Fatal North (14 page)

The land to the east of Robeson Strait the men of
Polaris
now called “Hall's Land,” and it would so appear on all future charts and maps. When the weather was calm and very cold, unbroken ice closed off Robeson Channel, but with every strong breeze that blew, the ice gave way, opening the channel for miles at a stretch. Spotting these changing conditions from high in the crow's nest, Tyson reported to Buddington that if they could get the ship off the berg and under way after one of the strong blows, they might succeed in making it into the channel; beyond, they could possibly find open water.

An early breakout might be possible, Tyson told Buddington. “We could head north.” The word north in any discussion gave Buddington obvious discomfort.

Tyson could see his worst fear being realized—that without the heart, soul, and vision of Charles Francis Hall, the expedition's mission to reach the North Pole would be neglected or abandoned. Hall had been worried about this during his illness.
He had once held Tyson's forearm in a strong grip and be-seeched him: “If I die, you
must
still go on to the Pole.”

Tyson felt powerless to keep the promise he made to the dying explorer. For better or worse, it was now Buddington's ship to command, with Bessels in charge of sledges; there was little anyone else could do.

The perpetual darkness continued. Soon would arrive the shortest day of the year. In the everlasting twilight they were hardly able to tell day from night. If not for their timepieces, they would have been constantly confused—all the more with such scant regularity in schedule, duties, or gatherings observed. No longer was there even a stated time for lights out. The men were allowed to do as they pleased, and some of them often made nighttime hideous for others who wished to sleep; loud carousing and card-playing sessions, most often attended by Buddington, went on all night. The commander had, in fact, become one of the unruly mob rather than remaining apart as a strong, effective skipper to maintain discipline. Opening the armory, Buddington had distributed loaded revolvers and other firearms to the crew, although some of the officers, Tyson included, could not imagine what use, under the present circumstances when hunting was not possible, they were expected to make of them.

So far thirteen dogs had been lost—six large ones and seven puppies—from one cause or another. There still remained fifty-four—divided between Newfoundlands and Eskimo Huskies. These animals were exceedingly important to the expedition if there was to be any further advancement north by sledge.

The dogs were generally fed every three days. At first they were fed on dried fish bought for that purpose at the Danish setdements, and sometimes on old seal meat procured at the same time. When those provisions were exhausted, they were given pemmican, a powdery cakelike mix of dried meat, fat, and raisins that was a main staple for the crew, too, as it had long been for polar expeditions due to its ability to withstand spoilage. One forty-five-pound can of pemmican was given to the dogs
at each feeding, an event that was also exciting sport for the crew.

When the dogs were to be fed, the whole pack was let in through the door in the awning over the gangway upon the deck. In the port gangway an Eskimo chopped up the pemmican and divided it in order to give each dog his portion. Several men were on hand to assist and control the dogs. When the food was ready, one dog at a time was allowed to go into the passage and remain there until he had eaten his portion; when he had finished he was put out on the ice again. Utmost vigilance was required to keep the dogs in order and prevent them, after being fed, from rejoining the others and getting a second share, thereby robbing another of his nourishment. At times their attack upon the door of the gangway was so violent that it was almost impossible to keep them back. Two men guarded the door, armed with clubs, which they were compelled to use occasionally upon the wildest and most determined of the creatures. For the men it was hard and dangerous work, but exhilarating, too—as well as a lively performance for those who came on deck to watch.

December arrived, and the ship remained perched on the berg, rising and falling with the tide. The creaking of her timbers as she moved up and down against the berg sounded like volleys of musketry. The berg, which continued to break into smaller pieces, pressed unrelentingly toward the vessel. The ice floe rested against
Polaris
on her seaward side, and to the right and left of this floe hummocks were piled to a height of thirty feet above sea level, some nearly as high as the berg itself. The effect of this constant pressure was to raise the vessel still higher, increasing her steep inclination at low tide. Thus, her condition became worse as the winter advanced.

With the ice piled up high about the stern from the constant pressure of the floe, it now appeared impossible to effect any change in the ship's position. During high tide she was very nearly on even keel, but at low tide the list was exceedingly disagreeable. As she listed to port, those who bunked on that side
did not mind it as much, since they could stay inside their berths, but on the other side it was often difficult to keep in the bunks. A new fire hole was made in the ice and the tidal apparatus erected over it. The regular tidal observations were resumed, after a suspension of fourteen days.

On the second day of the new month, the weather was calm and the temperature rose to minus seven degrees, so many of the men took to outdoor sports. Some drove about the ice, having harnessed several of the dogs to sleds; others coasted on small push sleds near the Observatory. Those who stayed aboard ship whiled away the time in their cabins with cards, dominoes, checkers, and chess, with some games quite spirited.

Inside the compartments, ice formed on the bulkheads. This could not be otherwise, what with so much ice pressed against the hull of the ship, and with the frigid wind whipping against the ship unblocked now without a protective snow wall around them. The berths could not be kept warm enough by the heat from the small cabin stoves, and inside, temperatures dropped so much that outdoor clothing was kept on much of the day.

Tyson had not had a sound night's sleep since Hall's death. One evening, tired of the constant noise on board and longing for a moment's quiet, he wandered away from the ship. One had to be careful taking such casual excursions this time of year, not only because of the darkness and how quickly the ship could be lost from sight, but also the threat of strong, unexpected winds. There was no telltale whistling of the wind among trees, for none existed here. Once out on the open plain, the wind struck full force without notice. The wind was felt before it was heard, except in close proximity to a deeply cut gorge, down which it could come roaring like an out-of-control locomotive.

Once beyond the range of the men's voices, Tyson heard no other sound. It was entirely calm: no wind, no movement of any living creature—nothing but a leaden sky above, ice beneath his feet, and silence everywhere. It hung like a pall over everything. So painfully oppressive did it become that Tyson was tempted to
shout aloud to break the spell. At last he did, but no response came, not even an echo.

 

The space was void; there I stood,

And the sole spectre was the solitude.

 

The twenty-first of December was not allowed to pass without that notice it always received from Arctic explorers. The twilight had daily grown less and less, until it was nothing but a light streak over the southern mountains for a few hours each day. It gave no light, and was just barely discernible. The long-continued darkness had become oppressive. The exclusive use of artificial light began to affect the eyes, and the trouble of carrying a lantern whenever one went out was trying. The absence of light produced the physical effect of languor, from which few in the crew were immune.

Christmas week,
Polaris,
her stem still resting on the foot of the berg and continuously rising and falling on her perch with the tide, sprang a leak. It would have been possible, the officers agreed, to begin repairing the leak—gradually, if not all at once—by working a few hours at a time as the tide permitted, but Buddington gave no orders to attempt the repairs. A regular watch kept up the pumping on an hourly basis.

On Christmas Eve, all hands gathered in the lower cabin to exchange gifts and trinkets, most drawn from the ship's stores. The object of the greatest admiration was a small Christmas tree that stood in the middle of a table, a regular pine in appearance that someone had found living a solitary life on the tundra. It was laden with golden fruit and toys; wax candles burning from every bough added to the effect.

Dr. Bessel sliced open a branch with a knife—not unlike bleeding a patient—and as the sap poured forth it was gathered in glasses, and pronounced by all as delicious.

The cook and steward set another bountiful table with very good steaks taken from a portion of the musk ox killed in the
fall, and roast pork from a pig killed in Upernavik. The spare rib, notwithstanding its age of four months, was as fresh and sweet as though just taken from the animal, testifying to the preservation powers of Arctic cold. Among the desserts, mince pie appeared, made of fresh musk ox meat, dried apples, and raisins, and all declared it unquestionably good. A few bottles of wine were drunk.

The twenty-fifth was a beautiful, pleasant day, giving all indication that even Nature herself was joining in the celebration. The thermometer read 33 degrees below zero.

Three days later, Buddington finally decided to take action.

The vessel's position was so uncomfortable that life on board had become almost unendurable. At every low tide she lay over to port practically on her beam ends. It was desirable, for several reasons, to attempt to get her off the berg and enable her to remain upright. Not only were her constant movements a source of inconvenience to her occupants, but it was feared the vessel would sustain serious damage. Her rudder and propeller had not been unshipped in time and were frozen solid in place. They were so far under the ice that they could not be seen, and many thought that when the vessel lay over they were in danger of breaking off. It was also believed that the constant motion while the bow remained perched upon the tongue of the berg must necessarily result in wrenching the bow and breaking off the keel.

While Tyson and others now held little hope that much could be done until late in the spring, when human efforts would be aided by the warming of the sun, Buddington decided that they should try to break up the foot of the berg that had hold of the vessel by blasting with explosives.

Four large charges were exploded in different places not far from the ship's side, introduced under the ice by means of long poles that served to regulate the positions of the gunpowder-filled bottles. But beyond jarring the ice and the vessel, no effect was produced. The thick ice was not even cracked. However,
it was considered imprudent to explode a larger quantity of powder.

To any who would listen, Buddington expressed anger that his advice in regard to winter quarters had not been followed. The vessel would have been safely anchored farther south he said, free from the dangers by which she was now beset. There would have been no drifting in the pack, no force upon the hull by the berg and ice floe, no daily gyrations in her icy bed, no need to break out and get closer to the musk-ox feeding grounds. For their current travails, he pointed a finger directly at one man: the man responsible for bringing them here, and the only one of those who had left America on
Polaris
who could no longer speak up to defend his decision.

At midnight on January 1, the ship's bell was rung merrily to welcome in the new year. The men forward fired a salute and sent a delegation to the cabin to congratulate the officers on the occasion. A bowl of hot spiked punch was brewed, and all were given an ample ration.

It was decided to launch a hot-air balloon, and nearly all the ship's company went out on the ice to watch the release. After stopping momentarily in the rigging, the balloon freed itself and moved off to the southwest, carried by a light wind from the east.

Silence filled the air. It was not lost on anyone that the balloon had effortlessly achieved something that they could not: freedom to go elsewhere.

When the balloon passed from sight, all were invited back to the cabin, where the remainder of the punch disappeared in a remarkably short space of time.

That first day of 1872 marked the eightieth day since they had seen the sun. It grew intensely cold in the early days of the new year, dropping to 48 degrees below zero.

An unusual atmospheric phenomenon became the subject of intense discussion among the members of the scientific corps. On January 10, at about 5:00 A.M., a bright arc was observed in the sky, extending from the western horizon toward the east and
reaching up to the zenith. It appeared to be about twelve degrees from the Milky Way, and parallel with it. This continued only about an hour, but after it disappeared three cloud-like shapes of about the same brightness remained, resting near the zenith. Some narrow, bright stripes were visible coming from them. Whether this was an aurora or some unique electrical phenomenon was a question that remained unanswered.

As the month progressed, the twilight toward the southeast began increasing. Every eye naturally turned to that quarter many times a day, in anticipation of seeing the first splashes of direct sunlight.

To the north was open water, a clear sign that the ice was starting to drift freely in the strait. Bessels went out with two men and a sledge team to ascertain if the open water extended any great distance. He made only nine miles to the north and could get no farther because the headland was covered with smooth ice, over which the dogs could not go nor the men climb. They were unable to locate a route to get farther north, but as far as they could see it was open water.

When Bessels came back, the first mate thought he would give it a try. Chester took with him four men and a dozen dogs to draw two sledges. He thought they could get over the mountains or find a pass through them. They started at ten and returned about four o'clock that same day, as stymied in his efforts as Bessels had been.