even dared to hope, the strange and
melancholy light in which we traveled on this day of parting from Marvin
gave me an indescribably uneasy feeling. Man in his egotism, from the
most primitive ages to our own, has always imagined a sympathetic
relationship between nature and the events and feelings of human life.
So--in the light of later events--admitting that I felt a peculiar awe
in contemplating the ghastly grayness of that day, I am expressing only
an ineradicable instinct of the race to which I belong.
The first three-quarters of the march after Marvin turned back, on March
26, the trail was fortunately in a straight line, over large level
snow-covered floes of varying height, surrounded by medium-rough old
rafters of ice; and the last quarter was almost entirely over young ice
averaging about one foot thick, broken and raftered, presenting a rugged
and trying surface to travel over in the uncertain light. Without
Bartlett's trail to follow, the march would have been even more
difficult.
Near the end of the day we were again deflected to the west some
distance by an open lead. Whenever the temperature rose as high as minus
15°, where it had stood at the beginning of the day, we were sure of
encountering open water. But just before we reached the camp of
Bartlett's pioneer division, the gray haze in which we had traveled all
day lifted, and the sun came out clear and brilliant. The temperature
had also dropped to minus 20°. Bartlett was just starting out again when
I arrived, and we agreed that we had made a good fifteen miles in the
last march.
The next day, March 27, was a brilliant dazzling day of arctic sunshine,
the sky a glittering blue, and the ice a glittering white, which, but
for the smoked goggles worn by every member of the party, would
certainly have given some of us an attack of snow blindness. From the
time when the reappearing sun of the arctic spring got well above the
horizon, these goggles had been worn continuously.
The temperature during this march dropped from minus 30° to minus 40°,
there was a biting northeasterly breeze, and the dogs traveled forward
in their own white cloud of steam. On the polar ice we gladly hail the
extreme cold, as higher temperatures and light snow always mean open
water, danger, and delay. Of course, such minor incidents as frosted and
bleeding cheeks and noses we reckon as part of the great game. Frosted
heels and toes are far more serious, because they lessen a man's ability
to travel, and traveling is what we are there for. Mere pain and
inconvenience are inevitable, but, on the whole, inconsiderable.
This march was by far the hardest for some days. At first there was a
continuation of the broken and raftered ice, sharp and jagged, that at
times seemed almost to cut through our sealskin kamiks and hareskin
stockings, to pierce our feet. Then we struck heavy rubble ice covered
with deep snow, through which we had literally to plow our way, lifting
and steadying the sledges until our muscles ached.
During the day we saw the tracks of two foxes in this remote and icy
wilderness, nearly two hundred and forty nautical miles beyond the
northern coast of Grant Land.
Finally we came upon Bartlett's camp in a maze of small pieces of very
heavy old floes raftered in every direction. He had been in his igloo
but a short time, and his men and dogs were tired out and temporarily
discouraged by the heart-racking work of making a road.
I told him to take a good long sleep before getting under way again; and
while my men were building the igloos, I lightened the loads of
Bartlett's sledges about one hundred pounds, to put them in better trim
for pioneering in this rough going. The added weight would be less
burdensome on our own sledges than on his. Notwithstanding the crazy
road over which we had traveled, this march netted us twelve good miles
toward the goal.
We were now across the 87th parallel and into the region of perpetual
daylight, as the sun had not set during the last march. The knowledge
that we had crossed the 87th parallel with men and dogs in good
condition, and plenty of supplies upon the sledges, sent me to sleep
that night with a light heart. Only about six miles beyond this point,
at 87° 6´, I had been obliged to turn back nearly three years before,
with exhausted dogs, depleted supplies, and a heavy and discouraged
heart. It seemed to me then that the story of my life was told and that
the word failure was stamped across it.
Now, three years older, with three more years of the inevitable wear and
tear of this inexorable game behind me, I stood again beyond the 87th
parallel still reaching forward to that goal which had beckoned to me
for so many years. Even now, on reaching my highest record with every
prospect good, I dared not build too much on the chances of the white
and treacherous ice which stretched one hundred and eighty nautical
miles northward between me and the end. I had believed for years that
this thing could be done and that it was my destiny to do it, but I
always reminded myself that many a man had felt thus about some dearly
wished achievement, only to fail in the end.
When I awoke the following day, March 28, the sky was brilliantly clear;
but ahead of us there was a thick, smoky, ominous haze drifting low over
the ice, and a bitter northeast wind, which, in the orthography of the
Arctic, plainly spelled open water. Did this mean failure again? No man
could say. Bartlett had, of course, left camp and taken to the trail
again long before I and the men of my division were awake. This was in
accordance with my general plan, previously outlined, that the pioneer
division should be traveling while the main division slept, and _vice
versa_, so that the two divisions might be in communication every day.
After traveling at a good rate for six hours along Bartlett's trail, we
came upon his camp beside a wide lead, with a dense, black, watery sky
to the northwest, north, and northeast, and beneath it the smoky fog
which we had been facing all day long. In order not to disturb Bartlett,
we camped a hundred yards distant, put up our igloos as quietly as
possible, and turned in, after our usual supper of pemmican, biscuit,
and tea. We had made some twelve miles over much better going than that
of the last few marches and on a nearly direct line over large floes and
young ice.
I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard the ice creaking and
groaning close by the igloo, but as the commotion was not excessive, nor
of long duration, I attributed it to the pressure from the closing of
the lead which was just ahead of us; and after satisfying myself that my
mittens were where I could get them instantly, in an emergency, I rolled
over on my bed of deerskins and settled myself to sleep. I was just
drowsing again when I heard some one yelling excitedly outside.
Leaping to my feet and looking through the peep-hole of our igloo, I was
startled to see a broad lead of black water between our two igloos and
Bartlett's, the nearer edge of water being close to our entrance; and on
the opposite side of the lead stood one of Bartlett's men yelling and
gesticulating with all the abandon of an excited and thoroughly
frightened Eskimo.
Awakening my men, I kicked our snow door into fragments and was outside
in a moment. The break in the ice had occurred within a foot of the
fastening of one of my dog teams, the team escaping by just those few
inches from being dragged into the water. Another team had just escaped
being buried under a pressure ridge, the movement of the ice having
providentially stopped after burying the bight which held their traces
to the ice. Bartlett's igloo was moving east on the ice raft which had
broken off, and beyond it, as far as the belching fog from the lead
would let us see, there was nothing but black water. It looked as if the
ice raft which carried Bartlett's division would impinge against our
side a little farther on, and I shouted to his men to break camp and
hitch up their dogs in a hurry, in readiness to rush across to us should
the opportunity present itself.
Then I turned to consider our own position. Our two igloos, Henson's and
mine, were on a small piece of old floe, separated by a crack and a low
pressure ridge, a few yards away, from a large floe lying to the west of
us. It was clear that it would take very little strain or pressure to
detach us and set us afloat also like Bartlett's division.
I routed Henson and his men out of their igloo, gave orders to everybody
to pack and hitch up immediately, and, while this was being done,
leveled a path across the crack to the big floe at the west of us. This
was done with a pickax, leveling the ice down into the crack, so as to
make a continuous surface over which the sledges could pass. As soon as
the loads were across and we were safe on the floe, we all went to the
edge of the lead and stood ready to assist Bartlett's men in rushing
their sledges across the moment their ice raft should touch our side.
Slowly the raft drifted nearer and nearer, until the side of it crunched
against the floe. The two edges being fairly even, the raft lay
alongside us as a boat lies against a wharf, and we had no trouble in
getting Bartlett's men and sledges across and onto the floe with us.
Though there is always a possibility that a lead may open directly
across a floe as large as this one, we could not waste our sleeping
hours in sitting up to watch for it. Our former igloos being lost to us,
there was nothing to do but to build another set and turn in
immediately. It goes without saying that this extra work was not
particularly agreeable. That night we slept with our mittens on, ready
at a moment's notice for anything that might happen. Had a new lead
formed directly across the sleeping platform of our igloo, precipitating
us into the icy water, we should not have been surprised after the first
shock of the cold bath, but should have clambered out, scraping the
water off our fur garments, and made ready for the next move on the part
of our treacherous antagonist--the ice.
Notwithstanding the extra fatigue and the precarious position of our
camp, this last march had put us well beyond my record of three years
before, probably 87° 12´, so that I went to sleep with the satisfaction
of having at last beaten my own record, no matter what the morrow might
bring forth.
The following day, March 29, was not a happy one for us. Though we were
all tired enough to rest, we did not enjoy picnicking beside this arctic
Phlegethon, which, hour after hour, to the north, northeast, and
northwest, seemed to belch black smoke like a prairie fire. So dense was
this cloud caused by the condensation of the vapor and the reflection in
it of the black water below that we could not see the other shore of the
lead--if, indeed, it had a northern shore. As far as the evidence of our
senses went, we might be encamped on the edge of that open polar sea
which myth-makers have imagined as forever barring the way of man to the
northern end of the earth's axis. It was heart-breaking, but there was
nothing to do but wait. After breakfast we overhauled the sledges and
made a few repairs, dried out some of our garments over the little oil
lamps which we carried for that purpose, and Bartlett made a sounding of
1,260 fathoms, but found no bottom. He did not let all the line go out,
fearing there might be a defect in the wire which would lose us more of
it, as we were desirous of keeping all that we had for a sounding at our
"farthest north," which we hoped would be at the Pole itself. I had only
one sounding lead now left, and I would not let Bartlett risk it at this
point, but had him use a pair of sledge shoes (brought along for this
very purpose from the last broken up sledge) to carry the line down.
When our watches told us that it was bedtime--for we were now in the
period of perpetual sunlight--we again turned into the igloos which had
been hurriedly built after our exciting experience the night before. A
low murmur as of distant surf was issuing from the blackness ahead of
us, and steadily growing in volume. To the inexperienced it might have
seemed an ominous sound, but to us it was a cheering thing because we
knew it meant the narrowing, and perhaps the closing, of the stretch of
open water that barred our way. So we slept happily in our frosty huts
that "night."
CHAPTER XXIX
BARTLETT REACHES 87° 47´
Our hopes were soon realized, for at one o'clock in the morning, March
30, when I awoke and looked at my watch, the murmur from the closing
lead had increased to a hoarse roar, punctuated with groans and with
reports like those of rifles, dying away to the east and west like the
sounds from a mighty firing line. Looking through the peep-hole, I saw
that the black curtain had thinned so that I could see through it to
another similar, though blacker, curtain behind, indicating still
another lead further on.
[Illustration: CROSSING A LARGE LAKE OF YOUNG ICE, NORTH OF 87°
("As Level as a Floor" for Six or Seven Miles. In Places This Ice Was so
Thin That It Buckled Under the Sledges and Drivers)]
At eight o'clock in the morning the temperature was down to minus 30°,
with a bitter northwest breeze. The grinding and groaning of the ice had
ceased, and the smoke and haze had disappeared, as is usual when a lead
closes up or freezes over. We rushed across before the ice should open
again. All this day we traveled together, Bartlett's division, Henson's,
and mine, constantly crossing narrow lanes of young ice, which had only
recently been open water. During this march we had to cross a lake of
young ice some six or seven miles across--so thin that the ice buckled
under us as we rushed on at full speed for the other side. We did our
best to make up for the previous day's delay, and when we finally camped
on a heavy old floe we had made a good twenty miles.
The entire region through which we had come during the last four marches
was full of unpleasant possibilities for the future. Only too well we
knew that violent winds for even a few hours would set the ice all
abroad in every direction. Crossing such a zone on a journey north, is
only half the problem, for there is always the return to be figured on.
Though the motto of the Arctic must be, "Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof," we ardently hoped there might not be violent winds until
we were south of this zone again on the return.
The next march was to be Bartlett's last, and he let himself out to do
his best. The going was fairly good, but the weather was thick. There
was a strong northerly wind blowing full in our faces, bitter and
insistent, and the temperature was in the minus thirties. But this
northerly wind, though hard to struggle against, was better than an
easterly or westerly one, either of which would have set us adrift in
open water, while, as it was, the wind was closing up every lead behind
us and thus making things easier for Bartlett's supporting party on its
return. True, the wind pressure was forcing to the south the ice over
which we traveled, and thus losing us miles of distance; but the
advantage of frozen leads was more than compensation for this loss.
So good was Bartlett's pace during the last half of the march that if I
stopped an instant for any purpose I had to jump on a sledge or run, to
catch up, and during the last few miles I walked beside Bartlett in
advance. He was very sober and anxious to go further; but the program
was for him to go back from here in command of the fourth supporting
party, and we did not have supplies enough for an increase in the main
party. The food which he and his two Eskimos and dog teams would have
consumed between this point and the Pole, on the upward and return
journeys, might mean that we would all starve before we could reach the
land again.
Had it been clear we should undoubtedly have covered twenty-five miles
in this march; but it is difficult to break a trail in thick weather as
rapidly as in clear, and this day netted us only twenty miles. We knew
that if we were not on or close to the 88th parallel at the end of this
march, it would be because the northern winds of the past two days had
set the ice south, crushing up the young ice in the leads between us and
the land.
The sun came out just as we were preparing to camp, and it looked as if
we should have clear weather the next day for Bartlett's meridian
observations at his "farthest north."
When our igloos were built, I told the two Eskimos, Keshungwah and
Karko, that they were to go back with the captain the next day; so they
could get their clothes as dry as possible, as they probably would not
have time to dry them on the forced march home. Bartlett was to return
with these two Eskimos, one sledge, and eighteen dogs.
After about four hours' sleep, I turned everyone out at five o'clock in
the morning. The wind had blown violently from the north all night, and
still continued.
After breakfast Bartlett started to walk five or six miles to the north
in order to make sure of reaching the 88th parallel. On his return he
was to take a meridian observation to determine our position. While he
was gone I culled the best dogs from his teams, replacing them with the
poorer dogs from the teams of the main party. The dogs were on the whole
in very good condition, far better than on any of my previous
expeditions. I had been throwing the brunt of the dragging on the
poorest dogs, those that I judged were going to fail, so as to keep the
best dogs fresh for the final spurt.
My theory was to work the supporting parties to the limit, in order to
keep the main party fresh; and those men who I expected from the
beginning would form the main party at the last had things made as easy
as possible for them all the way up. Ootah, Henson and Egingwah were in
this group. Whenever I could do so I had eased their loads for them,
giving them the best dogs, and keeping the poorest dogs with the teams
of those Eskimos who I knew were going back. It was a part of the
deliberate plan to work the supporting parties as hard as possible, in
order to keep the main party fresh up to the farthest possible point.
From the beginning there were certain Eskimos who, I knew, barring some
unforeseen accident, would go to the Pole with me. There were others who
were assigned not to go anywhere near there, and others who were
available for either course. If any accidents occurred to those men whom
I had originally chosen, I planned to fill their places with the next
best ones who were all willing to go.
On Bartlett's return the Eskimos built the usual wind shelter already
described, and Bartlett took a latitude observation, getting 87° 46´
49´´.
Bartlett was naturally much disappointed to find that even with his
five-mile northward march of the morning he was still short of the 88th
parallel. Our latitude was the direct result of the northerly wind of
the last two days, which had crowded the ice southward as we traveled
over it northward. We had traveled fully twelve miles more than his
observation showed in the last five marches, but had lost them by the
crushing up of the young ice in our rear and the closing of the leads.
Bartlett took the observations here, as had Marvin five camps back
partly to save my eyes and partly to have independent observations by
different members of the expedition. When the calculations were
completed, two copies were made, one for Bartlett and one for me, and he
got ready to start south on the back trail in command of my fourth
supporting party, with his two Eskimos, one sledge, and eighteen dogs.
I felt a keen regret as I saw the captain's broad shoulders grow smaller
in the distance and finally disappear behind the ice hummocks of the
white and glittering expanse toward the south. But it was no time for
reverie, and I turned abruptly away and gave my attention to the work
which was before me. I had no anxiety about Bartlett. I knew that I
should see him again at the ship. My work was still ahead, not in the
rear. Bartlett had been invaluable to me, and circumstances had thrust
upon him the brunt of the pioneering instead of its being divided among
several, as I had originally planned.
Though he was naturally disappointed at not having reached the 88th
parallel, he had every reason to be proud, not only of his work in
general, but that he had surpassed the Italian record by a degree and a
quarter. I had given him the post of honor in command of my last
supporting party for three reasons: first, because of his magnificent
handling of the _Roosevelt_; second, because he had cheerfully and
gladly stood between me and every possible minor annoyance from the
start of the expedition to that day; third, because it seemed to me
right that, in view of the noble work of Great Britain in arctic
exploration, a British subject should, next to an American, be able to
say that he had stood nearest the North Pole.
With the departure of Bartlett, the main party now consisted of my own
division and Henson's. My men were Egingwah and Seegloo; Henson's men
were Ootah and Ooqueah. We had five sledges and forty dogs, the pick of
one hundred and forty with which we had left the ship. With these we
were ready now for the final lap of the journey.
We were now one hundred and thirty-three nautical miles from the Pole.
Pacing back and forth in the lee of the pressure ridge near which our
igloos were built, I made out my program. Every nerve must be strained
to make five marches of at least twenty-five miles each, crowding these
marches in such a way as to bring us to the end of the fifth march by
noon, to permit an immediate latitude observation. Weather and leads
permitting, I believed that I could do this. From the improving
character of the ice, and in view of the recent northerly winds, I
hoped that I should have no serious trouble with the going.
If for any reason I fell short of these proposed distances, I had two
methods in reserve for making up the deficit. One was to double the last
march--that is, make a good march, have tea and a hearty lunch, rest the
dogs a little, and then go on again, without sleep. The other was, at
the conclusion of my fifth march, to push on with one light sledge, a
double team of dogs, and one or two of the party, leaving the rest in
camp. Even should the going be worse than was then anticipated, eight
marches like the three from 85° 48´ to 86° 38´, or six similar to our
last one, would do the trick.
[Illustration: CAMP AT 85° 48´ NORTH, MARCH 22, 1909]
Underlying all these calculations was the ever-present knowledge that a
twenty-fours' gale would open leads of water which might be impassable,
and that all these plans would be negatived.
As I paced to and fro, making out my plans, I remembered that three
years ago that day we had crossed the "big lead" on our way north, April
1, 1906. A comparison of conditions now and then filled me with hope for
the future.
This was the time for which I had reserved all my energies, the time for
which I had worked for twenty-two years, for which I had lived the
simple life and trained myself as for a race. In spite of my years, I
felt fit for the demands of the coming days and was eager to be on the
trail. As for my party, my equipment, and my supplies, they were perfect
beyond my most sanguine dreams of earlier years. My party might be
regarded as an ideal which had now come to realization--as loyal and
responsive to my will as the fingers of my right hand.
My four Eskimos carried the technic of dogs, sledges, ice, and cold as
their racial heritage. Henson and Ootah had been my companions at the
farthest point on the expedition three years before. Egingwah and
Seegloo had been in Clark's division, which had such a narrow escape at
that time, having been obliged for several days to subsist upon their
sealskin boots, all their other food being gone.
And the fifth was young Ooqueah, who had never before served in any
expedition; but who was, if possible, even more willing and eager than
the others to go with me wherever I should elect. For he was always
thinking of the great treasures which I had promised each of the men who
should go to the farthest point with me--whale-boat, rifle, shotgun,
ammunition, knives, et cetera--wealth beyond the wildest dreams of
Eskimos, which should win for him the daughter of old Ikwah of Cape
York, on whom he had set his heart.
All these men had a blind confidence that I would somehow get them back
to land. But I recognized fully that all the impetus of the party
centered in me. Whatever pace I set, the others would make good; but if
I played out, they would stop like a car with a punctured tire. I had no
fault to find with the conditions, and I faced them with confidence.
CHAPTER XXX
THE FINAL SPURT BEGUN
At this time it may be appropriate to say a word regarding my reasons
for selecting Henson as my fellow traveler to the Pole itself. In this
selection I acted exactly as I have done on all my expeditions for the
last fifteen years. He has in those years always been with me at my
point farthest north. Moreover, Henson was the best man I had with me
for this kind of work, with the exception of the Eskimos, who, with
their racial inheritance of ice technic and their ability to handle
sledges and dogs, were more necessary to me, as members of my own
individual party, than any white man could have been. Of course they
could not lead, but they could follow and drive dogs better than any
white man.
Henson, with his years of arctic experience, was almost as skilful at
this work as an Eskimo. He could handle dogs and sledges. He was a part
of the traveling machine. Had I taken another member of the expedition
also, he would have been a passenger, necessitating the carrying of
extra rations and other impedimenta. It would have amounted to an
additional load on the sledges, while the taking of Henson was in the
interest of economy of weight.
The second reason was that while Henson was more useful to me than any
other member of my expedition when it came to traveling with my last
party over the polar ice, he would not have been so competent as the
white members of the expedition in getting himself and his party back to
the land. If Henson had been sent back with one of the supporting
parties from a distance far out on the ice, and if he had encountered
conditions similar to those which we had to face on the return journey
in 1906, he and his party would never have reached the land. While
faithful to me, and when _with me_ more effective in covering distance
with a sledge than any of the others, he had not, as a racial
inheritance, the daring and initiative of Bartlett, or Marvin,
MacMillan, or Borup. I owed it to him not to subject him to dangers and
responsibilities which he was temperamentally unfit to face.
As to the dogs, most of them were powerful males, as hard as iron, in
good condition, but without an ounce of superfluous fat; and, by reason
of the care which I had taken of them up to this point, they were all in
good spirits, like the men. The sledges, which were being repaired that
day, were also in good condition. My food and fuel supplies were ample
for forty days, and by the gradual utilization of the dogs themselves
for reserve food, might be made to last for fifty days if it came to a
pinch.
As the Eskimos worked away at repairing the sledges while we rested
there on the first day of April, they stopped from time to time to eat
some of the boiled dog which the surplus numbers in Bartlett's returning
team had enabled them to have. They had killed one of the poorest dogs
and boiled it, using the splinters of an extra broken sledge for fuel
under their cooker. It was a change for them from the pemmican diet. It
was fresh meat, it was hot, and they seemed thoroughly to enjoy it. But
though I remembered many times when from sheer starvation I had been
glad to eat dog meat raw, I did not feel inclined to join in the feast
of my dusky friends.
A little after midnight, on the morning of April 2, after a few hours of
sound, warm, and refreshing sleep, and a hearty breakfast, I started to
lift the trail to the north, leaving the others to pack, hitch up, and
follow. As I climbed the pressure ridge back of our igloo, I took up
another hole in my belt, the third since I left the land--thirty-two
days before. Every man and dog of us was as lean and flat-bellied as a
board, and as hard.
Up to this time I had intentionally kept in the rear, to straighten out
any little hitch or to encourage a man with a broken sledge, and to see
that everything was in good marching order. Now I took my proper place
in the lead. Though I held myself in check, I felt the keenest
exhilaration, and even exultation, as I climbed over the pressure ridge
and breasted the keen air sweeping over the mighty ice, pure and
straight from the Pole itself.
These feelings were not in any way dampened when I plunged off the
pressure ridge into water mid-thigh deep, where the pressure had forced
down the edge of the floe north of us and had allowed the water to flow
in under the surface snow. My boots and trousers were tight, so that no
water could get inside, and as the water froze on the fur of my trousers
I scraped it off with the blade of the ice lance which I carried, and
was no worse for my involuntary morning plunge. I thought of my unused
bath tub on the _Roosevelt_, three hundred and thirty nautical miles to
the south, and smiled.
It was a fine marching morning, clear and sunlit, with a temperature of
minus 25°, and the wind of the past few days had subsided to a gentle
breeze. The going was the best we had had since leaving the land. The
floes were large and old, hard and level, with patches of sapphire blue
ice (the pools of the preceding summer). While the pressure ridges
surrounding them were stupendous, some of them fifty feet high, they
were not especially hard to negotiate, either through some gap or up the
gradual slope of a huge drift of snow. The brilliant sunlight, the good
going save for the pressure ridges, the consciousness that we were now
well started on the last lap of our journey, and the joy of again being
in the lead affected me like wine. The years seemed to drop from me, and
I felt as I had felt in those days fifteen years before, when I headed
my little party across the great ice-cap of Greenland, leaving twenty
and twenty-five miles behind my snowshoes day after day, and on a spurt
stretching it to thirty or forty.
* * * * *
Perhaps a man always thinks of the very beginning of his work when he
feels it is nearing its end. The appearance of the ice-fields to the
north this day, large and level, the brilliant blue of the sky, the
biting character of the wind--everything excepting the surface of the
ice, which on the great cap is absolutely dead level with a straight
line for a horizon--reminded me of those marches of the long ago.
The most marked difference was the shadows, which on the ice-cap are
absent entirely, but on the polar ice, where the great pressure ridges
stand out in bold relief, are deep and dark. Then, too, there are on the
polar ice those little patches of sapphire blue already mentioned, made
from the water pools of the preceding summer. On the Greenland ice-cap
years ago I had been spurred on by the necessity of reaching the
musk-oxen of Independence Bay before my supplies gave out. Now I was
spurred on by the necessity of making my goal, if possible, before the
round face of the coming full moon should stir the tides with unrest and
open a network of leads across our path.
After some hours the sledges caught up with me. The dogs were so active
that morning, after their day's rest, that I was frequently obliged to
sit on a sledge for a few minutes or else run to keep up with them,
which I did not care to do just yet. Our course was nearly, as the crow
flies, due north, across floe after floe, pressure ridge after pressure
ridge, headed straight for some hummock or pinnacle of ice which I had
lined in with my compass.
In this way we traveled for ten hours without stopping, covering, I felt
sure, thirty miles, though, to be conservative, I called it twenty-five.
My Eskimos said that we had come as far as from the _Roosevelt_ to
Porter Bay, which by our winter route scales thirty-five miles on the
chart. Anyway, we were well over the 88th parallel, in a region where no
human being had ever been before. And whatever distance we made, we
were likely to retain it now that the wind had ceased to blow from the
north. It was even possible that with the release of the wind pressure
the ice might rebound more or less and return us some of the hard-earned
miles which it had stolen from us during the previous three days.
Near the end of the march I came upon a lead which was just opening. It
was ten yards wide directly in front of me, but a few hundred yards to
the east was an apparently practicable crossing where the single crack
was divided into several. I signaled to the sledges to hurry; then,
running to the place, I had time to pick a road across the moving ice
cakes and return to help the teams across before the lead widened so as
to be impassable. This passage was effected by my jumping from one cake
to another, picking the way, and making sure that the cake would not
tilt under the weight of the dogs and the sledge, returning to the
former cake where the dogs were, encouraging the dogs ahead while the
driver steered the sledge across from cake to cake, and threw his weight
from one side to the other so that it could not overturn. We got the
sledges across several cracks so wide that while the dogs had no trouble
in jumping, the men had to be pretty active in order to follow the long
sledges. Fortunately the sledges were of the new Peary type, twelve feet
long. Had they been of the old Eskimo type, seven feet long, we might
have had to use ropes and pull them across hand over hand on an ice
cake.
It is always hard to make the dogs leap a widening crack, though some of
the best dog drivers can do it instantly, using the whip and the voice.
A poor dog driver would be likely to get everything into the water in
the attempt. It is sometimes necessary to go ahead of the dogs, holding
the hand low and shaking it as though it contained some dainty morsel of
food, thus inspiring them with courage for the leap.
Perhaps a mile beyond this, the breaking of the ice at the edge of a
narrow lead as I landed from a jump sent me into the water nearly to my
hips; but as the water did not come above the waistband of my trousers,
which were water-tight, it was soon scraped and beaten off before it had
time to freeze.
This lead was not wide enough to bother the sledges.
As we stopped to make our camp near a huge pressure ridge, the sun,
which was gradually getting higher, seemed almost to have some warmth.
While we were building our igloos, we could see, by the water clouds
lying to the east and southeast of us some miles distant, that a wide
lead was opening in that direction. The approaching full moon was
evidently getting in its work.
As we had traveled on, the moon had circled round and round the heavens
opposite the sun, a disk of silver opposite a disk of gold. Looking at
its pallid and spectral face, from which the brighter light of the sun
had stolen the color, it seemed hard to realize that its presence there
had power to stir the great ice-fields around us with
restlessness--power even now, when we were so near our goal, to
interrupt our pathway with an impassable lead.
The moon had been our friend during the long winter, giving us light to
hunt by for a week or two each month. Now it seemed no longer a friend,
but a dangerous presence to be regarded with fear. Its power, which had
before been beneficent, was now malevolent and incalculably potent for
evil.
When we awoke early in the morning of April 3, after a few hours' sleep,
we found the weather still clear and calm. There were some broad heavy
pressure ridges in the beginning of this march, and we had to use
pickaxes quite freely. This delayed us a little, but as soon as we
struck the level old floes we tried to make up for lost time. As the
daylight was now continuous we could travel as long as we pleased and
sleep as little as we must. We hustled along for ten hours again, as we
had before, making only twenty miles, because of the early delay with
the pickaxes and another brief delay at a narrow lead. We were now
half-way to the 89th parallel, and I had been obliged to take up another
hole in my belt.
Some gigantic rafters were seen during this march, but they were not in
our path. All day long we had heard the ice grinding and groaning on all
sides of us, but no motion was visible to our eyes. Either the ice was
slacking back into equilibrium, sagging northward after its release from
the wind pressure, or else it was feeling the influence of the spring
tides of the full moon. On, on we pushed, and I am not ashamed to
confess that my pulse beat high, for the breath of success seemed
already in my nostrils.
CHAPTER XXXI
ONLY ONE DAY FROM THE POLE
With every passing day even the Eskimos were becoming more eager and
interested, notwithstanding the fatigue of the long marches. As we
stopped to make camp, they would climb to some pinnacle of ice and
strain their eyes to the north, wondering if the Pole was in sight, for
they were now certain that we should get there this time.
We slept only a few hours the next night, hitting the trail again a
little before midnight between the 3d and 4th of April. The weather and
the going were even better than the day before. The surface of the ice,
except as interrupted by infrequent pressure ridges, was as level as the
glacial fringe from Hecla to Cape Columbia, and harder. I rejoiced at
the thought that if the weather held good I should be able to get in my
five marches before noon of the 6th.
Again we traveled for ten hours straight ahead, the dogs often on the
trot and occasionally on the run, and in those ten hours we reeled off
at least twenty-five miles. I had a slight accident that day, a sledge
runner having passed over the side of my right foot as I stumbled while
running beside a team; but the hurt was not severe enough to keep me
from traveling.
Near the end of the day we crossed a lead about one hundred yards wide,
on young ice so thin that, as I ran ahead to guide the dogs, I was
obliged to slide my feet and travel wide, bear style, in order to
distribute my weight, while the men let the sledges and dogs come over
by themselves, gliding across where they could. The last two men came
over on all fours.
I watched them from the other side with my heart in my mouth--watched
the ice bending under the weight of the sledges and the men. As one of
the sledges neared the north side, a runner cut clear through the ice,
and I expected every moment that the whole thing, dogs and all, would go
through the ice and down to the bottom. But it did not.
This dash reminded me of that day, nearly three years before, when in
order to save our lives we had taken desperate chances in recrossing the
"Big Lead" on ice similar to this--ice that buckled under us and through
which my toe cut several times as I slid my long snowshoes over it. A
man who should wait for the ice to be really safe would stand small
chance of getting far in these latitudes. Traveling on the polar ice,
one takes all kinds of chances. Often a man has the choice between the
possibility of drowning by going on or starving to death by standing
still, and challenges fate with the briefer and less painful chance.
That night we were all pretty tired, but satisfied with our progress so
far. We were almost inside of the 89th parallel, and I wrote in my
diary: "Give me three more days of this weather!" The temperature at the
beginning of the march had been minus 40°. That night I put all the
poorest dogs in one team and began to eliminate and feed them to the
others, as it became necessary.
We stopped for only a short sleep, and early in the evening of the same
day, the 4th, we struck on again. The temperature was then minus 35°,
the going was the same, but the sledges always haul more easily when the
temperature rises, and the dogs were on the trot much of the time.
Toward the end of the march we came upon a lead running north and south,
and as the young ice was thick enough to support the teams, we traveled
on it for two hours, the dogs galloping along and reeling off the miles
in a way that delighted my heart. The light air which had blown from the
south during the first few hours of the march veered to the east and
grew keener as the hours wore on.
I had not dared to hope for such progress as we were making. Still the
biting cold would have been impossible to face by anyone not fortified
by an inflexible purpose. The bitter wind burned our faces so that they
cracked, and long after we got into camp each day they pained us so that
we could hardly go to sleep. The Eskimos complained much, and at every
camp fixed their fur clothing about their faces, waists, knees, and
wrists. They also complained of their noses, which I had never known
them to do before. The air was as keen and bitter as frozen steel.
At the next camp I had another of the dogs killed. It was now exactly
six weeks since we left the _Roosevelt_, and I felt as if the goal were
in sight. I intended the next day, weather and ice permitting, to make a
long march, "boil the kettle" midway, and then go on again without
sleep, trying to make up the five miles which we had lost on the 3d of
April.
During the daily march my mind and body were too busy with the problem
of covering as many miles of distance as possible to permit me to enjoy
the beauty of the frozen wilderness through which we tramped. But at the
end of the day's march, while the igloos were being built, I usually had
a few minutes in which to look about me and to realize the
picturesqueness of our situation--we, the only living things in a
trackless, colorless, inhospitable desert of ice. Nothing but the
hostile ice, and far more hostile icy water, lay between our remote
place on the world's map and the utmost tips of the lands of Mother
Earth.
I knew of course that there was always a _possibility_ that we might
still end our lives up there, and that our conquest of the unknown
spaces and silences of the polar void might remain forever unknown to
the world which we had left behind. But it was hard to realize this.
That hope which is said to spring eternal in the human breast always
buoyed me up with the belief that, as a matter of course, we should be
able to return along the white road by which we had come.
Sometimes I would climb to the top of a pinnacle of ice to the north of
our camp and strain my eyes into the whiteness which lay beyond, trying
to imagine myself already at the Pole. We had come so far, and the
capricious ice had placed so few obstructions in our path, that now I
dared to loose my fancy, to entertain the image which my will had
heretofore forbidden to my imagination--the image of ourselves at the
goal.
We had been very fortunate with the leads so far, but I was in constant
and increasing dread lest we should encounter an impassable one toward
the very end. With every successive march, my fear of such impassable
leads had increased. At every pressure ridge I found myself hurrying
breathlessly forward, fearing there might be a lead just beyond it, and
when I arrived at the summit I would catch my breath with relief--only
to find myself hurrying on in the same way at the next ridge.
At our camp on the 5th of April I gave the party a little more sleep
than at the previous ones, as we were all pretty well played out and in
need of rest. I took a latitude sight, and this indicated our position
to be 89° 25´, or thirty-five miles from the Pole; but I determined to
make the next camp in time for a noon observation, if the sun should be
visible.
[Illustration: CUTTING BLOCKS OF SNOW FOR IGLOOS AT NEXT TO LAST CAMP,
89° 25´ NORTH
(At This Camp It Was Difficult to Find Enough Snow for the Igloos)]
Before midnight on the 5th we were again on the trail. The weather was
overcast, and there was the same gray and shadowless light as on the
march after Marvin had turned back. The sky was a colorless pall
gradually deepening to almost black at the horizon, and the ice was a
ghastly and chalky white, like that of the Greenland ice-cap--just the
colors which an imaginative artist would paint as a polar ice-scape. How
different it seemed from the glittering fields, canopied with blue and
lit by the sun and full moon, over which we had been traveling for the
last four days.
The going was even better than before. There was hardly any snow on the
hard granular surface of the old floes, and the sapphire blue lakes were
larger than ever. The temperature had risen to minus 15°, which,
reducing the friction of the sledges, gave the dogs the appearance of
having caught the high spirits of the party. Some of them even tossed
their heads and barked and yelped as they traveled.
Notwithstanding the grayness of the day, and the melancholy aspect of
the surrounding world, by some strange shift of feeling the fear of the
leads had fallen from me completely. I now felt that success was
certain, and, notwithstanding the physical exhaustion of the forced
marches of the last five days, I went tirelessly on and on, the Eskimos
following almost automatically, though I knew that they must feel the
weariness which my excited brain made me incapable of feeling.
When we had covered, as I estimated, a good fifteen miles, we halted,
made tea, ate lunch, and rested the dogs. Then we went on for another
estimated fifteen miles. In twelve hours' actual traveling time we made
thirty miles. Many laymen have wondered why we were able to travel
faster after the sending back of each of the supporting parties,
especially after the last one. To any man experienced in the handling of
troops this will need no explanation. The larger the party and the
greater the number of sledges, the greater is the chance of breakages or
delay for one reason or another. A large party cannot be forced as
rapidly as a small party.
[Illustration: THE HALT FOR LUNCH IN LAST FORCED MARCH, 89° 25´ TO 89°
57´, SHOWING ALCOHOL STOVES IN SNOW SHELTER
Left to Right: Henson, Egingwah, Ootah, Seegloo, Ooqueah]
Take a regiment, for instance. The regiment could not make as good an
average daily march for a number of forced marches as could a picked
company of that regiment. The picked company could not make as good an
average march for a number of forced marches as could a picked file of
men from that particular company; and this file could not make the same
average for a certain number of forced marches that the fastest traveler
in the whole regiment could make.
So that, with my party reduced to five picked men, every man, dog, and
sledge under my individual eye, myself in the lead, and all recognizing
that the moment had now come to let ourselves out for all there was in
us, we naturally bettered our previous speed.
When Bartlett left us the sledges had been practically rebuilt, all the
best dogs were in our pack, and we all understood that we must attain
our object and get back as quickly as we possibly could. The weather was
in our favor. The average march for the whole journey from the land to
the Pole was over fifteen miles. We had repeatedly made marches of
twenty miles. Our average for five marches from the point where the last
supporting party turned back was about twenty-six miles.
CHAPTER XXXII
WE REACH THE POLE
The last march northward ended at ten o'clock on the forenoon of April
6. I had now made the five marches planned from the point at which
Bartlett turned back, and my reckoning showed that we were in the
immediate neighborhood of the goal of all our striving. After the usual
arrangements for going into camp, at approximate local noon, of the
Columbia meridian, I made the first observation at our polar camp. It
indicated our position as 89° 57´.
[Illustration: CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, 89° 57´, APRIL 6 AND 7, 1909]
We were now at the end of the last long march of the upward journey. Yet
with the Pole actually in sight I was too weary to take the last few
steps. The accumulated weariness of all those days and nights of forced
marches and insufficient sleep, constant peril and anxiety, seemed to
roll across me all at once. I was actually too exhausted to realize at
the moment that my life's purpose had been achieved. As soon as our
igloos had been completed and we had eaten our dinner and
double-rationed the dogs, I turned in for a few hours of absolutely
necessary sleep, Henson and the Eskimos having unloaded the sledges and
got them in readiness for such repairs as were necessary. But, weary
though I was, I could not sleep long. It was, therefore, only a few
hours later when I woke. The first thing I did after awaking was to
write these words in my diary: "The Pole at last. The prize of three
centuries. My dream and goal for twenty years. Mine at last! I cannot
bring myself to realize it. It seems all so simple and commonplace."
Everything was in readiness for an observation[1] at 6 P.M., Columbia
meridian time, in case the sky should be clear, but at that hour it was,
unfortunately, still overcast. But as there were indications that it
would clear before long, two of the Eskimos and myself made ready a
light sledge carrying only the instruments, a tin of pemmican, and one
or two skins; and drawn by a double team of dogs, we pushed on an
estimated distance of ten miles. While we traveled, the sky cleared, and
at the end of the journey, I was able to get a satisfactory series of
observations at Columbia meridian midnight. These observations indicated
that our position was then beyond the Pole.
[Illustration: THE DOUBLE TEAM OF DOGS USED WITH THE RECONNOITERING
SLEDGE AT THE POLE, SHOWING THEIR ALERTNESS AND GOOD CONDITION
(Each Dog had Received Nearly Double the Standard Ration of One Pound of
Pemmican Per Day)]
Nearly everything in the circumstances which then surrounded us seemed
too strange to be thoroughly realized; but one of the strangest of those
circumstances seemed to me to be the fact that, in a march of only a few
hours, I had passed from the western to the eastern hemisphere and had
verified my position at the summit of the world. It was hard to realize
that, in the first miles of this brief march, we had been traveling due
north, while, on the last few miles of the same march, we had been
traveling south, although we had all the time been traveling precisely
in the same direction. It would be difficult to imagine a better
illustration of the fact that most things are relative. Again, please
consider the uncommon circumstance that, in order to return to our camp,
it now became necessary to turn and go north again for a few miles and
then to go directly south, all the time traveling in the same direction.
As we passed back along that trail which none had ever seen before or
would ever see again, certain reflections intruded themselves which, I
think, may fairly be called unique. East, west, and north had
disappeared for us. Only one direction remained and that was south.
Every breeze which could possibly blow upon us, no matter from what
point of the horizon, must be a south wind. Where we were, one day and
one night constituted a year, a hundred such days and nights constituted
a century. Had we stood in that spot during the six months of the arctic
winter night, we should have seen every star of the northern hemisphere
circling the sky at the same distance from the horizon, with Polaris
(the North Star) practically in the zenith.
[Illustration: THE RECONNOITERING PARTY AT THE POLE
(On the Sledge are Merely the Instruments, a Tin of Pemmican and a Skin
or Two.) (Note the Firm Character of the Surface Ice. Snow Shoes Were
not Required Here)]
All during our march back to camp the sun was swinging around in its
ever-moving circle. At six o'clock on the morning of April 7, having
again arrived at Camp Jesup, I took another series of observations.
These indicated our position as being four or five miles from the Pole,
towards Bering Strait. Therefore, with a double team of dogs and a light
sledge, I traveled directly towards the sun an estimated distance of
eight miles. Again I returned to the camp in time for a final and
completely satisfactory series of observations on April 7 at noon,
Columbia meridian time. These observations gave results essentially the
same as those made at the same spot twenty-four hours before.
I had now taken in all thirteen single, or six and one-half double,
altitudes of the sun, at two different stations, in three different
directions, at four different times. All were under satisfactory
conditions, except for the first single altitude on the sixth. The
temperature during these observations had been from minus 11° Fahrenheit
to minus 30° Fahrenheit, with clear sky and calm weather (except as
already noted for the single observation on the sixth). I give here a
facsimile of a typical set of these observations. (See the two following
pages.)
In traversing the ice in these various directions as I had done, I had
allowed approximately ten miles for possible errors in my observations,
and at some moment during these marches and countermarches, I had passed
over or very near the point[2] where north and south and east and west
blend into one.
[Illustration: PEARY WITH CHRONOMETER, SEXTANT AND ARTIFICIAL HORIZON AT
THE POLE]
[Illustration: PEARY TAKING AN OBSERVATION AT THE POLE, WITH ARTIFICIAL
HORIZON, IN A SNOW SHELTER]
Photos by Henson, April 7
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF OBSERVATIONS AT CAMP MORRIS JESUP, APRIL 7,
1909]
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF OBSERVATIONS AT CAMP MORRIS JESUP, APRIL 7,
1909]
[Illustration: THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESKIMOS:
From Left to Right: Ootah, Ooqueah, Seegloo, Egingwah]
Of course there were some more or less informal ceremonies connected
with our arrival at our difficult destination, but they were not of a
very elaborate character. We planted five flags at the top of the world.
The first one was a silk American flag which Mrs. Peary gave me fifteen
years ago. That flag has done more traveling in high latitudes than any
other ever made. I carried it wrapped about my body on every one of
my expeditions northward after it came into my possession, and I left a
fragment of it at each of my successive "farthest norths": Cape Morris
K. Jesup, the northernmost point of land in the known world; Cape Thomas
Hubbard, the northernmost known point of Jesup Land, west of Grant Land;
Cape Columbia, the northernmost point of North American lands; and my
farthest north in 1906, latitude 87° 6´ in the ice of the polar sea. By
the time it actually reached the Pole, therefore, it was somewhat worn
and discolored.
A broad diagonal section of this ensign would now mark the farthest goal
of earth--the place where I and my dusky companions stood.
It was also considered appropriate to raise the colors of the Delta
Kappa Epsilon fraternity, in which I was initiated a member while an
undergraduate student at Bowdoin College, the "World's Ensign of
Liberty and Peace," with its red, white, and blue in a field of white,
the Navy League flag, and the Red Cross flag.
[Illustration: PEARY'S IGLOO AT CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, APRIL 6, 1909;
The Most Northerly Human Habitation in the World. In the Background
Flies Peary's North Polar Flag Which He Had Carried for Fifteen Years]
After I had planted the American flag in the ice, I told Henson to time
the Eskimos for three rousing cheers, which they gave with the greatest
enthusiasm. Thereupon, I shook hands with each member of the
party--surely a sufficiently unceremonious affair to meet with the
approval of the most democratic. The Eskimos were childishly delighted
with our success. While, of course, they did not realize its importance
fully, or its world-wide significance, they did understand that it meant
the final achievement of a task upon which they had seen me engaged for
many years.
Then, in a space between the ice blocks of a pressure ridge, I deposited
a glass bottle containing a diagonal strip of my flag and records of
which the following is a copy:
90 N. LAT., NORTH POLE,
April 6, 1909.
Arrived here to-day, 27 marches from C. Columbia.
I have with me 5 men, Matthew Henson, colored, Ootah, Egingwah, Seegloo,
and Ooqueah, Eskimos; 5 sledges and 38 dogs. My ship, the S. S.
_Roosevelt_, is in winter quarters at C. Sheridan, 90 miles east of
Columbia.
The expedition under my command which has succeeded in reaching the Pole
is under the auspices of the Peary Arctic Club of New York City, and has
been fitted out and sent north by the members and friends of the club
for the purpose of securing this geographical prize, if possible, for
the honor and prestige of the United States of America.
The officers of the club are Thomas H. Hubbard, of New York, President;
Zenas Crane, of Mass., Vice-president; Herbert L. Bridgman, of New York,
Secretary and Treasurer.
I start back for Cape Columbia to-morrow.
ROBERT E. PEARY,
_United States Navy_.
90 N. LAT., NORTH POLE,
April 6, 1909.
I have to-day hoisted the national ensign of the United States of
America at this place, which my observations indicate to be the North
Polar axis of the earth, and have formally taken possession of the
entire region, and adjacent, for and in the name of the President of the
United States of America.
I leave this record and United States flag in possession.
ROBERT E. PEARY,
_United States Navy_.
If it were possible for a man to arrive at 90° north latitude without
being utterly exhausted, body and brain, he would doubtless enjoy a
series of unique sensations and reflections. But the attainment of the
Pole was the culmination of days and weeks of forced marches, physical
discomfort, insufficient sleep, and racking anxiety. It is a wise
provision of nature that the human consciousness can grasp only such
degree of intense feeling as the brain can endure, and the grim
guardians of earth's remotest spot will accept no man as guest until he
has been tried and tested by the severest ordeal.
[Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE PARTY CHEERING THE STARS AND STRIPES AT
THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909
From Left to Right; Ooqueah, Ootah, Henson, Egingwah and Seegloo]
Perhaps it ought not to have been so, but when I knew for a certainty
that we had reached the goal, there was not a thing in the world I
wanted but sleep. But after I had a few hours of it, there succeeded a
condition of mental exaltation which made further rest impossible. For
more than a score of years that point on the earth's surface had been
the object of my every effort. To its attainment my whole being,
physical, mental, and moral, had been dedicated. Many times my own life
and the lives of those with me had been risked. My own material and
forces and those of my friends had been devoted to this object. This
journey was my eighth into the arctic wilderness. In that wilderness I
had spent nearly twelve years out of the twenty-three between my
thirtieth and my fifty-third year, and the intervening time spent in
civilized communities during that period had been mainly occupied with
preparations for returning to the wilderness. The determination to reach
the Pole had become so much a part of my being that, strange as it may
seem, I long ago ceased to think of myself save as an instrument for the
attainment of that end. To the layman this may seem strange, but an
inventor can understand it, or an artist, or anyone who has devoted
himself for years upon years to the service of an idea.
[Illustration: EGINGWAH SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND]
[Illustration: PEARY SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND]
From Top of Pressure Ridge Back of Igloos at Camp Jesup
But though my mind was busy at intervals during those thirty hours spent
at the Pole with the exhilarating thought that my dream had come
true, there was one recollection of other times that, now and then,
intruded itself with startling distinctness. It was the recollection of
a day three years before, April 21, 1906, when after making a fight with
ice, open water, and storms, the expedition which I commanded had been
forced to turn back from 87° 6´ north latitude because our supply of
food would carry us no further. And the contrast between the terrible
depression of that day and the exaltation of the present moment was not
the least pleasant feature of our brief stay at the Pole. During the
dark moments of that return journey in 1906, I had told myself that I
was only one in a long list of arctic explorers, dating back through the
centuries, all the way from Henry Hudson to the Duke of the Abruzzi, and
including Franklin, Kane, and Melville--a long list of valiant men who
had striven and failed. I told myself that I had only succeeded, at the
price of the best years of my life, in adding a few links to the chain
that led from the parallels of civilization towards the polar center,
but that, after all, at the end the only word I had to write was
failure.
[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD CAPE CHELYUSKIN]
[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD SPITZBERGEN]
[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD CAPE COLUMBIA]
[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD BERING STRAIT]
(The Four Directions from the Pole)
But now, while quartering the ice in various directions from our camp, I
tried to realize that, after twenty-three years of struggles and
discouragement, I had at last succeeded in placing the flag of my
country at the goal of the world's desire. It is not easy to write about
such a thing, but I knew that we were going back to civilization with
the last of the great adventure stories--a story the world had been
waiting to hear for nearly four hundred years, a story which was to be
told at last under the folds of the Stars and Stripes, the flag that
during a lonely and isolated life had come to be for me the symbol of
home and everything I loved--and might never see again.
[Illustration: RETURNING TO CAMP WITH THE FLAGS, APRIL 7, 1909]
The thirty hours at the Pole, what with my marchings and
countermarchings, together with the observations and records, were
pretty well crowded. I found time, however, to write to Mrs. Peary on a
United States postal card which I had found on the ship during the
winter. It had been my custom at various important stages of the journey
northward to write such a note in order that, if anything serious
happened to me, these brief communications might ultimately reach her at
the hands of survivors. This was the card, which later reached Mrs.
Peary at Sydney:--
"90 NORTH LATITUDE, April 7th.
"_My dear Jo_,
"I have won out at last. Have been here a day. I
start for home and you in an hour. Love to the
"kidsies."
"BERT."
In the afternoon of the 7th, after flying our flags and taking our
photographs, we went into our igloos and tried to sleep a little, before
starting south again.
I could not sleep and my two Eskimos, Seegloo and Egingwah, who occupied
the igloo with me, seemed equally restless. They turned from side to
side, and when they were quiet I could tell from their uneven breathing
that they were not asleep. Though they had not been specially excited
the day before when I told them that we had reached the goal, yet they
also seemed to be under the same exhilarating influence which made sleep
impossible for me.
Finally I rose, and telling my men and the three men in the other igloo,
who were equally wakeful, that we would try to make our last camp, some
thirty miles to the south, before we slept, I gave orders to hitch up
the dogs and be off. It seemed unwise to waste such perfect traveling
weather in tossing about on the sleeping platforms of our igloos.
Neither Henson nor the Eskimos required any urging to take to the trail
again. They were naturally anxious to get back to the land as soon as
possible--now that our work was done. And about four o'clock on the
afternoon of the 7th of April we turned our backs upon the camp at the
North Pole.
Though intensely conscious of what I was leaving, I did not wait for any
lingering farewell of my life's goal. The event of human beings standing
at the hitherto inaccessible summit of the earth was accomplished, and
my work now lay to the south, where four hundred and thirteen nautical
miles of ice-floes and possibly open leads still lay between us and the
north coast of Grant Land. One backward glance I gave--then turned my
face toward the south and toward the future.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The instruments used in taking observations for latitude may be
either a sextant and an artificial horizon, or a small theodolite. Both
these instruments were taken on the sledge journey; but the theodolite
was not used, owing to the low altitude of the sun. Had the expedition
been delayed on the return until May or June, the theodolite would then
have been of value in determining position and variation of the compass.
The method of taking meridian observations with a sextant and an
artificial horizon on a polar sledge journey is as follows: if there is
any wind, a semi-circular wind-guard of snow blocks, two tiers high, is
put up, opening to the south. If there is no wind, this is not
necessary.
The instrument box is firmly bedded in the snow, which is packed down to
a firm bearing and snow is packed around the box. Then something,
usually a skin, is thrown over the snow, partly to prevent any possible
warmth from the sun melting the snow and shifting the bearing of the
box; partly to protect the eyes of the observer from the intense
reflected glare of light from the snow.
The mercury trough of the artificial horizon is placed on top of the
level box, and the mercury, which has been thoroughly warmed in the
igloo, is poured into the trough until it is full. In the case of the
special wooden trough devised and used on the last expedition, it was
possible to bring the surface of the mercury level with the edges of the
trough, thus enabling us to read angles very close to the horizon.
The mercury trough is covered with what is called the roof--a metal
framework carrying two pieces of very accurately ground glass, set
inclined, like the opposite sides of the roof of a house. The object of
this roof is to prevent any slightest breath of wind disturbing the
surface of the mercury and so distorting the sun's image in it, and also
to keep out any fine snow or frost crystals that may be in the
atmosphere. In placing the trough and the roof on the top of the
instrument box, the trough is placed so that its longer diameter will be
directed toward the sun.
A skin is then thrown down on the snow close to the box and north of it,
and the observer lies down flat on his stomach on this, with his head to
the south, and head and sextant close to the artificial horizon. He
rests both elbows on the snow, holding the sextant firmly in both hands,
and moving his head and the instrument until the image or part of the
image of the sun is seen reflected on the surface of the mercury.
The principle on which the latitude of the observer is obtained from the
altitude of the sun at noon is very simple. It is this: that the
latitude of the observer is equal to the distance of the center of the
sun from the zenith, plus the declination of the sun for that day and
hour.
The declination of the sun for any place at any hour may be obtained
from tables prepared for that purpose, which give the declination for
noon of every day on the Greenwich meridian, and the hourly change in
the declination.
Such tables for the months of February, March, April, May, June, and
July, together with the ordinary tables for refraction to minus 10°
Fahrenheit, I had with me on pages torn from the "Nautical Almanac and
Navigator."
[2] Ignorance and misconception of all polar matters seem so widespread
and comprehensive that it appears advisable to introduce here a few a b
c paragraphs. Anyone interested can supplement these by reading the
introductory parts of any good elementary school geography or astronomy.
The North Pole (that is, the geographical pole as distinguished from the
magnetic pole, and this appears to be the first and most general
stumbling block of the ignorant) is simply the point where that
imaginary line known as the earth's axis--that is, the line on which the
earth revolves in its daily motion--intersects the earth's surface.
Some of the recent sober discussions as to the size of the North Pole,
whether it was as big as a quarter, or a hat, or a township, have been
intensely ludicrous.
Precisely speaking, the North Pole is simply a mathematical point, and
therefore, in accordance with the mathematical definition of a point, it
has neither length, breadth, nor thickness.
If the question is asked, how closely can the Pole be determined (this
is the point which has muddled some of the ignorant wiseacres), the
answer will be: That depends upon the character of the instruments used,
the ability of the observer using them, and the number of observations
taken.
If there were land at the Pole, and powerful instruments of great
precision, such as are used in the world's great observatories, were
mounted there on suitable foundations and used by practised observers
for repeated observations extending over years, then it would be
possible to determine the position of the Pole with great precision.
With ordinary field instruments, transit, theodolite, or sextant, an
extended series of observations by an expert observer should permit the
determination of the Pole within entirely satisfactory limits, but not
with the same precision as by the first method.
A single observation at sea with sextant and the natural horizon, as
usually taken by the master of a ship, is assumed under ordinary
satisfactory conditions to give the observer's position within about a
mile.
In regard to the difficulties of taking observations in the arctic
regions, I have found a tendency on the part of experts who, however,
have not had practical experience in the arctic regions themselves, to
overestimate and exaggerate the difficulties and drawbacks of making
these observations due to the cold.
My personal experience has been that, to an experienced observer,
dressed in furs and taking observations in calm weather, in temperatures
not exceeding say 40° below zero Fahrenheit, the difficulties of the
work resulting from cold alone are not serious. The amount and character
of errors due to the effect of cold upon the instrument might perhaps be
a subject for discussion, and for distinct differences of opinion.
My personal experience has been that my most serious trouble was with
the eyes.
To eyes which have been subjected to brilliant and unremitting daylight
for days and weeks, and to the strain of continually setting a course
with the compass, and traveling towards a fixed point in such light, the
taking of a series of observations is usually a nightmare; and the
strain of focusing, of getting precise contact of the sun's images, and
of reading the vernier, all in the blinding light of which only those
who have taken observations in bright sunlight on an unbroken snow
expanse in the arctic regions can form any conception, usually leaves
the eyes bloodshot and smarting for hours afterwards.
The continued series of observations in the vicinity of the Pole, noted
above, left me with eyes that were, for two or three days, useless for
anything requiring careful vision, and had it been necessary for me to
set a course during the first two or three days of our return I should
have found it extremely trying.
Snow goggles, as worn by us continually during the march, while helping,
do not entirely relieve the eyes from strain, and during a series of
observations the eyes become extremely tired and at times uncertain.
Various authorities will give different estimates of the probable error
in observations taken at the Pole. I am personally inclined to think
that an allowance of five miles is an equitable one.
No one, except those entirely ignorant of such matters, has imagined for
a moment that I was able to determine with my instruments the precise
position of the Pole, but after having determined its position
approximately, then setting an arbitrary allowance of about ten miles
for possible errors of the instruments and myself as observer, and then
crossing and recrossing that ten mile area in various directions, no one
except the most ignorant will have any doubt but what, at some time, I
had passed close to the precise point, and had, perhaps, actually passed
over it.
CHAPTER XXXIII
GOOD-BY TO THE POLE
We turned our backs upon the Pole at about four o'clock of the afternoon
of April 7. Some effort has been made to give an adequate impression of
the joy with which that remote spot had been reached, but however much
pleasure we experienced upon reaching it, I left it with only that tinge
of sadness that sometimes flashes over one at the thought, "This scene
my eyes will never see again."
Our pleasure at being once more upon the homeward trail was somewhat
lessened by a distinct feeling of anxiety with regard to the task that
still lay before us. All the plans for the expedition were formulated
quite as much with an eye toward a safe return from the Pole as toward
the task of reaching it. The North Pole expedition has some relation to
the problem of flying: a good many people have found that, while it was
not so very difficult to fly, the difficulties of alighting in safety
were more considerable.
It will be remembered, doubtless, that the greatest dangers of the
expedition of 1905-06 were encountered not upon the upward journey, but
in the course of our return from our farthest north over the polar ice,
for it was then that we encountered the implacable "Big Lead," whose
perils so nearly encompassed the destruction of the entire party. And it
will be further remembered that even after the "Big Lead" was safely
crossed and we had barely managed to stagger ashore upon the
inhospitable edge of northernmost Greenland we escaped starvation only
by the narrowest possible margin.
[Illustration: ATTEMPTED SOUNDING, APRIL 7, 1909]
Memories of this narrow escape were, therefore, in the minds of every
member of our little party as we turned our backs upon the North Pole,
and I dare say that every one of us wondered whether a similar
experience were in store for us. We had found the Pole. Should we return
to tell the story? Before we hit the trail I had a brief talk with the
men of the party and made them understand that it was essential that we
should reach the land before the next spring tides. To this end every
nerve must be strained. From now on it was to be a case of "big travel,"
little sleep, and hustle every minute. My plan was to try to make double
marches on the entire return journey; that is to say, to start out,
cover one northward march, make tea and eat luncheon, then cover another
march, then sleep a few hours, and push on again. As a matter of fact,
we did not fall much short of accomplishing this program. To be
accurate, day in and day out we covered five northward marches in three
return marches. Every day we gained on the return lessened the chances
of the trail being destroyed by high winds shifting the ice. There was
one region just above the 87th parallel, a region about fifty-seven
miles wide, which gave me a great deal of concern until we had passed
it. Twelve hours of strong wind blowing from any quarter excepting the
north would have turned that region into an open sea. I breathed a sigh
of relief when we left the 87th parallel behind.
[Illustration: ACTUAL SOUNDING, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE POLE, APRIL 7,
1909, 1500 FATHOMS (9000 FT.) NO BOTTOM]
It will be recalled, perhaps, that though the expedition of 1905-06
started for the Pole from the northern shore of Grant Land, just as did
this last expedition, the former expedition returned by a different
route, reaching land again on the Greenland coast. This result was
caused by the fact that strong winds carried the ice upon which we
traveled far to the eastward of our upward course. This time, however,
we met with no such misfortune. For the most part we found the trail
renewed by our supporting parties easily recognizable and in most cases
in good condition. Moreover there was an abundance of food both for men
and for dogs, and so far as equipment went we were stripped as if for
racing. Nor must the stimulating effects of the party's high spirits be
forgotten. Everything, in short, was in our favor. We crowded on all
speed for the first five miles of our return journey. Then we came to a
narrow crack which was filled with recent ice, which furnished a chance
to try for a sounding, a thing that had not been feasible at the Pole
itself on account of the thickness of the ice. Here, however, we were
able to chop through the ice until we struck water. Our sounding
apparatus gave us 1500 fathoms of water with no bottom. As the Eskimos
were reeling in, the wire parted and both the lead and wire went to the
bottom. With the loss of the lead and wire, the reel became useless, and
was thrown away, lightening Ooqueah's sledge by eighteen pounds. The
first camp, at 89° 25´, was reached in good time, and the march would
have been a pleasant one for me but for my eyes burning from the strain
of the continued observations of the previous hours.
After a few hours' sleep we hurried on again, Eskimos and dogs on the
_qui vive_.
At this camp I began the system followed throughout the return march, of
feeding the dogs according to the distance covered; that is, double
rationing them when we covered two marches. I was able to do this, on
account of the reserve supply of food which I had in my dogs themselves,
in the event of our being seriously delayed by open leads.
At the next camp we made tea and ate our lunch in the igloos, rested the
dogs, and then pushed on again. The weather was fine, though there were
apparently indications of a coming change. It took all of our will power
to reach the next igloos, but we did it, and were asleep almost before
we had finished our supper. Without these igloos to look forward to and
work for, we should not have made this march.
Friday, April 9, was a wild day. All day long the wind blew strong from
the north-northeast, increasing finally to a gale, while the thermometer
hung between 18° and 22° below zero. All the leads that we had passed
here on the upward journey were greatly widened and new ones had been
formed. We struck one just north of the 88th parallel which was at least
a mile wide, but fortunately it was all covered with practicable young
ice. It was not a reassuring day. For the last half of this march the
ice was raftering all about us and beneath our very feet under the
pressure of the howling gale. Fortunately we were traveling nearly
before the wind, for it would have been impossible to move and follow a
trail with the gale in our faces. As it was, the dogs scudded along
before the wind much of the time on the gallop. Under the impact of the
storm the ice was evidently crushing southward and bearing us with it. I
was strongly reminded of the wild gale in which we regained "storm camp"
on our return march in 1906. Luckily there was no lateral movement of
the ice, or we should have had serious trouble. When we camped that
night, at 87° 47´, I wrote in my diary: "From here to the Pole and back
has been a glorious sprint with a savage finish. Its results are due to
hard work, little sleep, much experience, first class equipment, and
good fortune as regards weather and open water."
[Illustration: BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY READY TO START BACK FROM 87° 47´
NORTH, APRIL 1, 1909]
During the night the gale moderated and gradually died away, leaving the
air very thick. All hands found the light extremely trying to the eyes.
It was almost impossible for us to see the trail. Though the temperature
was only 10° below zero, we covered only Bartlett's last march that day.
We did not attempt to do more because the dogs were feeling the effects
of the recent high speed and it was desired to have them in the best
possible condition for the next day, when I expected some trouble with
the young ice we were sure to meet. At this spot certain eliminations
which we were compelled to make among the dogs left us a total of
thirty-five.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
CROSSING A LEAD ON AN ICE-CAKE AS A FERRY-BOAT]
Sunday, April 11, proved a brilliant day, the sun breaking through the
clouds soon after we left camp. The air was nearly calm, the sun seemed
almost hot, and its glare was intense. If it had not been for our
smoked goggles we should have suffered from snow-blindness. Despite the
expectation of trouble with which we began this march, we were agreeably
disappointed. On the upward journey, all this region had been covered
with young ice, and we thought it reasonable to expect open water here,
or at the best that the trail would have been obliterated; but there had
not been enough movement of the ice to break the trail. So far there had
been no lateral--east and west--movement of the ice. This was the great,
fortunate, natural feature of the home trip, and the principal reason
why we had so little trouble. We stopped for lunch at the "lead" igloos,
and as we finished our meal the ice opened behind us. We had crossed
just in time. Here we noticed some fox tracks that had just been made.
The animal was probably disturbed by our approach. These are the most
northerly animal tracks ever seen.
Inspirited by our good fortune, we pressed on again, completing two
marches, and when we camped were very near the 87th parallel. The entry
that I made in my diary that night is perhaps worth quoting: "Hope to
reach the Marvin return igloo to-morrow. I shall be glad when we get
there onto the big ice again. This region here was open water as late as
February and early March and is now covered with young ice which is
extremely unreliable as a means of return. A few hours of a brisk wind,
east, west, or south, would make this entire region open water for from
fifty to sixty miles north and south and an unknown extent east and
west. Only calm weather or a northerly wind keeps it practicable."
A double march brought us to Camp Abruzzi, 86° 38´, named in honor of
the farthest north of the Duke of the Abruzzi. The trail was faulted in
several places, but we picked it up each time without much difficulty.
The following day was a bitterly disagreeable one. On this march we had
in our faces a fresh southwest wind that, ever and again, spat snow that
stung like needles and searched every opening in our clothing. But we
were so delighted that we were across the young ice that these things
seemed like trifles. The end of this march was at "Camp Nansen," named
in honor of Nansen's "Farthest North."
This return journey was apparently destined to be full of contrasts, for
the next day was one of brilliant sunlight and perfect calm. Despite the
good weather the dogs seemed almost lifeless. It was impossible to get
them to move faster than a walk, light though the loads were. Henson and
the Eskimos also appeared to be a bit stale, so that it seemed wise to
make a single march here instead of the usual double march.
After a good sleep we started to put in another double march and then we
began to feel the effects of the wind. Even before we broke camp the ice
began to crack and groan all about the igloo. Close by the camp a lead
opened as we set out, and in order to get across it we were obliged to
use an ice-cake ferry.
[Illustration: SWINGING AN ICE-CAKE ACROSS A LEAD TO FORM AN IMPROMPTU
BRIDGE]
Between there and the next camp, at 85° 48´, we found three igloos where
Marvin and Bartlett had been delayed by wide leads, now frozen over. My
Eskimos identified these igloos by recognizing in their construction the
handiwork of men in the parties of Bartlett and Marvin. The Eskimos can
nearly always tell who built an igloo. Though they are all
constructed on one general principle, there are always peculiarities of
individual workmanship which are readily recognized by these experienced
children of the North.
During the first march of the day we found the trail badly faulted, the
ice breaking up in all directions under the pressure of the wind, and
some of the way we were on the run, the dogs jumping from one piece of
ice to another. During the second march we saw a recent bear track,
probably made by the same animal whose track we had seen on the upward
journey. All along here were numerous cracks and narrow leads, but we
were able to cross them without any great delay. There was one lead a
mile wide which had formed since the upward trip, and the young ice over
it was now breaking up.
[Illustration: PASSING OVER THE BRIDGE]
Perhaps we took chances here, perhaps not. One thing was in our favor:
our sledges were much lighter than on the upward journey, and we could
now "rush" them across thin ice that would not have held them a moment
then. In any event we got no thrill or irregularity of the pulse from
the incident. It came as a matter of course, a part of the day's work.
As we left the camp where we had stopped for lunch, a dense, black,
threatening bank of clouds came up from the south and we looked for a
gale, but the wind fell and we arrived at the next camp, where Marvin
had made a 700-fathom sounding and lost wire and pickaxes, in calm and
brilliant sunlight after a march of eighteen hours. We were now
approximately one hundred and forty-six miles from land.
We were coming down the North Pole hill in fine shape now and another
double march, April 16-17, brought us to our eleventh upward camp at 85°
8´, one hundred and twenty-one miles from Cape Columbia. On this march
we crossed seven leads, which, with the repeated faulting of the trail,
lengthened our march once more to eighteen hours. Sunday, April 18,
found us still hurrying along over the trail made by Marvin and
Bartlett. They had lost the main trail, but this made little difference
to us except as to time. We were able to make longer marches when on the
main trail because there we camped in the igloos already built on the
upward journey instead of having to build fresh ones for ourselves. This
was another eighteen-hour march. It had a calm and warm beginning, but,
so far as I was concerned, an extremely uncomfortable finish. During the
day my clothes had become damp with perspiration. Moreover, as our long
marches and short sleeps had brought us round to the calendar day, we
were facing the sun, and this, with the southwest wind, burned my face
so badly that it was little short of agonizing. But I consoled myself
with the reflection that we were now less than a hundred miles from
land. I tried to forget my stinging flesh in looking at the land clouds
which we could see from this camp. There is no mistaking these clouds,
which are permanent and formed of the condensation of the moisture from
the land in the upper strata of the atmosphere. To-morrow, we knew, we
might even be able to see the land itself. Meantime the dogs had again
become utterly lifeless. Three of them had played out entirely. Extra
rations were fed to them and we made a longer stop in this camp, partly
on their account and partly to bring us around again to "night"
marching, with the sun at our backs.
During the next march from Sunday to Monday, April 18th to 19th, there
was a continuation of the fine weather and we were still coming along on
my proposed schedule. Our longer sleep of the night before had heartened
both ourselves and the dogs, and with renewed energy we took to the
trail again about one o'clock in the afternoon. At a quarter past two we
passed Bartlett's igloo on the north side of an enormous lead which had
formed since we went up. We were a little over two hours crossing this
lead.
It was not until eleven that night when we again picked up the main
trail, in Henson's first pioneer march. When, traveling well in advance
of the sledges I picked it up and signaled to my men that I had found
it, they nearly went crazy with delight. The region over which we had
just come had been an open sea at the last full moon, and a brisk wind
from any direction excepting the north would make it the same again; or
the raftering from a north wind would make it a ragged surface of broken
plate glass.
It may seem strange to the reader that in this monotonous waste of ice
we could distinguish between the various sections of our upward marches
and recognize them on return. But, as I have said, my Eskimos know who
built or even who has occupied an igloo, with the same instinct by which
migratory birds recognize their old nests of the preceding year; and I
have traveled these arctic wastes so long and lived so long with these
instinctive children of Nature that my sense of location is almost as
keen as their own.
At midnight we came upon pieces of a sledge which Egingwah had abandoned
on the way up, and at three o'clock in the morning of the 19th we
reached the MacMillan-Goodsell return igloos. We had covered Henson's
three pioneer marches in fifteen and one-half hours of travel.
[Illustration: BREAKING CAMP. PUSHING THE SLEDGES UP TO THE TIRED DOGS]
Another dog played out that day and was shot, leaving me with thirty. At
the end of this march we could see the mountains of Grant Land in the
far distance to the south, and the sight thrilled us. It was like a
vision of the shores of the home land to sea-worn mariners.
Again, the next day, we made a double march. Starting late in the
afternoon we reached the sixth outward camp, "boiled the kettle," and
had a light lunch; then plunged on again until early in the morning of
the 20th, when we reached the fifth outward camp.
So far we had seemed to bear a charm which protected us from all
difficulties and dangers. While Bartlett and Marvin and, as I found out
later, Borup had been delayed by open leads, at no single lead had we
been delayed more than a couple of hours. Sometimes the ice had been
firm enough to carry us across; sometimes we had made a short detour;
sometimes we halted for the lead to close; sometimes we used an ice-cake
as an improvised ferry: but whatever the mode of our crossing, we had
crossed without serious difficulty.
[Illustration: LAST CAMP ON THE ICE ON THE RETURN]
It had seemed as if the guardian genius of the polar waste, having at
last been vanquished by man, had accepted defeat and withdrawn from the
contest.
Now, however, we were getting within the baleful sphere of influence of
the "Big Lead," and in the fifth igloos from Columbia (the first ones
north of the lead) I passed an intensely uncomfortable night, suffering
from a variety of disagreeable symptoms which I diagnosed as those of
quinsy. On this march we had brought the land up very rapidly so that I
had some consolation for my discomfort. In three or four days at the
most, barring accident, our feet would again press land. Despite my
aching throat and no sleep, I took much comfort from this welcome
thought.
[Illustration: SOUNDING]
CHAPTER XXXIV
BACK TO LAND AGAIN
We had now reached the neighborhood of the "Big Lead" which had held us
in check so many days on the upward journey and which had nearly cost
the lives of my entire party in 1906. I anticipated trouble, therefore,
in the march of April 20-21, and I was not disappointed. Although the
"Big Lead" was frozen over we found that Bartlett on his return had lost
the main trail here and did not find it again. For the rest of the ice
journey, therefore, we were compelled to follow the single trail made by
Bartlett instead of our well beaten outward trail. I could not complain.
We had kept the beaten road back to within some fifty miles of the land.
For me this was the most uncomfortable march of the entire trip. It was
made following a sleepless night in a cold igloo. For all that my
clothes were wet with perspiration, my jaw and head throbbed and burned
incessantly, though toward the end of the march I began to feel the
effects of the quinine I had taken, and not long after we reached the
captain's igloo the worst of the symptoms had departed. But it was hard
drilling that day, and our troubles were in no way lessened by the fact
that the dogs seemed utterly without energy or spirit.
The beautiful weather which had accompanied us for several days still
continued on the next day. It was really a surprising stretch of
splendid weather. We marched six hours, then stopped for luncheon, and
then drilled along for six hours more. Repeatedly we passed fresh tracks
of bear and hare, together with numerous fox tracks. Save for these, the
march was uneventful, with the exception of two narrow leads which we
crossed over thin young ice. All that day the sun was hot and blinding
to an almost intolerable degree. It would have been practically
impossible to travel with the sun in our faces, so fierce were its rays.
Yet all this day the temperature ranged between 18° and 30° below zero.
The last day's journey before we reached shore began at 5 P.M. in that
same brilliant, clear, calm weather. A short distance from camp we
encountered an impracticable lead which the captain's trail crossed. In
one fruitless attempt to pass it we got one of our teams in the water.
Ultimately the lead swung to the east, and we found the captain's trail,
took it up, and worked around the end of the lead.
[Illustration: APPROACHING THE PEAKS OF CAPE COLUMBIA OVER THE SURFACE
OF THE "GLACIAL FRINGE"]
Only a short distance further on we got our first glimpse of the edge of
the glacial fringe ahead of us and stopped our march long enough to take
some photographs. Before midnight that night the whole party had reached
the glacial fringe of Grant Land. We had now left the ice of the polar
sea and were practically on _terra firma_. When the last sledge came to
the almost vertical edge of the glacier's fringe I thought my Eskimos
had gone crazy. They yelled and called and danced until they fell from
utter exhaustion. As Ootah sank down on his sledge he remarked in
Eskimo: "The devil is asleep or having trouble with his wife or we
should never have come back so easily." We stopped long enough for a
leisurely luncheon with tea _ad libitum_ and then pressed on until Cape
Columbia was reached.
[Illustration: CRANE CITY AT CAPE COLUMBIA, ON THE RETURN]
It was almost exactly six o'clock on the morning of April 23 when we
reached the igloo of "Crane City" at Cape Columbia and the work was
done. Here I wrote these words in my diary:
"My life work is accomplished. The thing which it was intended from the
beginning that I should do, the thing which I believed could be done,
and that I could do, I have done. I have got the North Pole out of my
system after twenty-three years of effort, hard work, disappointments,
hardships, privations, more or less suffering, and some risks. I have
won the last great geographical prize, the North Pole, for the credit of
the United States. This work is the finish, the cap and climax of nearly
four hundred years of effort, loss of life, and expenditure of fortunes
by the civilized nations of the world, and it has been accomplished in a
way that is thoroughly American. I am content."
[Illustration: BACK ON THE "GLACIAL FRINGE"
(Land Ice of Grant Land Near Cape Columbia, April 23, 1909)]
Our return from the Pole was accomplished in sixteen marches, and the
entire journey from land to the Pole and back again occupied fifty-three
days, or forty-three marches. It had been, as a result of our experience
and perfected clothing and equipment, an amazingly comfortable return as
compared with previous ones, but a little difference in the weather
would have given us a different story to tell. There was no one in our
party who was not delighted to have passed the treacherous lead and
those wide expanses of young thin ice where a gale would have put an
open sea between us and the land and rendered our safe return hazardous,
to say the least.
In all probability no member of that little party will ever forget our
sleep at Cape Columbia. We slept gloriously for practically two days,
our brief waking intervals being occupied exclusively with eating and
with drying our clothes.
Then for the ship. Our dogs, like ourselves, had not been hungry when we
arrived, but simply lifeless with fatigue. They were different animals
now, and the better ones among them stepped out with tightly curled
tails and uplifted heads, their iron legs treading the snow with
piston-like regularity and their black muzzles every now and then
sniffing the welcome scent of the land.
[Illustration: EGINGWAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP]
[Illustration: EGINGWAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE TRIP]
[Illustration: OOTAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP]
[Illustration: OOTAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE SLEDGE TRIP]
(The Portraits at the Left Were Made by Flashlight on the _Roosevelt_
Before the Journey.
Those on the Right Were Taken Immediately After the Return)
We reached Cape Hecla in one march of forty-five miles and the
_Roosevelt_ in another of equal length. My heart thrilled as, rounding
the point of the cape, I saw the little black ship lying there in its
icy berth with sturdy nose pointing straight to the Pole.
And I thought of that other time three years before when, dragging our
gaunt bodies round Cape Rawson on our way from the Greenland coast, I
thought the _Roosevelt's_ slender spars piercing the brilliant arctic
sunlight as fair a sight as ever I had seen. As we approached the ship I
saw Bartlett going over the rail. He came out along the ice-foot to meet
me, and something in his face told me he had bad news even before he
spoke.
"Have you heard about poor Marvin?" he asked.
"No," I answered.
Then he told me that Marvin had been drowned at the "Big Lead," coming
back to Cape Columbia. The news staggered me, killing all the joy I had
felt at the sight of the ship and her captain. It was indeed a bitter
flavor in the cup of our success. It was hard to realize at first that
the man who had worked at my side through so many weary months under
conditions of peril and privation, to whose efforts and example so much
of the success of the expedition had been due, would never stand beside
me again. The manner of his death even will never be precisely known. No
human eye was upon him when he broke through the treacherous young ice
that had but recently closed over a streak of open water. He was the
only white man in the supporting party of which he was in command and
with which he was returning to the land at the time he met his death. As
was customary, on breaking camp he had gone out ahead of the Eskimos,
leaving the natives to break camp, harness the dogs, and follow. When he
came to the "Big Lead," the recent ice of which was safe and secure at
the edges, it is probable that, hurrying on, he did not notice the
gradual thinning of the ice toward the center of the lead until it was
too late and he was in the water. The Eskimos were too far in the rear
to hear his calls for help, and in that ice-cold water the end must have
come very quickly. He who had never shrunk from loneliness in the
performance of his duty had at last met death alone.
Coming along over the trail in his footsteps, the Eskimos of his
party came to the spot where the broken ice gave them the first hint of
the accident. One of the Eskimos said that the back of Marvin's fur
jacket was still visible at the top of the water, while the condition of
the ice at the edge seemed to indicate that Marvin had made repeated
efforts to drag himself from the water, but that the ice was so thin
that it had crumbled and broken beneath his weight, plunging him again
into the icy water. He must have been dead some time before the Eskimos
came up. It was, of course, impossible for them to rescue the body,
since there was no way of their getting near it. Of course they knew
what had happened to Marvin; but with childish superstition peculiar to
their race they camped there for a while on the possibility that he
might come back. But after a time, when he did not come back, Kudlooktoo
and "Harrigan" became frightened. They realized that Marvin was really
drowned and they were in dread of his spirit. So they threw from the
sledge everything they could find belonging to him, that the spirit, if
it came back that way, might find these personal belongings and not
pursue the men. Then they hurried for the land as fast as they could go.
Quiet in manner, wiry in build, clear of eye, with an atmosphere of
earnestness about him, Ross G. Marvin had been an invaluable member of
the expedition. Through the long hot weeks preceding the sailing of the
_Roosevelt_, he worked indefatigably looking after the assembling and
delivery of the countless essential items of our outfit, until he,
Bartlett, and myself were nearly exhausted. On the northern voyage he
was always willing and ready, whether for taking an observation on deck
or stowing cargo in the hold. When the Eskimos came aboard, his good
humor, his quiet directness, and his physical competence gained him at
once their friendship and respect. From the very first he was able to
manage these odd people with uncommon success.
Later, when face to face with the stern problems of life and work in the
arctic regions, he met them quietly, uncomplainingly, and with a steady,
level persistence that could have but one result, and I soon came to
know Ross Marvin as a man who would accomplish the task assigned to him,
whatever it might be. The tidal and meteorological observations of the
expedition were his particular charge, while, during the long dark
winter night, his mathematical training enabled him to be of great
assistance in working out problems of march formation, transportation
and supplies, and arrangements of the supporting parties. In the spring
sledge campaign of 1906 he commanded a separate division. When the great
storm swept the polar sea and scattered my parties hopelessly in a chaos
of shattered ice, Marvin's division, like my own farther north, was
driven eastward and came down upon the Greenland coast, whence he
brought his men safely back to the ship. From this expedition he
returned trained in arctic details and thoroughly conversant with the
underlying principles of all successful work in northern regions, so
that when he went north with us in 1908, he went as a veteran who could
absolutely be depended upon in an emergency.
[Illustration: MEMORIAL ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF PROFESSOR ROSS G.
MARVIN, AT CAPE SHERIDAN]
The bones of Ross G. Marvin lie farther north than those of any other
human being. On the northern shore of Grant Land we erected a cairn of
stones, and upon its summit we placed a rude tablet inscribed: "In
Memory of Ross G. Marvin of Cornell University, Aged 34. Drowned April
10, 1909, forty-five miles north of C. Columbia, returning from 86° 38´
N. Lat." This cenotaph looks from that bleak shore northward toward the
spot where Marvin met his death. His name heads that glorious roll-call
of arctic heroes among whom are Willoughby, Franklin, Sontag, Hall,
Lockwood, and others who died in the field, and it must be some
consolation to those who grieve for him that his name is inseparably
connected with the winning of that last great trophy for which, through
nearly four centuries, men of every civilized nation have suffered and
struggled and died.
The Eskimos of whom Marvin was in command at the time he lost his life
fortunately overlooked, in throwing Marvin's things upon the ice, a
little canvas packet on the up-standers of the sledge containing a few
of his notes, among them what is probably the last thing he ever wrote.
It is so typical of the man's intelligent devotion to his duty that it
is here appended as he wrote it. It will be seen that it was written on
the very day that I last saw him alive, that day upon which he turned
back to the south from his farthest north.
"March 25, 1909. This is to certify that I turned
back from this point with the third supporting
party, Commander Peary advancing with nine men in
the party, seven sledges with the standard loads,
and sixty dogs. Men and dogs are in first class
condition. The captain, with the fourth and last
supporting party, expects to turn back at the end
of five more marches. Determined our latitude by
observations on March 22, and again to-day, March
25. A copy of the observations and computations is
herewith enclosed. Results of observations were as
follows: Latitude at noon, March 22, 85° 48´
north. Latitude at noon, March 25, 86° 38´ north.
Distance made good in three marches, fifty minutes
of latitude, an average of sixteen and two-thirds
nautical miles per march. The weather is fine,
going good and improving each day.
"ROSS G. MARVIN,
"_College of Civil Engineering_,
_Cornell University_."
With a sad heart I went to my cabin on the _Roosevelt_. Notwithstanding
the good fortune with which we had accomplished the return, the death of
Marvin emphasized the danger to which we had all been subjected, for
there was not one of us but had been in the water of a lead at some time
during the journey.
Despite the mental depression that resulted from this terrible news
about poor Marvin, for twenty-four hours after my return I felt
physically as fit as ever and ready to hit the trail again if necessary.
But at the end of twenty-four hours the reaction came, and it came with
a bump. It was, of course, the inevitable result of complete change of
diet and atmosphere, and the substitution of inaction in place of
incessant effort. I had no energy or ambition for anything. Scarcely
could I stop sleeping long enough to eat, or eating long enough to
sleep. My ravenous appetite was not the result of hunger or short
rations, for we had all had plenty to eat on the return from the Pole.
It was merely because none of the ship's food seemed to have the
satisfying effect of pemmican, and I could not seem to hold enough to
satisfy my appetite. However, I knew better than to gorge myself and
compromised by eating not much at a time, but at frequent intervals.
Oddly enough, this time there was no swelling of the feet or ankles and
in three or four days we all began to feel like ourselves. Anyone who
looks at the contrasted pictures of the Eskimos, taken before and after
the sledge trip, will realize, perhaps, something of the physical strain
of a journey to the Pole and back, and will read into the day-by-day
narrative of our progress all the details of soul-racking labor and
exhaustion which at the time we had been obliged stoically to consider
as a part of the day's work, in order to win our goal.
One of the first things done after reaching the ship and bringing our
sleep up to date was to reward the Eskimos who had served us so
faithfully. They were all fitted out with rifles, shotguns, cartridges,
shells, reloading tools, hatchets, knives, and so on, and they behaved
like so many children who had just received a boundless supply of toys.
Among the things I have given them at various times, none are more
important than the telescopes, which enable them to distinguish game in
the distance. The four who stood with me at the Pole were to receive
whale-boats, tents, and other treasures when I dropped them at their
home settlements along the Greenland coast on the southward journey of
the _Roosevelt_.
CHAPTER XXXV
LAST DAYS AT CAPE SHERIDAN
It is not long now to the end of the story. On returning to the
_Roosevelt_ I learned that MacMillan and the doctor had reached the ship
March 21, Borup on April 11, the Eskimo survivors of Marvin's party
April 17, and Bartlett on April 24. MacMillan and Borup had started for
the Greenland coast, before my return, to deposit caches for me, in the
event that I should be obliged by the drifting of the ice to come back
that way, as in 1906. (Borup, on his return to the land, had deposited a
cache for me at Cape Fanshawe Martin, on the Grant Land coast, some
eighty miles west from Cape Columbia, thus providing for a drift in
either direction.)
[Illustration: PERMANENT MONUMENT ERECTED AT CAPE COLUMBIA TO MARK POINT
OF DEPARTURE AND RETURN OF NORTH POLE SLEDGE PARTY]
Borup also, with the aid of the Eskimos, built at Cape Columbia a
permanent monument, consisting of a pile of stones formed round the base
of a guidepost made of sledge planks, with four arms pointing true
north, south, east, and west--the whole supported and guyed by numerous
strands of heavy sounding wire. On each arm is a copper plate, with an
inscription punched in it. On the eastern arm is, "Cape Morris K. Jesup,
May 16, 1900, 275 miles;" on the southern arm is, "Cape Columbia, June
6, 1906;" on the western arm is, "Cape Thomas H. Hubbard, July 1, 1906,
225 miles;" on the northern arm, "North Pole, April 6, 1909, 413
miles." Below these arms, in a frame covered with glass to protect it
from the weather, is a record containing the following:
PEARY ARCTIC CLUB NORTH POLE EXPEDITION, 1908
_S. S. Roosevelt_,
June 12th, 1909.
This monument marks the point of departure and
return of the sledge expedition of the Peary
Arctic Club, which in the spring of 1909 attained
the North Pole.
The members of the expedition taking part in the
sledge work were Peary, Bartlett, Goodsell,
Marvin,[3] MacMillan, Borup, Henson.
The various sledge divisions left here February
28th and March 1st, and returned from March 18th
to April 23rd.
The Club's Steamer _Roosevelt_ wintered at C.
Sheridan, 73 miles east of here.
R. E. PEARY, U. S. N.
Commander, R. E. Peary, U. S. N., Comdg. Expedition.
Captain R. A. Bartlett, Master of _Roosevelt_.
Chief Engr. George A. Wardwell.
Surgeon J. W. Goodsell.
Prof. Ross G. Marvin, Assistant.
Prof. D. B. McMillan, "
George Borup, "
M. A. Henson, "
Charles Percy, Steward.
Mate Thomas Gushue.
Bosun John Connors.
Seaman John Coadey.
" John Barnes.
" Dennis Murphy.
" George Percy.
2nd Engr. Banks Scott.
Fireman James Bently.
Patrick Joyce.
Patrick Skeans.
John Wiseman.
On the 18th MacMillan and Borup with five Eskimos and six sledges had
departed for the Greenland coast to establish depots of supplies in case
my party should be obliged to make its landing there as in 1906, and
also to make tidal readings at Cape Morris Jesup. I, therefore, at once
started two Eskimos off for Greenland with a sounding apparatus and a
letter informing MacMillan and Borup of our final success. It had been
the plan to have Bartlett make a line of ten or five mile soundings
from Columbia to Camp No. 8 to bring out the cross section of the
continental shelf and the deep channel along it, and Bartlett had got
his equipment ready for this purpose. However, I decided not to send him
for the reason that he was not in the best physical condition, his feet
and ankles being considerably swollen, while he was, moreover, afflicted
with a number of Job's comforters. My own physical condition, however,
remained perfect during the rest of our stay in the north, with the
exception of a bad tooth from which I suffered more or less torture
during a space of three weeks.
[Illustration: PEARY CAIRN AT CAPE MORRIS K. JESUP, AS PHOTOGRAPHED BY
MACMILLAN AND BORUP]
This was the first time in all my arctic expeditions that I had been at
headquarters through May and June. Hitherto there had always seemed to
be something more to be done in the field; but now the principal work
was completed, and it remained only to arrange the results. In the
meantime the energies of the Eskimos were largely employed in short
journeys in the neighborhood, most of them for the purpose of visiting
the various supply depots established between the ship and Cape Columbia
and removing their unused supplies to the ship. Between them these
various small expeditions did some interesting work. Most of this
supplementary work in the field was accomplished by other members of the
expedition, but I had plenty of work on board the _Roosevelt_. Along
about the 10th of May we began to get genuine spring weather. On that
day Bartlett and myself began spring housecleaning. We overhauled the
cabins, cleared out the dark corners, and dried out everything that
needed it, the quarter-deck being littered with all kinds of
miscellaneous articles the whole day. On the same day spring work on the
ship was also begun, the winter coverings being taken off the
_Roosevelt's_ stack and ventilators, and preparations being made for
work on the engines.
A few days later a beautiful white fox came to the ship and attempted to
get on board. One of the Eskimos killed him. The creature behaved in an
extraordinary manner, acting, in fact, just like the Eskimo dogs when
those creatures run amuck. The Eskimos say that in the Whale Sound
region foxes often seem to go mad in the same way and sometimes attempt
to break into the igloos. This affliction from which arctic dogs and
foxes suffer, while apparently a form of madness, does not seem to have
any relation to rabies since it does not appear to be contagious or
infectious.
The spring weather, though unmistakably the real thing, was fickle on
the whole. On Sunday, May 16, for example, the sun was hot and the
temperature high, and the snow all about us was disappearing almost like
magic, pools of water forming about the ship; but the next day we had a
stiff southwest gale with considerable wet snow. On the whole, it was a
very disagreeable day.
On the 18th the engineer's force began work on the boilers in earnest.
Four days later two Eskimos returned from MacMillan, whom they had left
at Cape Morris Jesup on the Greenland coast. They brought notes from him
giving some details of his work there. On the 31st MacMillan and Borup
themselves arrived from Greenland, having made the return trip from Cape
Morris Jesup, a distance of 270 miles, in eight marches, an average of
34 miles per march. MacMillan reported that he got as far as 84° 17´
north of Cape Jesup, had made a sounding which showed a depth of 90
fathoms, and had obtained ten days' tidal observations. They brought in
as many of the skins and as much of the meat as the sledges could carry
of 52 musk-oxen which they had killed.
Early in June, Borup and MacMillan continued their work; MacMillan
making tidal observations at Fort Conger; and Borup erecting at Cape
Columbia the monument which has been already described.
MacMillan while taking tidal observations at Fort Conger on Lady
Franklin Bay, to connect our work at Capes Sheridan, Columbia, Bryant,
and Jesup with the observation of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition of
1881-83, found still some remains of the supplies of the disastrous
Greely expedition of 1881-84. They included canned vegetables, potatoes,
hominy, rhubarb, pemmican, tea, and coffee. Strange to say, after the
lapse of a quarter of a century, many of these supplies were still in
good condition, and some of them were eaten with relish by various
members of our party.
One of the finds was a text book which had belonged to Lieutenant
Kislingbury, who lost his life with the Greely party. Upon its flyleaf
it bore this inscription: "To my dear father, from his affectionate son,
Harry Kislingbury. May God be with you and return you safely to us."
Greely's old coat was also found lying on the ground. This also was in
good condition and I believe that MacMillan wore it for some days.
All hands were now beginning to look forward to the time when the
_Roosevelt_ should again turn her nose toward the south and home.
Following our own housecleaning, the Eskimos had one on June 12. Every
movable article was taken out of their quarters, and the walls,
ceilings, and floors were scrubbed, disinfected, and whitewashed. Other
signs of returning summer were observed on all sides. The surface of the
ice-floe was going blue, the delta of the river was quite bare, and the
patches of bare ground ashore were growing larger almost hourly. Even
the _Roosevelt_ seemed to feel the change and gradually began to right
herself from the pronounced list which she had taken under the press of
the ice in the early winter. On June 16 we had the first of the summer
rains, though the next morning all the pools of water were frozen over.
On the same day Borup captured a live musk calf near Clements Markham
Inlet. He managed to get his unique captive back to the ship alive, but
the little creature died the next evening, though the steward nursed him
carefully in an effort to save his life.
On the summer solstice, June 22, midnoon of the arctic summer and the
longest day of the year, it snowed all night; but a week later the
weather seemed almost tropical, and we all suffered from the heat,
strange though it seems to say it. The glimpses of open water off Cape
Sheridan were increasing in frequency and size, and on July 2 we could
see a considerable lake just off the point of this cape. The 4th of
July as we observed it would have pleased the advocates of "a quiet
Fourth." What with the recent death of Marvin and the fact that the day
was Sunday, nothing out of the ordinary routine was done except to dress
the ship with flags, and there was scarcely enough wind even to display
our bunting. Three years ago that very day the _Roosevelt_ got away from
her winter quarters at almost the same spot in a strong southerly gale;
but the experience on that occasion convinced me that it would be best
to hang on in our present position just as late in July as possible, and
thus give the ice in Robeson and Kennedy Channels more time to break up.
It almost seemed as if the _Roosevelt_ shared with us our anticipation
of a speedy return, for she continued gradually to regain an even keel,
and within four or five days she had automatically completed this
operation. On the 8th we put out the eight-inch hawser and made the ship
fast, bow and stern, in order to hold her in position in case she should
be subjected to any pressure before we were ready to depart. On the same
day we began in real earnest to make ready for the homeward departure.
The work began with the taking on of coal, which, it will be remembered,
had been transferred to shore along with quantities of other supplies
when we went into winter quarters, in order to make provisions against
the loss of the ship by fire, or ice pressure, or what not, in the
course of the winter. The process of getting the ship ready for her
homeward voyage does not require detailed description. Suffice it to say
that it furnished the entire party with hard work and plenty of it for
fully ten days.
At the expiration of that period Bartlett reported the ship ready to
sail. Observation of conditions off shore revealed the fact that Robeson
Channel was practicable for navigation. Our work was done, success had
crowned our efforts, the ship was ready, we were all fit, and on July
18, with only the tragic memory of the lost lamented Marvin to lessen
our high spirits, the _Roosevelt_ pulled slowly out from the cape and
turned her nose again to the south.
Off Cape Union the _Roosevelt_ was intentionally forced out into the ice
to fight a way down the center of the channel in accordance with my
deliberate program.
For a ship of the _Roosevelt's_ class, this is the best and quickest
return route--far preferable to hugging the shore.
The voyage to Battle Harbor was comparatively uneventful. It involved,
of course, as does any journey in those waters, even under favorable
conditions, unceasing watchfulness and skill in ice navigation, but the
trip was without pronounced adventure. On August 8 the _Roosevelt_
emerged from the ice and passed Cape Sabine, and the value of experience
and the new departure of forcing the ship down the center of the channel
instead of along shore will be appreciated from the fact that we were
now thirty-nine days ahead of our 1906 record on the occasion of our
previous return from Cape Sheridan, although we had left Cape Sheridan
considerably later than before. The voyage from Cape Sheridan to Cape
Sabine had been made in fifty-three days, less time than in 1906.
We stopped at Cape Saumarez, the Nerke of the Eskimos, and a boat's
crew went ashore. It was there I first heard of the movements of Dr.
Frederick Cook during the previous year while absent from Anoratok. We
arrived at Etah on the 17th of August. There I learned further details
as to the movements of Dr. Cook during his sojourn in that region.
At Etah we picked up Harry Whitney, who had spent the winter in that
neighborhood in arctic hunting. Here, also, we killed some seventy-odd
walrus for the Eskimos, whom we distributed at their homes whence we had
taken them in the previous summer.
They were all as children, yet they had served us well. They had, at
times, tried our tempers and taxed our patience; but after all they had
been faithful and efficient. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that I
had known every member of the tribe for nearly a quarter of a century,
until I had come to regard them with a kindly and personal interest,
which any man must feel with regard to the members of any inferior race
who had been accustomed to respect and depend upon him during the
greater part of his adult life. We left them all better supplied with
the simple necessities of arctic life than they had ever been before,
while those who had participated in the sledge journey and the winter
and spring work on the northern shore of Grant Land were really so
enriched by our gifts that they assumed the importance and standing of
arctic millionaires. I knew, of course, that in all probability I should
never see them again. This feeling was tempered with the knowledge of
success; but it was not without keen regret that I looked my last upon
these strange and faithful people who had meant so much to me.
We cleared from Cape York on August 26, and on September 5 we steamed
into Indian Harbor. Here the first despatch that went over the wires was
to Mrs. Peary: "_Have made good at last. I have the Pole. Am well.
Love_," followed in rapid succession by one from Bartlett to his mother;
and, among others, one to H. L. Bridgman, secretary of the Peary Arctic
Club: "_Sun_," a cipher meaning, "Pole reached. _Roosevelt_ safe."
Three days later the _Roosevelt_ reached Battle Harbor. On September 13
the ocean-going tug _Douglas H. Thomas_ arrived from Sydney, C. B., a
distance of four hundred and seventy-five miles, bringing Regan and
Jefferds, representatives of the Associated Press, whom I greeted by
saying, "This is a new record in newspaper enterprise, and I appreciate
the compliment." Three days later the Canadian Government cable steamer,
_Tyrian_, in command of Captain Dickson, arrived, bringing twenty-three
special correspondents who had been hurried north as soon as our first
despatches had reached New York, and on the 21st of September, as the
_Roosevelt_ was approaching the little town of Sydney, Cape Breton, we
saw a beautiful sea-going yacht approaching us. It was the _Sheelah_,
whose owner, Mr. James Ross, was bringing Mrs. Peary and our children up
to meet me. Further down the bay we met a whole flotilla of boats, gay
with bunting and musical with greetings. As we neared the city, the
entire water-front was alive with people. The little town to which I had
returned so many times unsuccessful gave us a royal welcome as the
_Roosevelt_ came back to her once more, flying at her mastheads, besides
the Stars and Stripes and the ensign of our Canadian hosts and cousins,
a flag which never before had entered any port in history, the North
Pole flag.
Little more remains to be said.
The victory was due to experience; to the courage, endurance, and
devotion of the members of the expedition, who put all there was in them
into the work; and to the unswerving faith and loyalty of the officers,
members, and friends of the Peary Arctic Club, who furnished the sinews
of war, without which nothing could have been accomplished.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] Drowned April 10th, returning from 86° 38´ N. Lat.
APPENDIX I
SUMMARY OF BATHYMETRICAL, TIDAL, AND METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS[4]
BY R. A. HARRIS,
_Coast and Geodetic Survey, Washington, D. C._
SOUNDINGS.--Previous to the expeditions of Peary, little was known
concerning the depths of that portion of the Arctic Ocean which lies
north of Greenland and Grant Land. In 1876 Markham and Parr at a point
nearly north of Cape Joseph Henry, in latitude 83° 20-1/2´, and
longitude 63° W., found a depth of 72 fathoms. In 1882 Lockwood and
Brainard at a point lying northerly from Cape May, in latitude about 82°
38´ N., and longitude about 51-1/4° W., sounded to a depth of 133
fathoms without touching bottom.
The motion of the polar pack was inferred by Lockwood from the existence
of a tidal crack extending from Cape May to Beaumont Island. Peary's
journeys along the northern coast of Greenland in 1900, and upon the
Arctic ice in 1902 and 1906, firmly established the motion suspected by
Lockwood. In April of the years 1902 and 1906 he found an eastward
drifting of the ice due to westerly or northwesterly winds. Moreover,
along the line of separation between two ice-fields the northern field
had a greater eastward motion than had the field to the south of the
line. These facts, together with the water sky observed to the north of
Cape Morris Jesup in 1900, strongly indicated the existence of deep
water between Greenland and the North Pole.
Though few in number, the soundings taken in 1909 between Cape Columbia
and the Pole are of great interest to geographers.
The accompanying diagram shows the results obtained.
[Illustration]
These soundings prove the existence of a continental shelf covered by
about 100 fathoms of water and whose edge, north of Cape Columbia, lies
about 46 sea miles from the shore. In latitude 84° 29´ the depth was
found to be 825 fathoms, while in latitude 85° 23´ it was found to be
only 310 fathoms. This diminution in depth is a fact of considerable
interest in reference to the possible existence of land to the westward.
The three soundings taken between the point of comparatively shallow
water and the Pole failed to reach bottom. The one made within five sea
miles of the Pole proved the depth there to be at least 1500 fathoms.
This is not at variance with the northernmost sounding taken by the
_Fram_, at a point north of Franz Josef Land and in latitude about 85°
20´, viz., 1640 fathoms and no bottom.
TIDES.--Tidal observations upon the arctic coasts of Grant Land and
Greenland were carried out under instructions from the Coast and
Geodetic Survey, this Bureau having been ordered by President Roosevelt
through the Secretary of Commerce and Labor to have such work
undertaken.
The object was to secure observations along the northern coasts of Grant
Land and Greenland at a sufficient number of places for determining the
tides in this region; it being the belief that such observations might
throw light upon the possible existence of a "considerable land mass in
the unknown area of the Arctic Ocean."
Systematic tidal and meteorological observations were carried on day and
night at Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich (near Cape Columbia), Cape Bryant,
Cape Morris Jesup, and Fort Conger--the periods of time covered at these
stations being about 231, 29, 28, 10, and 15 days, respectively.[5]
The tides were observed upon vertical staves or poles held in position
by means of stones placed around them at the bottom of the shallow water
along the coast. At Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich, and Cape Bryant igloos
were built over the tide staves. These being heated, usually by means of
oil-stoves, the observers were enabled to maintain open well-holes with
comparative ease.
In order to secure fixed data of reference, permanent bench marks were
established on the land, not far from the igloos or tide staves.
The ice-covering of the water nearly obliterated all wind waves which
generally impair the accuracy of staff readings made in open bodies of
water. The measurement of the height upon staff of the surface of the
water, as the surface rose and fell in the well-holes, was carried on
with great precision, a fact which the plottings of the observations
have well brought out. The observations were taken hourly; and during a
large percentage of the time these were supplemented by observations
taken more frequently, often at intervals of ten minutes each.
The chronometer used in connection with tidal work was compared with
true Greenwich time at New York before and after the cruise to the
Arctic. The comparisons showed that during this period of 461 days the
average daily gain of the chronometer was 2.2 seconds.
The mean lunitidal intervals and the mean ranges of tide, together with
the approximate geographical positions of the stations, are as follows:
-----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+----------
| | | HW | LW |Mean Rise
Station |Latitude |Longitude|Interval |Interval | and Fall
-----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+----------
| ° ´ | ° ´ |_h_ _m_ | _h_ _m_ | Feet
Cape Sheridan | 82 27 | 61 21 | 10 31 | 4 14 | 1.76
Point Aldrich | 83 07 | 69 44 | 7 58 | 1 50 | 0.84
Cape Bryant | 82 21 | 55 30 | 0 03 | 6 22 | 1.07
C. Morris Jesup | 83 40 | 33 35 | 10 49 | 4 33 | 0.38
Fort Conger | 81 44 | 64 44 | 11 35 | 5 15 | 4.06
Fort Conger[6] | 81 44 | 64 44 | 11 33 | 5 20 | 4.28
-----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+----------
The harmonic constants for these places will be given in a paper on
Arctic Tides about to be issued by the Coast and Geodetic Survey.
As indicated by its name, a "lunitidal interval" is the time elapsing
between the passage of the moon across the meridian of the place or
station and the occurrence of high or low water. If two stations have
the same longitude, then the difference between the lunitidal intervals
for the two stations denotes the difference in the times of occurrence
of the tides. If they have not the same longitude, then the intervals
must be converted into lunar hours (1 lunar hour = 1.035 solar hours)
and increased by the west longitude of the stations expressed in hours.
The result will be the tidal hours of the stations expressed in
Greenwich lunar time. The difference between the tidal hours for two
stations will be the difference in the time of occurrence of the tides
expressed in lunar hours.
One of the most important results brought out from the tidal
observations of the expedition is the fact that high water occurs two
hours earlier (in absolute time) at Cape Columbia than at Cape Sheridan.
The Cape Columbia tides are even earlier than the tides along the
northern coast of the Spitzbergen Islands. These facts prove that the
tide at Cape Columbia comes from the west. It is the Baffin Bay tide
transmitted, first, northwesterly through the eastern portion of the
Arctic Archipelago to the Arctic Ocean, and then easterly along the
northern coast of Grant Land to Cape Columbia. That the tide wave should
be felt after a passage of this kind, instead of practically
disappearing after entering the Arctic Ocean, is one argument for the
existence of a waterway of limited width to the northwest of Grant Land.
This suggests that Crocker Land, first seen by Peary on June 24, 1906,
from an altitude of about 2000 feet, may form a portion of the northern
boundary of this channel or waterway.
The tides along the northern coast of Greenland are due mainly to the
large rise-and-fall occurring at the head of Baffin Bay. The Arctic
Ocean being of itself a nearly tideless body so far as semidaily tides
are concerned, it follows that the time of tide varies but little as one
goes through Smith Sound, Kane Basin, Kennedy Channel, and Robeson
Channel; in other words there exists a stationary oscillation in this
waterway. The northeasterly trend of the shore line of Peary Land beyond
Robeson Channel and the deflecting force due to the earth's rotation
tend to preserve, far to the northeastward and partly in the form of a
free wave of transmission, the disturbance resulting from the stationary
oscillation in the straits. The tide observations indicate that this
disturbance is felt as far as Cape Morris Jesup, where the semidaily
range of tide is only 0.38 foot. At Cape Bryant, northeast of Robeson
Channel, the range is 1.07 feet. These values, taken in connection with
the Robeson Channel disturbance, indicate that the time of tide along
the coast of Peary Land becomes later as one travels eastward from Cape
Bryant.
Owing to the comparatively short distance between Cape Bryant and Cape
Morris Jesup, it is probable that at the latter point the crest of the
wave transmitted from the southwest will appear to arrive much earlier
than will the crest of the wave passing between Spitzbergen Islands and
Greenland. In this way the small size of the semidaily tide at Cape
Morris Jesup, as well as its time of occurrence, can be partially
explained.
A no-tide point doubtless exists in Lincoln Sea, off Peary Land.
The semidiurnal tidal forces vanish at the Pole and are very small over
the entire Arctic Ocean. As a consequence the semidiurnal portion of the
tide wave in these regions is almost wholly derived from the tides in
the Atlantic Ocean. The diurnal forces attain a maximum at the Pole and
produce sensible tides in the deeper waters of the Arctic Ocean. Such
tides are essentially equilibrium tides for this nearly enclosed body of
water. The diurnal portion of the Baffin Bay tide produces the diurnal
portion of the tide in Smith Sound, Kane Basin, and Kennedy Channel. In
passing from Fort Conger to the Arctic Ocean one could reasonably expect
to find a great change in the time of occurrence of the diurnal tide in
going a comparatively short distance; in other words the change in the
tidal hour for the diurnal wave would probably be considerable where the
Baffin Bay tide joins the arctic tide.
Peary's observations show that such is the case. They show that the
diurnal tide at Cape Bryant, Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich, and Cape
Morris Jesup follows that at Fort Conger by respective intervals of
3-1/2, 5, 6, and 8 hours. They also show that in going northward from
Fort Conger to Point Aldrich the ratio of the two principal diurnal
constituents approximates more and more nearly to the theoretical ratio;
that is, to the ratio between the two corresponding tidal forces. This
is what one would expect to find in passing from a region possessing
diurnal tides derived from the irregular tides of Baffin Bay to a region
where the equilibrium diurnal tides of the Arctic become important.
The range and time of occurrence of the diurnal tide at Point Aldrich do
not differ greatly from their equilibrium values based upon the
assumption of a deep polar basin extending from Grant Land and the
Arctic Archipelago to the marginal waters off the portion of the coast
of Siberia lying east of the New Siberian Islands. But De Long's party
observed tides at Bennett Island in 1881. From these observations it is
seen that the diurnal tide has a much smaller range than would be
permissible under the hypothesis of deep water in the portion of the
Arctic Basin just referred to. The diurnal tides at Pitlekaj, Point
Barrow, and Flaxman Island are, as noted below, also too small to permit
of this hypothesis. The smallness of the diurnal tide in the cases cited
can probably be explained on no other assumption than that of
obstructing land masses extending over a considerable portion of the
unknown region of the Arctic Ocean.
No further attempt will be made here to prove the necessity for a tract
of land, an archipelago, or an area of very shallow water situated
between the present Arctic Archipelago and Siberia. A brief discussion
of this question, together with a tidal map of the Arctic Regions, will
be found in a paper about to be issued by the Coast and Geodetic Survey
and which has been already referred to. A few pertinent facts may,
however, be mentioned.
(1) At Point Barrow, Alaska, the flood stream comes from the west and
not from the north, as the hypothesis of an extensive, deep polar basin
implies.
(2) The semidaily range of tide at Bennett Island is 2.5 feet, while it
is only 0.4 foot at Point Barrow and 0.5 foot at Flaxman Island, Alaska.
This indicates that obstructing land masses lie between the deep basin
or channel traversed by the _Fram_ and the northern coast of Alaska.
(3) The observed tidal hours and ranges of tide show that the semidaily
tide is not propagated from the Greenland Sea to the Alaskan coast
directly across a deep and uninterrupted polar basin.
(4) The observed ranges of the diurnal tides at Teplitz Bay, Franz Josef
Land; at Pitlekaj, northeastern Siberia; and at Point Barrow and Flaxman
Island have less than one-half of their theoretical equilibrium values
based upon the assumption of an uninterrupted and deep polar basin.
In addition to these facts are the following items which have a bearing
upon the shape and size of this unknown land:
The westerly drifting of the _Jeannette_.
The westerly drifting north of Alaska observed by Mikkelsen and
Leffingwell.
The existence of Crocker Land.
The shoaling indicated by a sounding of 310 fathoms taken in Lat. 85°
23´ N.
The eastward progression of the tide wave along the northern coast of
Grant Land as shown by observations at Point Aldrich, Cape Sheridan, and
Cape Bryant.
The great age of the ice found in Beaufort Sea.
Items of some importance in this connection, but which cannot be
regarded as established facts are:
The probable westerly courses taken by casks set adrift off Point Barrow
and off Cape Bathurst, the one recovered on the northeastern coast of
Iceland, the other on the northern coast of Norway;
The question suggested by Harrison whether or not enough ice escapes
from the Arctic to account for the quantity which must be formed there
if one were to adopt the assumption of an unobstructed polar basin.
Taking various facts into consideration, it would seem that an
obstruction (land, islands, or shoals) containing nearly half a million
square statute miles probably exists. That one corner lies north of
Bennett Island; another, north of Point Barrow; another, near Banks Land
and Prince Patrick Island; and another, at or near Crocker Land.
METEOROLOGY.--Regular hourly observations of the thermometer and
barometer were carried on day and night by the tide observers.
A brief résumé of the results obtained is given below, together with a
few taken from the Report of the Proceedings of the U. S. Expedition to
Lady Franklin Bay by Lieutenant (now General) A. W. Greely.
TEMPERATURES
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cape Sheridan |Fort Conger[7]
----------------------------------------------------------+--------------
|Maximum |Minimum| Mean | Mean
-------------------------------+--------+-------+---------+--------------
| ° | ° | ° | °
November 14-30 | - 7 | -39 | -23.96 |
December, 1908 | - 5 | -53 | -29.22 | -28.10
January, 1909 | - 6 | -49 | -30.61 | -38.24
February, 1909 | - 7 | -49 | -31.71 | -40.13
March, 1909 | +13 | -52 | -20.87 | -28.10
April, 1909 | +13 | -37 | -15.63 | -13.55
May, 1909 | +46 | -15 | +18.00 | +14.08
June, 1909 | +52 | +15 | +31.51 | +32.65
November 17-December 18, 1908 | - 7 | -39 | -25.75 |
January 16-February 12, 1909 | -21 | -48 | -35.48 |
May 17-May 22, 1909 | +37 | +12 | +22.97 |
June 11-June 25, 1909 | +50 | +25 | +34.17 |
==========================================================================
TEMPERATURES
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Station | Date |Maximum | Minimum | Mean
| | ° | ° | °
-------------------+-----------------------+--------+---------+----------
Point Aldrich near | | | |
Cape Columbia | Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | -14 | -46 |-31.96
Cape Bryant | Jan. 16-Feb. 12, 1909 | -12 | -55 |-36.68
Cape Morris Jesup | May 17-May 22, 1909 | +35 | +16 |+27.92
Fort Conger | June 11-June 25, 1909 | +54 | +28 |+34.44
Fort Conger[7] | June 11-June 25, 1882 | +44.4 | +26.7 |+34.883
Fort Conger[8] | June 11-June 25, 1883 | +39.6 | +26.4 |+33.393
==========================================================================
From these values we see that from November 17 to December 13, 1908, the
average temperature at Point Aldrich was 6.21 degrees lower than the
temperature at Cape Sheridan for the same period; that from January 16
to February 12, 1909, the average temperature at Cape Bryant was 1.20
degrees lower than that at Cape Sheridan; that from May 17 to May 22,
1909, the average temperature at Cape Morris Jesup was 4.95 degrees
higher than that at Cape Sheridan; and that from June 11 to June 25,
1909, the average temperature at Fort Conger was practically the same as
that at Cape Sheridan during this period.
BAROMETER READINGS (UNCORRECTED)
=================+=======================+========+=======+======+=========
Station | Date |Maximum |Minimum| Mean | Mean
| | ° | ° | ° | °
| | | | | Fort
| | | | |Conger[9]
-----------------+-----------------------+--------+-------+------+---------
Cape Sheridan | Nov. 13-30, 1908 | 30.42 |28.96 |29.899|
| Dec., 1908 | 30.27 |29.28 |29.749| 29.922
| Jan., 1909 | 30.42 |29.18 |29.752| 29.796
| Feb., 1909 | 30.59 |29.03 |29.772| 29.672
| March, 1909 | 30.89 |29.69 |30.282| 29.893
| April, 1909 | 30.58 |29.20 |29.991| 30.099
| May, 1909 | 30.60 |29.39 |30.105| 30.066
| June, 1909 | 30.21 |29.37 |29.804| 29.878
| Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | 30.42 |29.26 |29.866|
| Jan. 16-Feb. 4, 1909 | 30.40 |29.18 |29.691|
|May 14-May 22, 1909 | 30.52 |30.04 |30.304|
|June 11-June 25, 1909 | 30.10 |29.47 |29.834|
Point Aldrich |Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | 30.51 |29.35 |29.998|
Cape Bryant |Jan. 16-Feb. 4, 1909 | 30.10 |29.83 |29.976|
Cape Morris Jesup|May 14-May 22, 1909 | 30.70 |30.24 |30.469|
Fort Conger |June 11-June 25, 1909 | 30.19 |29.74 |30.013|
Fort Conger[10] |June 11-June 25, 1882 | 30.129 |29.416 |29.817|
Fort Conger[10] |June 11-June 25, 1883 | 30.218 |29.590 |29.949|
=================+=======================+========+=======+======+=========
The above tabulation shows that during the month the average fluctuation
of the barometer at Cape Sheridan amounts to 1.2 inches, being greatest
in February and least in June.
An inspection of the monthly means shows that the barometer at Cape
Sheridan is lowest for the months of December and January, or about
January 1st, and highest about April 1st, the range of the fluctuation
being about 0.5 inch. These results agree well with those obtained by
Greely at Fort Conger and illustrated by a diagram upon p. 166, Vol. II,
of his Report.
From a tabulation made according to hours of the day, but not given
here, there is seen to be a diurnal fluctuation at Cape Sheridan
amounting to a little more than 1/100 of an inch. The minima of this
fluctuation are fairly well defined from November to April and occur at
about 2 o'clock both A.M. and P.M.
After leaving Etah, August 17, 1908, on the voyage northward until July
12, 1909, thermograms covering 5-1/2 months and barograms covering nine
months of this interval were obtained from self-recording instruments.
These are records in addition to the direct hourly readings of the
thermometer and barometer made by the tide observers and from which the
above results have been deduced.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Transmitted by O. H. TITTMANN, Superintendent, Coast and Geodetic
Survey.
[5] These observations were made by Marvin and MacMillan, assisted by
Borup, seaman Barnes, and fireman Wiseman.--R.E.P.
[6] Results from Greely's observations, 1881-83, covering a period of
nearly two years.
[7] Observations made in 1875-76 and 1881-83. Greely's Report, Vol. II,
p. 230.
[8] Greely's Report, Vol. II, pp. 196, 197, 220, 221. Hourly readings
used.
[9] Observations made in 1881-83. Greely's Report, Vol. II, p. 166.
[10] Greely's Report, Vol. II, pp. 122, 123, 146, 147. Hourly readings
are reduced to sea level.
APPENDIX II
_Facsimiles of Original Observations by Marvin, Bartlett, and Peary and
of Original Certificates by Marvin and Bartlett, respectively, during
the Sledge Journey to the Pole._
I. Marvin's Observations, March 22, 1909.
II. Marvin's Observations, March 25, 1909.
III. Certificate of Marvin as to the Position of the Expedition on
March 25, 1909.
IV. Bartlett's Observations, April 1, 1909.
V. Certificate of Bartlett as to the Position of the Expedition
April 1, 1909.
VI. Peary's Observations April 6, 1909.
[NOTE.--The originals were all made in pencil in notebooks. The
engravings in line printed in this appendix are reproductions in
slightly reduced size of tracings carefully made of the original
manuscripts. The enclosing line in each case indicates the edges of the
leaf on which the original work was written.
The size of this leaf is, with practical uniformity throughout the
series, 4 x 6-3/4 inches. The facsimiles of Peary's observations of
April 7, 1909, (_q.v._) on pages 292 and 293 have been similarly made
but are in the exact size of the originals. _The Publishers._]
[Illustration: I. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S
OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 22, 1909]
[Illustration: (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S
OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 22, 1909]
[Illustration: II. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: II. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: II. (_c_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: III. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: III. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: III. (_c_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909]
[Illustration: IV. FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF BARTLETT'S
OBSERVATIONS OF APRIL 1, 1909]
[Illustration: V. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
BARTLETT'S CERTIFICATE OF APRIL 1, 1909]
[Illustration: V. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF
BARTLETT'S CERTIFICATE OF APRIL 1, 1909]
[Illustration: VI. FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF PEARY'S
OBSERVATIONS OF APRIL 6, 1909]
APPENDIX III
_Report of the sub-committee of the National Geographic Society on
Peary's Records, and Some of the Honors Awarded for the Attainment of
the Pole._
The Board of Managers of the National Geographic Society at a meeting
held at Hubbard Memorial Hall, November 4, 1909, received the following
report:
"The sub-committee to which was referred the task of examining the
records of Commander Peary in evidence of his having reached the North
Pole, beg to report that they have completed their task.
"Commander Peary has submitted to his sub-committee his original journal
and record of observations, together with all his instruments and
apparatus, and certain of the most important of the scientific results
of his expedition. These have been carefully examined by your
sub-committee, and they are unanimously of the opinion that Commander
Peary reached the North Pole on April 6, 1909.
"They also feel warranted in stating that the organization, planning,
and management of the expedition, its complete success, and its
scientific results, reflect the greatest credit on the ability of
Commander Robert E. Peary, and render him worthy of the highest honors
that the National Geographic Society can bestow upon him."
(_Signed_) HENRY GANNETT.[11]
C. M. CHESTER.[12]
O. H. TITTMANN.[13]
The foregoing report was unanimously approved.
Immediately after this action the following resolutions were unanimously
adopted:
"_Whereas_, Commander Robert E. Peary has reached the North Pole, the
goal sought for centuries; and
"_Whereas_, this is the greatest geographical achievement that this
society can have opportunity to honor: Therefore
"_Resolved_, that a special medal be awarded to Commander Peary."
* * * * *
Among the home and foreign honors awarded for the attainment of the pole
are the following:
The Special Great Gold Medal of the National Geographic Society of
Washington.
The Special Gold Medal of the Philadelphia Geographical Society.
The Helen Culver Medal of the Chicago Geographical Society.
The Honorary Degree of Doctor of Laws from Bowdoin College.
The Special Great Gold Medal of the Royal Geographical Society of
London.
The Nachtigall Gold Medal of the Imperial German Geographical Society.
The King Humbert Gold Medal of the Royal Italian Geographical Society.
The Hauer Medal of the Imperial Austrian Geographical Society.
The Gold Medal of the Hungarian Geographical Society.
The Gold Medal of the Royal Belgian Geographical Society.
The Gold Medal of the Royal Geographical Society of Antwerp.
[14]A Special Trophy from the Royal Scottish Geographical Society--a
replica in silver of the ships used by Hudson, Baffin, and Davis.
The Honorary Degree of Doctor of Laws from the Edinburgh University.
Honorary Membership in the Manchester Geographical Society.
Honorary Membership in the Royal Netherlands Geographical Society of
Amsterdam.
[Illustration: THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC
SOCIETY OF WASHINGTON
(This medal is four inches in diameter)]
[Illustration: THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL
SOCIETY OF LONDON. (ACTUAL SIZE)
(Designed by the wife of Captain Robert F. Scott, R. N., Leader of the
British South Polar Expeditions of 1901-1904 and 1910-1912)]
FOOTNOTES:
[11] HENRY GANNETT, _chairman of the committee_ which reported on
Commander Peary's observations, has been chief geographer of the United
States Geological Survey since 1882; he is the author of "Manual of
Topographic Surveying," "Statistical Atlases of the Tenth and Eleventh
Censuses," "Dictionary of Altitudes," "Magnetic Declination in the
United States," Stanford's "Compendium of Geography," and of many
government reports. Mr. Gannett is vice-president of the National
Geographic Society and was one of the founders of the society in 1888.
[12] _Rear-Admiral_ COLBY M. CHESTER, _United States Navy_, was
graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1863. He has held
practically every important command under the Navy Department,
including superintendent of the United States Naval Observatory,
commander-in-chief Atlantic Squadron, Superintendent of the United
States Naval Academy, Chief Hydrographic Division, United States Navy.
Admiral Chester has been known for many years as one of the best and
most particular navigators in the service.
[13] O. H. TITTMANN has been Superintendent of the United States Coast
and Geodetic Survey since 1900. He is the member for the United States
of the Alaskan Boundary Commission and was one of the founders of the
National Geographic Society.
[14] At Edinburgh, at the conclusion of the address to the Royal
Scottish Geographical Society, Lord Balfour of Burleigh presented to
Commander Peary a silver model of a ship such as was used by illustrious
arctic navigators in the olden times. The ship is a copy of a
three-masted vessel in full sail, such as was in use in the latter part
of the sixteenth century. The model is a beautiful specimen of the
silversmith's art. On one of the sails is engraved the badge of the
Royal Scottish Geographical Society, while another bears the inscription
in Latin from the pen of Mr. W. B. Blaikie, which, translated, is as
follows:
"This model of a ship, such as was used by John Davis, Henry Hudson, and
William Baffin, illustrious arctic navigators of the olden time, has
been presented by the Royal Scottish Geographical Society as an evidence
of its congratulation, admiration, and recognition to Robert Edwin
Peary, American citizen, an explorer of the frozen Arctic, not less
daring than his daring predecessors, who was the first to attain to that
thrice-noble goal so long sought by innumerable bold mariners, the North
Pole. Edinburgh, May 24th, 1910."
INDEX
_Advance_, S.S., xxii.
Africa, 75.
Aground, 113.
Ahteah, 131.
Ahtetah, 178.
Ahwatingwah, 141, 235.
Akatingwah, 60.
Alarm of fire, 35.
Alaska, 344, 345.
Aldrich, xxiii.
_Alert_, S.S., 91, 129, 184.
Aletah, 117, 141.
Alps, 166.
American, flag, 30, 294, 296, 335;
route, 5.
Amundsen, Roald, xxi.
Amusements, 109, 181.
Andree, xxvi.
Angakok, 65.
Anniversary Lodge, 130.
Anoratok, 55, 76, 333.
Antarctic, xx.
"Antarctica," 180.
"Antarctic Regions, The," 180.
Arco, 141, 213, 235.
Arctic, Archipelago, 341, 344;
Circle, xvi;
(crossing the, 36), 53, 79, 186;
fisheries, xv;
hares, 54, 110, 127, 138, 182, 189, 315;
moon, 163;
night, 37;
Ocean, 4, 49, 193, 216, 337-344.
Asia, xvi, 75.
Associated Press, 334.
Astronomical observations, 211.
Astrup, xxix.
Atlantic Ocean, xx, xxi, 343.
Aurora, 186.
Austrian-Hungarian expedition, xxvii.
Back River, xx.
Baffin Bay, xxi, xxvii, 3, 88, 90, 341-343.
Baffin, William, xxvii.
Balch, 180.
Bald Head, 33.
Balfour, Lord, 365.
Banks Land, 346.
Barents, William, xv, xxvii.
Barnes, John, 23, 167, 326.
Barometer reading, 348.
Bartlett, Robert, 76.
Bartlett, Capt. Robert A., appreciation of, 269;
career, 19, 20;
decorating the ship, 130;
delayed by leads, 308, 312;
departure from _Roosevelt_, 213;
despatch to his mother, 334;
dynamiting the ice, 115;
facsimile of certificate, 360, 361;
facsimile of observations, 359;
farthest north, 267;
hunting, 141, 179, 182, 191;
in crow's nest, 105;
master of the _Roosevelt_, 23, 111, 326;
pioneer division, 203, 205, 214, 237, 241;
returning to _Roosevelt_, 325;
sounding, 262;
taking observations, 266, 268;
trail, 310, 314.
Bartlett, Capt. Sam, 76.
Bathurst, Cape, 345.
Battle Harbor, 332, 334.
Bay, Baffin, xxi, xxvii, 3, 88, 90, 341-343;
Black Cliffs, 130, 179;
Cape York, 55;
Casco, 27;
Dobbin, 99;
Independence, xxix, 151, 276;
James Ross, 143, 144, 155, 179;
Lady Franklin, 78, 329;
Lincoln, 98, 106, 110, 112, 117, 118;
McCormick, xxix;
Melville, 36, 37, 39, 40, 53;
Newman, 188;
North Star, 38, 73;
of Fundy, 168;
of Naples, 74;
Oyster, 26;
Porter, 118, 120, 134, 140, 142, 143, 276;
Princess Marie, 100;
Robertson, 74;
Teplitz, 345.
Beaufort Sea, 345.
Beaumont Island, 337.
Beechey, Cape, 90.
Belknap, Cape, 134, 138, 188.
Benedict, H. H., 31.
Bennett Island, 344-346
Bently, James, 23, 326
Bering, Sea, xvii, xx, xxi;
Strait, xxi, 290.
"Big Lead," crossed, 232, 314;
described, 197, 237;
Eskimos' fear of, 191.
Black Cape, 118, 119;
River, 120.
Black Cliffs Bay, 130, 179.
Blackwell's Island, 25, 26.
Booth, Felix, xviii, xix.
Boothia Felix, xix.
Borchgrevink, 180.
Borup, Col., 29.
Borup, George, account of walrus hunting, 80-87;
added to expedition, 21;
built monument at Cape Columbia, 325;
captured musk-ox calf, 330;
career, 22;
celebrating, 184;
delayed by leads, 312;
deposited cache at Cape Fanshawe Martin, 325;
division, 203, 214, 237, 241;
farthest north, 243;
hunting, 141, 156, 179, 188, 330;
return to _Roosevelt_, 325;
taking observations, 168;
turned back, 243.
Bowdoin College, xxviii, 296;
degree of LL.D., 365.
Box houses, 123, 177, 178, 188.
Brainard, xxiii, 337.
Breton, Cape, 28.
Brevoort, Cape, 188;
Island, 90.
Bridgman, Herbert L., 16, 25, 27, 334.
British Arctic expedition, 38, 129.
Bryant, Cape, 168, 188, 190, 191, 330-348.
By-pass, 101, 104.
Cabot Strait, 35.
Cache of supplies, 110, 119, 191.
Cagni, xxvi.
Cairn, _Alert_, 129;
_Roosevelt_, 129.
Camp, Abruzzi, 308;
Morris K. Jesup, 290;
No. 4, 237;
No. 5, 237;
No. 8, 327;
No. 11, 310;
No. 19, 249.
Canada, xx, 334, 335.
Cantilever, 55.
Cape, Bathurst, 345;
Beechey, 90;
Belknap, 134, 138, 188;
Breton, 28;
Brevoort, 188;
Bryant, 168, 188, 190, 191, 339-348;
Colan, 134, 179, 190, 191;
Columbia, 4, 6, 7, 130-237, 280, 295, 310-329, 338-341, 347;
Fanshawe Martin, 325;
Farewell, xv;
Frazer, 91;
Hecla, 141, 159, 190, 217, 226, 280, 317;
Joseph Henry, 92, 222, 337;
Lieber, 102;
May, 337;
Morris K. Jesup, 13, 21, 253, 254, 295, 326, 328, 338, 348;
Rawson, 120, 317;
Richardson, 134, 138, 140, 168;
Sabine, 39, 89, 94, 95, 124, 332;
Saumarez, 74, 332;
Sheridan, 5, 6, 38, 77, 88-129, 157, 168, 178, 193, 213,
325, 330, 332, 339-349;
St. Charles, 34;
St. George, 35;
Thomas Hubbard, 21, 110, 295, 325;
Union, 110, 118, 188, 332;
York, 32, 35, 39-46, 70-73, 271, 334.
Cape Sheridan River, 184.
Cape York Bay, 55
Carnegie Institution, 76.
Cary Islands, 38.
Casco Bay, 27.
Central Polar Sea, 38.
Char, 128.
Chester, C. M., 363.
Chicago Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
China, xv, 169.
Christmas, 185.
Clark, 271.
Clements Markham Inlet, 141, 145, 156, 157, 179, 188, 190,
330.
Coady, John, 23, 326.
Coast and Geodetic Survey, 337, 339, 340.
Colan, Cape, 134, 179, 190, 191.
Collinson, Richard, xxi.
Columbia, Cape, 4, 6, 7, 130-237, 280, 295, 310-329,
338-341, 347.
Columbus, xxxii.
Connors, John, 23, 326.
Cook, Dr. Frederick A., 75, 76, 333.
Coppermine River, xix.
Cornell University, 252, 254, 322.
Crafts, C. C., 76.
"Crane City," 223, 316.
Crane, Zenas, 16, 25.
"Crimson Cliffs," 72.
Crocker Land, 5, 341, 345, 346.
Crow's nest, 105, 112.
Crozier, xix, xx.
Daily ration, 209.
Dante, 255.
Daughters of the American Revolution, 30.
Davis, John, xv.
Davis Strait, xxi, 3, 73.
Dawn, 160.
Deep-sea soundings, 210.
Deer, 65, 87, 138, 140, 144, 145, 182.
De Long, Com., xxiv, 344.
Delta Kappa Epsilon Fraternity, 30, 296.
Departure from _Roosevelt_, 213.
Diagram of soundings, 338.
Dickson, Capt., 331.
_Discovery_, S.S., 91.
Dividing line, 40.
Dobbin Bay, 99.
Dogs, Eskimo, condition of, 169;
feeding on return march, 305;
harnesses, 136.
_Douglas H. Thomas_, S.S., 334.
Duck Islands, 37, 38, 39.
Duke of the Abruzzi, 12, 180, 236, 252, 254, 298, 308.
_Eagle_, S.S., 28.
Eagle Island, 27, 28, 31.
East Greenland, xxvii.
Edinburgh University, Degree of LL.D., 365.
Egingwah, 69, 76, 142, 143, 146, 147, 148, 167, 251, 267,
269, 271, 299, 312.
Eider-ducks, 138.
Ellesmere Land, 76, 89, 90, 93.
Emergency outfit, 96.
_Erebus_, S.S., xx.
_Erik_, S.S., 73, 74, 75, 76, 77.
Eskimos, astronomers, 67;
burial customs, 65;
characteristics of, 46;
clothing, 131;
dogs, 70, 135, 169;
fear of "Big Lead," 191;
fish spear, 127;
home of a little tribe of, 36, 39;
housecleaning on _Roosevelt_, 330;
human qualities, 44;
language, 50;
marriage, 59;
method of fishing, 127;
money, 72;
music, 65;
of Danish Greenland, 46;
on shipboard, 98;
religion, 63;
rewarded, 323;
sledge, 135, 217, 219, 237;
theory as to origin, 49;
villages, 42;
whip, 136.
Etah, 6, 38, 39, 43, 46, 73, 79, 88, 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 103,
106, 124, 170, 213, 333.
Expedition, Austrian-Hungarian, xxvii;
British Arctic, 38, 129;
first of Peary Arctic Club, 11, 12;
German North Polar, xxvii;
Greely's, 329;
Hayes', 38;
Kallistenius, 38;
Koldewey's, 180;
Lady Franklin Bay, 168;
of 1905-6, 2, 91, 184, 302;
Polaris, 38.
Fanshawe Martin, Cape, 325.
"Farthest North" of 1906, 188.
Farewell, Cape, xv.
Field work, 188.
First Despatch from Peary, 334.
Flag, American, 30, 294, 296, 335;
North Pole, 335.
Flaxman Island, 344, 345.
Fort Conger, 93, 148, 168, 329, 339-348.
Fort Totten, 26.
Fourth of July, 331.
Fox, 54, 127, 257, 307, 315, 328.
_Fram_, S.S., xxv, 121, 338, 345.
Franke, Rudolph, 75.
Franklin, Lady, xx.
Franklin, Sir John, xix, 9, 298, 321;
record of death, xxi.
Franz Josef Land, xxvi.
Frazer, Cape, 91.
Frederiksthaal, xxvii.
Fricker, Carl, 180.
Gannett, Henry, 363.
Generosity of the public, 18.
German North Polar expedition, xxvii.
_Gjoa_, sloop, xxi.
Glacial fringe, 194, 216, 314, 315.
Goodsell, Dr. J. W., career, 21;
extract from his journal, 157;
exploring, 106, 128;
hunting, 141, 179, 188;
moving supplies, 138, 191;
reached ship, 325;
recording temperature, 190;
slips from floe, 108;
turns back, 235.
Grant Land, 4, 6, 7, 38, 40, 90, 93, 134, 142, 168, 179, 193,
195, 300-315.
Great Britain, xv, xxiii, 269.
Great Fish River, xix.
Great Greenland ice-cap, xxix, 53, 275, 276, 284.
"Great Night," 161, 183.
Greely, Lieut. A. W., xxx, xxxi, 39, 94, 180, 329, 340, 346,
348.
Greenland, xxiii, xxix, xxx, 4, 11, 28, 32, 38, 45, 50, 89,
90, 102, 130, 187, 188, 195, 211-219, 303, 304, 325, 337;
storms, 166;
Sea, 345.
Grinnell, Henry, xxii.
Grinnell Land, 49.
Grosvenor, Gilbert H., xxxii.
Gulf of St. Lawrence, 101.
Gushue, Thomas, 23, 112, 326.
Hakluyt Island, 73.
Hall Basin, xxii.
Hall, Chas. Francis, xxii, 3, 180, 328.
Hares, arctic, 54, 110, 127, 138, 182, 189, 315.
Hareskin stockings, 257.
Harkness, 34, 35.
"Harrigan," 132, 203, 253, 319.
Harris, R. A., 337.
Harrison, 345.
Hawks Harbor, 34.
Hayes, 38, 180.
Hecla, Cape, 141, 159, 190, 217, 226, 280.
Henry VIII of England, xv.
Henson, Matthew, at the Pole, 296;
career, 20;
celebrating, 184;
chosen for final dash, 272;
hunting trips, 141, 179;
hunting walrus, 81;
interpreter, 109;
moving supplies, 191;
pioneer division, 241;
repairing sledge, 246;
teaches igloo building, 172;
visits Eskimos, 73.
House where Peary wintered in 1901-2, 93.
Hubbard, General Thomas H., 16, 25, 124.
Hubbard Memorial Hall, 363.
Hubbardville, 124, 128.
"Hudson, the," 226.
Hudson, Henry, xv, 298;
Strait, 169.
Hungarian Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Ice cake ferry, 250, 308.
Ice, dynamiting the, 115.
Iceland, 345.
Igloo, construction of snow, 172, 173;
construction of stone, 54, 57.
Imperial Austrian Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Imperial German Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Independence, Bay, xxix, 18, 99, 151, 276;
Bluff, 215.
Inglefield, 180;
Gulf, 73.
Indian Harbor, 334.
Indies, xv, xvi.
Inighito, 141, 160, 167.
Instrument used for observation at the Pole, 288.
Ikwah, 52, 271.
Italian record, 252, 269.
Island, Beaumont, 337;
Bennett, 344, 346;
Blackwell, 25, 26;
Brevoort, 90;
Cary, 38;
Duck, 37-39;
Eagle, 27, 28, 31;
Flaxman, 344, 345;
Hakluyt, 73;
New Siberian, 49, 344;
Northumberland, 73;
Prince Patrick, 346;
Salvo, 72;
Spitzbergen, 341, 342;
Turnavik, 35.
Itiblu Glacier, 74.
Jackman, Captain, 28.
Jackson, xxvi.
James Ross Bay, 143, 144, 155, 179.
Jamestown, xv.
_Jeannette_, S.S., xxiv, xxv, 101, 345.
Jefferds, 334.
Jesup Land, 295.
Johansen, xxv.
Johnson, 76.
Joseph Henry, Cape, 92, 222, 337.
Joyce, Patrick, 23, 326.
Kallistenius, 38.
Kamiks, 132, 209, 257.
Kane Basin, 36, 53, 73, 94, 342, 343.
Kane, Elisha Kent, xxii, 38, 180, 298.
Kangerdlooksoah, 74.
Karko, 141, 203, 253, 266.
Karnah, 74.
Kayaks, 42, 68.
Kennedy Channel, 102, 331, 342, 343.
Keshungwah, 141, 168, 203, 253, 266.
King William Land, xx, xxi.
Kislingbury, Lieut., 329.
"Kitchen boxes," 131, 139.
_Kite_, S.S., xxviii.
Knitting breaks in trail, 207.
Koldewey, 180.
Kookan, 74.
Koolatoonah, 142, 146, 148, 153, 155.
Kooletah, 131.
Koolootingwah, 235.
Kudlooktoo, 213, 218, 220, 231, 253, 319.
Kyoahpahdo, 65.
Kyutah, 141, 218, 220, 223, 227.
Labrador, 32, 34, 35, 77.
Lady Franklin Bay, 78, 168, 329.
Lake Hazen, 118, 127, 141, 179, 182, 188.
Land in unknown Arctic, 339.
Larned, Walter A., 76.
Leads, 196, 207, 221, 222, 236-285, 305.
Leffingwell, 345.
Lena, xxv.
Lieber, Cape, 102.
Lincoln, Bay, 93, 106, 110, 112, 117, 118;
Sea, 91, 342.
Lions of the North, 79.
Lockwood, xxiii, 321, 337.
Long night, 162.
Long, Thomas, xxiv.
Low Point Light, 29.
Lunar hours, 341.
Lunitidal interval, 340.
McClintock, Leopold, xxi.
McClure, Robert, xxi.
McCormick Bay, xxix.
MacMillan, Prof. Donald B., career, 21;
entertains Eskimos, 231;
expedition to Clements Markham Inlet, 157;
finds Greely relics, 329;
his Eskimos overcome, 158;
hunting walrus, 81, 82, 83;
ill with grip, 128, 140;
moving supplies, 191;
reached ship, 325;
reconnoitering, 117;
sent back for supplies, 227;
sounding, 222;
takes charge of sports, 185;
tidal observations, 167;
turns back, 236.
Magellan, xxxii.
Manchester Geographical Society, honorary membership, 365.
Markham, Sir Clements, xxiii, xxx, 49, 180, 222, 337.
Marvin, Prof. Ross G., appreciation of his work, 319;
celebrating, 184;
comes back with supplies, 235;
delayed by leads, 308;
facsimile of certificate, 356-358;
facsimile of observations, 351-355;
last message, 321;
news of his death, 318;
pioneer division, 237, 241, 243;
replaces _Alert's_ record, 129;
returns to "Crane City," 223;
return from Cape Bryant, 191;
soundings, 222;
starts for Greenland coast, 187;
starts south, 253;
takes supplies to Cape Belknap, 138;
taking observations, 168, 249, 252;
teaching igloo building, 172;
tidal igloo split by pressure, 177.
May, Cape, 337.
Mayen, Jan, xv.
_Mayflower_, S.S., 26.
Medals, 364, 365.
Melville Bay, 36, 37, 39, 40, 53.
Melville, G. W., xxv., 298.
Meridian observations, method of taking, 288.
Meteorological observations, 339.
Meteorology, 346.
Method for loading sledge, 209.
Mikkelsen, 345.
Mills, Hugh Robert, 180.
Mongolian types among Eskimos, 49.
Monument to Marvin, 321.
Morris K. Jesup, Camp, 290;
Cape, 13, 21, 253, 254, 295, 326, 328, 338, 348.
Murphy, Denis, 23, 82, 326.
Murphy, John, 20, 23, 75, 76.
Musk-oxen, 110, 151-157, 183, 189-191.
Nansen, Dr., v, xxv, xxix, xxx, 12, 121, 180, 244, 251-254,
308.
Nares, George, xxiii, xxx, 180.
_Narkeeta_, S.S., 26.
Narwhal, 87, 132.
National Geographic Society, medal of, 365;
report on Peary's record, 363;
resolutions, 364.
"Nautical Almanac and Navigator," 289.
Navy League, 80.
Nelson, xvi.
Nerke, 74, 332.
New Bedford, 27.
Newfoundland, 76.
New Land, xxiv.
Newman Bay, 188.
New Siberian Islands, 49, 344.
New York, 2, 3, 6, 12, 25, 26, 34, 37, 42, 53, 76, 92, 111,
121.
Nordenskjöld, 11, 180.
North America, xvi, xix.
Northeast Passage, xvi.
Northern Greenland, 53.
North Grant Land, 90, 128, 194.
North Pole, defined, 291;
flag, 335;
hill, 309;
magnetic xvii, xix.
North River, 92.
_North Star_, S.S., 27, 38.
North Star Bay, 38, 73.
North Sydney, 29.
Northumberland Island, 73.
Northwest Passage, xvi, xviii, xx, xxi.
Norton, George S., 76.
Norway, 345.
Norwegian record, 250, 251.
Note to Marvin, 232.
Nova Zembla, xxvii.
Nunatoksoah, 74.
Observations, tidal and meteorological, 168, 188, 211, 243,
248, 266, 268, 284, 287, 289, 290, 318, 329, 337, 339,
342, 348, 350-355, 359, 362.
Ocean, Arctic, 4, 49, 193, 216, 337, 344;
Atlantic, xx, xxi, 343;
Pacific, xxi.
Odometer, 211.
Ohlsen, 38.
Onkilon, 49.
"On the _Polar Star_ in the Arctic Sea," 180.
Onwagipsoo, 142.
Ooblooyah, 117, 142, 143, 146, 147, 149, 153, 155, 167.
Oomunnui, 78.
Ooqueah, 52, 69, 73, 117, 141, 203, 247, 253, 269, 271, 304.
Ootah, 7, 69, 76, 117, 141, 235, 253, 267, 269, 271, 316.
Oyster Bay, 26.
Pacific Ocean, xxi.
Panikpah, 141, 191, 230.
Paraselene, 175.
Parhelion, 176.
Parish, Henry, 16.
Parr, 337.
Parry, xvii, xviii, xix, xxiii, xxx;
Peninsula, 145, 159.
Payer, xxvi, 180;
Harbor, 92, 93, 94.
Peabody, Geo., xxii.
"Pearyaksoah," 52.
Peary Arctic Club, 13, 15, 25, 26, 27, 95, 103, 124, 204, 253,
326, 334, 335.
Peary Land, 342.
Peary, Marie Ahnighito, 31, 130.
Peary, Mrs. Robert E., xxix, 19, 26, 27, 29, 30, 45, 49, 93,
186, 294, 299, 334.
Peary, Robert E., Jr., 29, 113.
"Peary," sledge, 122, 135, 174, 217, 219, 237, 277.
Peary's observation, April 6, facsimile, 362.
"Peary system," 201.
Percy, Charles, 20, 23, 32, 99, 113, 130, 164, 181, 184, 186,
326, 327.
Percy, George, 23, 326.
Permanent monument, 325.
Petersen, 38, 128.
Philadelphia Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Phipps, J. C., xvi.
Piblokto, 166, 167, 178.
Pilgrim Fathers, xv.
Pingahshoo, 184.
Pioneer party, 203-205, 214, 237, 241.
Pitlekaj, 344, 345.
Plan, 3.
Plymouth Rock, xv.
Point, Aldrich, 339, 340, 343, 345, 347, 348;
Amour Light, 33, 34;
Barrow, 344-346;
Good, 159;
Moss, 4.
Polar, Basin, 345;
bear, 54, 75, 79, 130, 132, 146, 156, 169, 252, 309, 315;
Sea, 5, 88, 90, 134, 193, 195, 206, 207, 237, 255, 262,
315, 320.
_Polaris_, S.S., xxiii, 38, 91, 102.
Polaris Promontory, 188, 190.
Polar pack, 337.
Poodloonah, 141, 167, 230, 253.
Porter Bay, 118, 120, 134, 140, 142, 143, 276.
Pressure ridges, 194, 196, 205, 207, 217, 250, 260, 261.
Prince Patrick Island, 346.
Princess Marie Bay, 100.
Pritchard, William, 23, 75.
_Proteus_, S.S., 91.
_Protococcus nivalis_, 72.
Rae, xx.
Raven, Anton A., 16.
Rawson, Cape, 120, 317.
Record of 1906, 262.
Recrossing the "big lead" in 1906, 41.
Redcliffe Peninsula, 74.
"Red snow," 72.
Regan, 331.
Reindeer, 54, 110, 118, 143, 183.
Relay parties, 187.
Return in November, 1906, 32.
Return of the sun, 227.
Richardson, Cape, 134, 138, 140, 168.
Robertson Bay, 74.
Robeson Channel, 77, 102, 122, 134, 168, 188, 190, 328, 329,
342.
Roosevelt, Mrs. Theodore, 26, 27.
_Roosevelt_, the, after deckhouse, 31;
aground, 115;
American built, 19;
at Lincoln Bay, 112;
bucking ice, 100, 110;
cairn, 129;
caught off Victoria Head, 95;
collision with berg, 89;
damaged by ice, 114, 119;
departure from, 213;
Eskimo quarters on, 98, 124;
goes on to Etah, 73;
gripped in the ice, 177;
igloos on deck, 175;
in storm, 1906, 32;
in winter quarters, 126;
leaves Etah, 89;
leaves Lincoln Bay, 118;
leaves New York, 25;
leaves Sydney, 29;
leaving Cape York, 72;
leaving winter quarters, 331;
loaded deep, 77;
loading walrus, 87;
method of procedure, 91, 92;
passing Cape Sabine, 94;
passing Payer Harbor, 93;
Peary's cabin on, 30;
put in fighting trim, 75;
reaches Cape Breton, 334;
reaches Cape Sheridan, 120;
reaches Cape York, 42;
repairs and changes, 13;
return to, 317, 325;
return to Battle Harbor, 334;
standing by hunters, 80;
steaming northward, 36;
unloading, 122;
visits Eagle Island, 27;
winter home on the, 162, 166.
Roosevelt, Theodore, viii, 26, 27, 30, 339;
his good-by to Peary, vii.
Ross, James Clark, xix, 334.
Ross, Capt. John, 72, xviii.
Route of return in 1906, 304.
Royal Belgian Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Royal Geographical Society of Antwerp, medal of, 365.
Royal Geographical Society of London, 49;
medal of, 365.
Royal Italian Geographical Society, medal of, 365.
Royal Netherlands Geographical Society of Amsterdam, honorary
membership, 365.
Royal Scottish Geographical Society, special trophy, 365.
Sabine, Cape, 39, 89, 94, 95, 124, 332.
Sagamore Hill, 27.
Sail Harbor, 134, 142, 145, 155.
Salvo Island, 72.
Sanderson Hope, xv.
Sandy Hook, 168.
Saumarez, Cape, 74, 332.
Scoresby, William, xxvii.
Scotch whalers, 37.
Scott, Banks, 23, 326.
Scott, Capt., 180.
Seal, 65, 250.
Secretary of Commerce and Labor, 339.
Seegloo, 69, 73, 141, 167, 203, 234, 269, 271, 299.
_Sheelah_, S.S., 334.
Sheridan, Cape, 5, 6, 38, 77, 88-129, 157, 168, 178, 193, 213,
325, 330, 332, 339, 349.
Siberia, xxiv, 49, 344, 345.
"Siege of the South Pole," 180.
Skeans, Patrick, 23, 326.
Sledge, Eskimo, 122, 135, 217, 219, 237, 277;
"Peary," 122, 135, 174, 217, 219, 237, 277.
Smith Sound, xxvii, 3, 5, 76, 77, 124, 180, 342, 343.
Sontag, 38, 321.
Sounding apparatus, 210.
Soundings, 210, 222, 227, 236, 246, 262, 304, 309, 329, 337,
338.
"_Southern Cross_ Expedition to the Antarctic," 180.
Spitzbergen Islands, xv, xvii, 341, 342.
St. Charles, Cape, 34.
St. George, Cape, 35.
Stepping Stone Light, 26.
"Storm camp," 243, 306.
Straits of Belle Isle, 3, 32.
Styx, 225, 226.
Summer solstice, 330.
Supplies, 23.
Supporting party, 204, 206.
Sydney, C. B., 3, 6, 23, 28, 29, 32, 42, 77, 299, 334.
Tampa, Florida, 42.
Tasmania, xix.
Tawchingwah, 141.
Temperature tables, 346, 347.
Tents, 139.
Teplitz Bay, 345.
_Terror_, S.S., xix.
Thank God Harbor, 102.
Thanksgiving Day, 179.
Thomas Hubbard, Cape, 21, 110, 295, 325.
Tide, staves, 339;
table, 340.
Tiger of the North, 79.
_Tigress_, ship, xxiii.
Tittmann, Supt. O. H., 337, 364.
Tookoomah, 187.
Tornarsuk, 64, 147, 148, 150, 215, 219.
Toxingwa, 158.
Transportation of supplies, 130, 134, 191, 327.
Tupiks, 44, 54, 58, 59.
Turnavik Island, 35.
_Tyrian_, S.S., 334.
Unexplored inlet, 154.
Union, Cape, 110, 118, 188, 332.
United States, 170, 316.
Victoria Head, 95.
_Victory_, S.S., xviii.
"Voyage of the _Discovery_," 180.
"Voyage to the Polar Sea," 180.
_Wakiva_, S.S., 34.
Walrus, xvi, 65, 77, 79, 80-87, 169, 333.
Walrus-hunting, 80-87.
Wardwell, George A., 20, 23, 101, 326.
Weekly bill of fare, 164.
Weesockasee, 158.
Wesharkoopsi, 84, 85, 142, 145, 168, 235.
Weyprecht, xxvi, 180.
Whale-boat, 29, 31, 79, 80, 84, 95, 123.
Whale factories, 34.
Whale Sound, 3, 54, 74, 79, 87, 328.
Whales, xvi.
White Nile, viii.
Whitney, Harry, 75, 333.
Willoughby, 321.
_Windward_, S.S., 93, 130.
Winter solstice, 184.
Wiseman, John, 23, 326.
Wolf, 54.
Wolf, Dr., 20.
Wolstenholm Sound, 73, 79.
"World's Ensign of Liberty and Peace," 296.
Wrangell Land, xxiv.
York, Cape, 32, 35, 39-46, 70-73, 271, 334.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
List of Illustrations, "Weeshakupsi" changed to "Wesharkoopsi".
Page 21, "Alleghany" changed to "Allegheny". (the Allegheny Valley
Medical)
Page 32, word "it" added to text. (reason that it is)
Page 59, "tries" changed to "dries" (dries out the oil)
Page 64, "appeciation" changed to "appreciation". (appreciation of
these)
Page 117, "Ookeyah" changed to "Ooqueah". (Ooqueah started off)
Page 141, "Kyootah" changed to "Kyutah". (Keshungwah, Kyutah, and Borup)
Page 141, "Ookeyah" changed to "Ooqueah". (Inighito, Ooqueah, Dr.
Goodsell,)
Page 142, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Wesharkoopsi". (Wesharkoopsi, who)
(Wesharkoopsi we took)
Page 145, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Wesharkoopsi". (pile for
Wesharkoopsi) (Wesharkoopsi deposited)
Page 154, "Oobloyah" changed to "Ooblooyah". (a camp. Ooblooyah)
Page 160, "Innighito" changed to "Inighito". (Inighito (an Eskimo))
Page 167, "Ooblooah" changed to "Ooblooyah" (Ooblooyah and Seegloo went)
Page 168, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Weesharkoopsi". (Wesharkoopsi and
Keshungwah)
Page 177, "floe berg" changed to "floe-berg" to conform to rest of text.
Page 203, "Pooadloonah" changed to "Poodloonah". (three Eskimos,
Poodloonah,)
Page 230, "Pooadloonah" changed to "Poodloonah". (excuses of Poodloonah)
Page 237, "good by" changed to "good-by" to conform to rest of text.
Also in illustrations. Also in titles of Chapters XXVII and XXXIII.
Page 253, "Keshingwah" changed to "Keshungwah". (Keshungwah, with three)
Page 266, "Keshingwah" changed to "Keshungwah". (Keshungwah and Karko)
Page 271, "Ikwa" changed to "Ikwah". (old Ikwah of Cape)
Page 296, "Ookeah" changed to "Ooqueah". (and Ooqueah, Eskimos)
Page 319, "Koodlooktoo" changed to "Kudlooktoo". (come back, Kudlooktoo)
Page 370, "Johanson" changed to "Johansen". (Johansen, xxv.)
Page 317, "Ookeyah, 117" changed to "Ooqueah" and added to "Ooqueah"
page list in index.
Page 370, "Kernah" changed to "Karnah". (Karnah, 74.)
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