In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (12 page)

At four in the afternoon, I could see a vague outline to the east-southeast, but I could not determine exactly what it was. Far away on the horizon were two little white clouds with a slight pinkish tinge. They were visible for a long time, never changing shape or position, until the fog finally engulfed them. As I was incapable of explaining what I had seen, I did not say anything to my companions for the time being, in order not to arouse any false hopes.

We have never before crossed such rough terrain, full of pools, channels, and crevasses. A great amount of water sky is visible on the horizon. Flocks of little auks and white gulls fill the sky. The gulls make a terrible racket, screeching all night long, fighting over the remains of our dinner and keeping me awake. They are like evil spirits flitting around us, reveling in our unfortunate circumstances. They laugh, shriek, whistle, and scream like hysterical women. Never shall I forget their strident cries. Nor the torture of the sun, blinding us even at night in our tent through every crack and slit in the canvas.

Today our sounding line again failed to reach bottom, although we lowered it twice. As usual, the line indicated we are drifting south. The wind is again blowing from the north. Hurrah!

 

 

I have just recalculated my figures from yesterday’s observation and found them to be exact. We are below 81°01´. During our idle week we have managed to put behind us an entire degree of latitude, that is to say, all of sixty nautical miles. Perhaps this progress is not due to the winds alone; I am convinced that the current also has something to do with it.

Now that we are exactly at latitude 81°, the question of our longitude is even more urgent. I am sure that we are drifting to the west of the Franz Josef archipelago, since Alexandra Land, according to my map, is farther north than 81°, and we should have reached its northern shore long ago. There are only two possibilities: Either my map is wrong, or we are already between Franz Josef Land and Svalbard. But in the latter case we must have also gone by Gillis Land without even seeing it. I cannot decide which of these suppositions might be correct. Perhaps we shall fail to make landfall on the western edge of Alexandra Land; if so, our hopes of reaching Cape Flora and the Jackson camp with its coveted supplies will vanish. We would then have to try to reach Svalbard. But even before considering all these hypotheses there remains one vital question: Will our strength withstand the hardships that the future still holds in store? Will our sledges and kayaks stand up to more hard use? Will our perseverance and our faith eventually be rewarded? We are drifting endlessly, aimlessly.

Seals keep showing themselves in the leads. They are larger than any we have previously seen, but we have not managed to kill a single one, they are so wary. The hysterical, indefatigable gulls fly around day and night. Today we broke up the fourth kayak and our most delapidated sledge for fuel. We will push on with only three “chariots.” We only have a small supply of biscuits left.

 

 

Still in the same position! We seem to be sharing the same fate as Nansen.* We also have our “waiting camp.” But what will we gain?

The same northwesterly wind as yesterday. If it blows more to the east, it will be more to our advantage. The sky is somber and wet snow is falling. On the ice, too, there is a thaw. All around us are nothing but channels and pools of water. It is as if the ice were alive. Water sky is visible on the horizon. Am I hallucinating, or is the ice floe on which we are camped moving faster than the one to the east of us?

Today we shot a seal in the lead, which in everyone’s view was larger than any we had killed before. I tried to lift it, and estimated its weight to be at least 160 to 200 pounds. It produced a wonderful soup. Flocks of murres and little auks are growing steadily more numerous. This evening I saw a flock of fifteen flying in a northerly direction. Where are they heading, the idiots? What can they be looking for in this desert of ice?

We lowered the sounding line twice, but did not reach bottom. Again the line slanted northward. It seems there is definitely a constant current here.

 

 

 

The wind swings back and forth between the northwest and the west-northwest. Despite the overcast skies, I was able to determine that with no effort on our part we had reached 80°52´ north and 40°20´ east of Greenwich. But I cannot guarantee the exactness of the longitude.

As I have often done, at around nine in the evening I climbed onto a high ice formation to study the horizon. Ordinarily I saw what looked like islands in every direction, but which on closer examination turned out to be either icebergs or clouds. This time, I sighted something quite different on the shimmering horizon. I was so staggered that I sat down on the ice to clean the lenses of my binoculars and rub my eyes. My pulse was racing in great anticipation, and when I fixed my apprehensive gaze once more on the vision that held such promise, I could discern a pale, silver strip with sinuous contours running along the horizon and then disappearing to the left. The right-hand side of this phenomenon was outlined with unusual clarity against the azure of the sky. This whole formation, including its gradations of color, reminded me of a phase of the moon. The left edge seemed to grow slowly paler while the right stood out even more distinctly, like a yellowish line traced along the blue horizon. Four days earlier I had observed a similar phenomenon; but the bad light led me to think that it was a cloud. During the night I returned five times to check on my strange discovery, and each time my original impression was more or less clearly confirmed; the main features of shape and color had certainly not changed. So far, nobody else had noticed this wonderful sight. I had to restrain myself severely from dashing back to the tent and shouting with excitement: “Wake up, everyone, come and see that our prayers have been answered at last and we are about to reach land!” I was then convinced that it was land that I could see, but I wanted to keep my discovery secret, so I contented myself with thinking: “If you others want to see this miracle, you will have to open your eyes.” But my companions were as oblivious as ever, and had not even noticed my ill-concealed excitement. Instead of going out and inspecting the horizon, the only way of evaluating our immediate prospects, they either went back to sleep or started to hunt for “game”—as we have named the lice that are regular guests in our malitsi. That seems to be more important to them!

 

 

The morning was beautiful. My hypothetical land stood out even more clearly, its yellowish hue increasingly extraordinary. Its shape was totally different from what I had been expecting as I scanned the horizon over the past two months. Now I could also see, to my left, a few isolated headlands, set quite far back, however, and between them seemed to be glaciers. I wondered idly how far away we were, for my eyes were not at all used to judging such distances. I estimated that there must be fifty or sixty nautical miles to the most distant peaks; how far we might be from the shore could not even be roughly determined: twenty to thirty-five nautical miles, perhaps more, perhaps less. The only certainty was that we were now closer to being rescued than we had been for the last two years. I silently offered up my thanks; but how on earth could we get there?

At around noon I managed to fix our position from the sun. We were crossing latitude 80°52´. Wind from the south. We ate quickly, packed up our belongings, and decided to head for land. By nine o’clock we had covered between two and three miles and made the decision not to pitch the tent until we reached land. Could we do it? The ice floes were in perpetual motion; it was almost impossible to advance without resorting to the kayaks. We spotted quite a few bear tracks; we also succeeded in shooting a seal.

——

Evening has arrived. We sit together in the tent with mixed feelings, for not only have we failed to reach the island, we are now even farther away from it than this morning. The weather is very gloomy; it is snowing and raining, with wind from the south. The surface of the ice was dreadful; my companions call it “glutinous.” It was impossible to make any sort of progress today, either on foot or by kayak. Exhausted, soaked through, and famished, we decided to stop and pitch the tent. South wind still blowing. Major efforts have brought us no more than two miles at the most. But we managed to kill a seal, which we are cooking; we have brewed up a very nourishing broth with the seal’s blood. Once we really start cooking we do not skimp on the size of the portions. Today we had a good, solid breakfast; at midday a bucketful of soup and just as much tea; in the evening, a pound of meat each, washed down with more tea. Our food supply is ample, for in addition to what I have just mentioned, each man receives a pound of ship’s biscuits per day. Our appetites are wolfish! In gloomy moments we are struck by the thought that such voraciousness normally occurs in cases of severe starvation. God protect us from that!

Yesterday I noticed that seven pounds of biscuit had disappeared. This unfortunate discovery forced me to call my companions together and inform them that if it happened again, I would hold all of them responsible and reduce their rations; and if I managed to catch the ignominious thief red-handed, I would shoot him on the spot. However bitter it seems, I must admit there are three or four men in the group with whom I have nothing in common.

Only someone who has experienced such an ordeal can fully understand how impatient I was to reach the island where our two-year odyssey through the Arctic wastes would finally end. Once we reached our landfall, our situation would improve dramatically. We would be able to capture hosts of birds and walruses and we would also be able to take a bath. We have not washed now for two months. Catching a chance glimpse of my face in the sextant’s mirror the other day gave me a terrible fright. I am so disfigured that I am unrecognizable, covered as I am with a thick layer of filth. And we all look like this. We have tried to rub off some of this dirt, but without much success. As a result we look even more frightening, almost as if we were tattooed! Our underclothes and outer garments are unspeakable. And since these rags are swarming with “game,” I am sure that if we put one of our infested jerseys on the ground, it would crawl away all by itself!

Here is a glimpse of life inside the tent: Everyone is squatting in a circle on the ground; with grim expressions, they are silently absorbed in some serious-looking task. What can these men be doing? Hunting lice! This “pastime” is always reserved for the evening. It is the only possible form of hygiene, since we have neither soap nor water for proper ablutions. And even if we had some water, the fearful cold would prevent us from washing. All too often we have not even had enough water to quench our thirst.

Some of us had originally taken a vow not to wash until we reached land. Who would have suspected that it would be two months before we sighted land? No wonder we all felt the need to indulge in our nightly “hunt.” This communal activity united us in a remarkable fashion, and all the squabbles usually ceased during those hours.

In the afternoon I went out with three men on a reconnaissance. Beyond the four leads we will have to cross tomorrow morning, we shall find better going. The ice blocks are unusually dark and dirty, with algae, sand, and even rocks sticking to them. We took a couple of small stones, seaweed, and two small pieces of wood with us, as our first gift from the land—an olive branch, so to speak.

We found a lot of bear tracks. The weather, as usual, is damp and foggy. There is wet snow falling, almost rain. Wind from the south.

 

 

A satisfactory day’s march. We covered four miles. Toward evening, we pitched camp on a little ice floe surrounded by pools and brash ice. The morning’s northeasterly had by evening become a chilly northerly. The current has pushed us away toward the east, and now our island of salvation appears to be farther south. Good hunting: one seal and a duck. Our eyes are very painful again.

 

 

The wind is still blowing from the north, but the weather is warm and clear. Only the kayak crossings were difficult: We covered scarcely more than a mile. Seven of the men, including myself, are suffering from serious eye inflammation. While crossing one of the open leads we had the serious misfortune of dropping one of our two remaining Remingtons into the sea. It was Lunayev who dropped it, with Smirennikov’s assistance. Such negligence made me so angry that I lost my temper and struck out at anybody who crossed my path. This is the second rifle we have lost because of heedless behavior, and anyone who can picture himself in my shoes would surely understand my frustration with such unforgivable carelessness. Now we have just one rifle for which there is abundant ammunition. The smaller repeating rifle is hardly of any use, since there are only eighty cartridges left for it. We still have shells for the shotgun, but it is almost useless against bears, which may be lurking behind every block of ice.

I would have liked to take a sun shot with the sextant, but my eyes were not up to it. The sun seemed to be misty and indistinct and I could not see the horizon at all. According to my companions who can still see clearly, our island is particularly visible today: One can even make out a few details. We saw many eiders in flight that must have come from the island. As our supply of seal meat has run out, for lunch we cooked the bear meat we dried the other day, and in the evening we prepared a soup from the same meat. There is no more sugar, and the tea will last only a few more days.