In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (22 page)

 

 

Wind from the south-southwest. We have dropped anchor in Gunther Bay on the north coast of Northbrook Island. On the western shore we found a lifeboat in good condition, which we have taken on board in case we have to abandon ship.

 

 

The
Saint Foka
has finally got under way, after leaving notes sealed inside two tin cans on Northbrook Island: One contains a summary of my journey after my departure from the
Saint Anna;
in the other Dr. Kushakov relates the outcome of Sedov’s expedition. The
Saint Foka
will now head for Cape Grant to search for my lost shipmates and then make for home without further delay.

 

 

 

We weighed anchor at around nine in the evening and started steaming for Cape Grant—not initially toward Cape Grant, actually, but rather toward Bell Island, which we would like to explore first, in case our companions had stopped at the Eira Harbor hut.

We have enough fuel to last for three days, and we must cover as much distance as possible during that time—provided the ice does not stop us! We hope that the wind remains favorable, so we do not need to rely entirely on our engines.

 

 

I had no time at all to devote to my diary yesterday: I was on watch, and then slept for the rest of the day. Let us bring things up to date.

We arrived at Bell Island at two in the morning on the twenty-sixth, and Leigh Smith’s hut, situated in an open, low-lying area beside Eira Harbor, was clearly visible from quite a distance. I cannot fathom why we failed to see it the first time. It is made of planks, and in very good condition despite its age. We saw not a trace of our comrades. No one except us has since set foot on the island. We fired shots into the air and gave a few blasts of the ship’s whistle to show that we were there but received no reply. So we then set sail for Cape Grant. Ice floes forced us to stand off the coast at a distance of four miles, and the best we could do was scan the shore through the binoculars and listen to the echoes of our shots and the ship’s whistle ring through the air, but again our efforts were useless. Having done our duty to the best of our ability, we set a southerly course, first under sail, then later steam. By noon the islands of the archipelago had disappeared for good. We have now been sailing through open waters for twenty-four hours. Farewell, Cape Flora!

On the twenty-seventh, at around three in the morning, icebergs forced us to head west. They were not close together, but difficult to navigate through under sail. The temperature of the water was decreasing. Toward noon our calculations showed our latitude to be 78°23´, an encouraging position. We have enough fuel left for thirty-six hours, and are making good headway under sail, although we have to tack among the icebergs. A mother polar bear and her cubs floated by on a floe. We sounded the whistle and the three of them immediately took to their heels.

There were four live polar bears on board the
Saint Foka,
three of which were already two years old, and they were so tame that the only reason they were kept in chains was that they got up to so much mischief if let loose—stealing, tearing things to bits, breaking everything in sight. They were not aggressive toward humans, unless provoked. They played with the dogs and during the inevitable quarrels that ensued, the dogs usually won. When the squabbles got out of hand, Mr. Pinegin would quickly restore the peace by cracking his whip a few times.

 

 

Until four in the morning, we sailed through a dense fog, tacking among the floes. At one point as we came about, the vessel collided with a large ice floe, and despite our best efforts we were not able to sail free of it. We put the ice anchor into use, and waited to see what would happen. By nine-thirty we were moving forward again under sail and steam and soon reached an open channel running to the south-southeast. By about noon we had reached latitude 77°48´. If we could run the engines for another day and a half, we would certainly get beyond the last of the sea ice; but we have sufficient fuel on hand for only another one and a half hours of steam. At this very moment the ship belowdecks is being ransacked: bulkheads, auxiliary beams, anything that is not a vital structural part of the ship is being mercilessly sacrificed to the ax. Not a single cabin was spared, and we will all have to spend the night on deck. Mr. Vize has even suggested feeding the piano to the flames. For the time being we cannot yet bring ourselves to do that, and hope to avoid such an act of vandalism. I have even heard that the jib boom and topmast will be next to be fed to the boiler.

 

 

Trapped in the ice! Yesterday evening at around eleven, the ice suddenly closed in so rapidly that it was impossible to get through, even under full power. We had to lash up to the ice with our ice anchor. Our deck made a strange dormitory, with crates and piles of firewood taking up most of the room.

 

 

Thick fog. Still imprisoned in the ice. We have dismantled the topmast, the jib boom, and the spritsail gaff and are busy sawing them up. Our boilers will soon devour the last piece of wood on board, and we are not yet out of this fix. Spare sails, coils of rope, mattresses, everything that is not absolutely necessary has been piled in the coal bins as a last resort. We are already seriously thinking of dismantling the rear deck. The leak in the hull is also adding to our daily worries. The water level in the hold has reached fifty inches or more. Since the bilge pump is not mechanical, we have to operate it manually without stopping.

The weather changed last night: The fog began to lift, the wind from the north lessened, and we drifted southward with the ice. During the night a cold northerly sprang up and by morning the fog had vanished.

At half past five in the morning, we weighed anchor, hoisted all the sails, and maintained a southerly heading. We encountered fewer and fewer ice floes, and our old ship managed to make an astonishing four to five knots. We have been economizing our steam power—so dearly paid for—as we will need it later, and for the moment we are able to cruise along under sail. Three hours later, the ice locked us in once more. We must be patient and wait. The wind has veered to the north; force 5.

 

 

My diary has had five days’ rest. I have had no spare time to write it up, and more to the point, I would hardly have had any pleasure in describing these last few depressing days. The ice had closed in on all sides. There was such an accumulation of it that we thought we would never see our way free. We were already contemplating abandoning the vessel and heading for Novaya Zemlya with the big lifeboat. We had prepared food supplies two days previously. It would be impossible to spend the winter on board a vessel that was nothing but a hull and an engine, not to mention the lack of provisions. So we saw no other alternative. If the ship did not break free very shortly, we would have to try to reach Novaya Zemlya on foot, across the ice. After lengthy discussions, we resolved to wait a few more days, during which we would do everything possible to supplement our fuel supply. Then, if there were no change, the orders would be: Grease your boots, gentlemen, for a forced march to Novaya Zemlya, and look lively! Hardly an attractive prospect.

To make matters worse, the crew’s present physical condition caused us to envision this possibility with fear and trepidation. Two of the men are almost paralyzed in the legs, as a result of the terrible past winters; they are crawling about on all fours, even though they are quite healthy otherwise. One of them is even working as a stoker. Finally, on the fourth, a brisk northwest breeze began to blow, it became noticeably colder, and the ice began to move. Yesterday a few polynyas began to form not far from the ship. To the south a water sky and an open lead were visible from the top of the mast, according to the captain, who climbed up to see for himself. So we stoked up the boilers and weighed anchor at around midnight. The ship began to make for the south, sails raised, engines running, and she managed to break her way through the last patches of ice. We maintained a good heading throughout the day, albeit slowly. Everything we could possibly burn was sacrificed: the small forward cabin, a number of cross beams from the middle deck, a barrel of tar which we had fortuitously forgotten, etc. But by nine o’clock the engines were out of action once more. A moderate wind drove us slightly farther south, but dropped suddenly, leaving the sails hanging limp from the yards.

However, we were not far from the open sea: The worst of the floes were now behind us. We could already feel we were approaching ice-free waters from the characteristic roll of the ship. For the sailor these rhythmic swells are a sure sign that the open sea is near. Scores of bearded seals gamboled in our wake, and flocks of fulmars wheeled overhead.

 

 

Dead calm all night long; toward morning, a gentle northeasterly sufficed to fill our sails and we were able to log almost one mile an hour. At noon, our position was 75°16´ north and 46°45´ east. The farther south we go, the smaller the size and number of the floes; they are now scattered over the broad, infinite face of the ocean and present no serious danger for the ship. The weather was fine, with a hazy glow floating on the horizon.

Finally, at around four in the afternoon, the long-awaited moment arrived when we left all the ice behind us. The high seas stretched before us in all their majestic immensity as far as the Murmansk coast, the most northerly point of the powerful Russian Empire. The waves shimmered with the deep blue typical of those regions where the Gulf Stream penetrates far into the Barents Sea. Praise God, we had now joined a heavily traveled maritime route and could maintain a straight course for Cape Svyatoy, the sacred cape at the entrance to the White Sea. We had abandoned our earlier plan to sail for Novaya Zemlya. It had not been an easy choice, for given the pitiful condition of the ship, it would have been more conservative to head for Novaya Zemlya, where we could have hugged the coast, collected loads of driftwood, and, if need be, ridden out any storms in one of that archipelago’s sheltered bays.

But the desire to return home as rapidly as possible won the day; four hundred miles lay between Cape Svyatoy and us. We would be sailing across an open sea, in a virtually empty ship, without any ballast, which would add to our speed and, moreover, this latter route would shorten our journey by at least two hundred miles. These considerations decided it for us. The sailors were relieved of steering and only had to take turns at the pump, while the officers relayed each other at the helm.

All day long we had only a light breeze that scarcely filled our sails. But we were not unduly worried by this calm, for we knew that it was the season for northerly winds, which would pick up sooner or later.

 

 

Despite the lack of wind, the ship seems to be making headway, and we estimated that we must have crossed the 75th parallel this morning. Imagine our disappointment when at noon we found our position to be at 75°16´, the very same latitude as twenty-four hours before. Our calculations were absolutely correct, so there must have been another reason, probably the influence of the Gulf Stream. At dawn, the water temperature was 28° Fahrenheit, at noon, 35° Fahrenheit, and in the evening, 38°. No sign of any ice! This morning, the wind was out of the northeast; during the day, it veered to the east. The ship is heeling sharply and our speed is increasing. Toward evening we were running at five knots. We hope to maintain this speed.

 

 

It was all an illusion. Today we are at 74°18´, and have not even covered one degree of latitude in twenty-four hours—again, no doubt, because of the strong currents. The temperature of the water is 42.5°. Whatever the reason may be, our progress is slow, and the winds are contrary.

On August 9 I was at the helm. A slight easterly wind barely filled the sails, and we were making roughly two miles an hour. It was very warm and I could hardly believe that only recently we had been besieged by thick ice and were contemplating trying to reach Novaya Zemlya on foot. We were drawing near the Murmansk coast, which we expected to appear out of the mist at any moment. I scrutinized the hazy horizon with the utmost attention, anxious to be the first to spot land or a vessel coming out to meet us. I had no time to become bored up on the bridge, for those who wanted to scan the horizon with the binoculars frequently came up to visit me. Each of us wanted to be the first to cry out, “Land Ho!”

Suddenly a dark, undulating shape stood out in the fog. I hesitated for a moment, looked closer, and easily recognized the distant shoreline as being the Murmansk coast. I let out a great cheer!

And yet we were all so tired of sailing at such a sluggish pace, after having dreamed of a steamship that would tow us as far as Arkhangel’sk, or at least lend us some coal. But no such vessel came out to greet us. We kept close watch on the horizon, ready for the moment when we could wave our flag. An hour after I had sighted land, we saw some small clouds of smoke rising in spirals on the horizon. Another hour went by before a long-awaited steamship came into view. But it was a Norwegian vessel on its way out of Arkhangel’sk with a heavy cargo of wood. They were heading in quite a different direction, and we doubted they would change course, since we were in fact under sail. Nonetheless, we hopefully hoisted our rather insignificant distress signal. The steamship passed by. We continued making for the coast, which slowly grew nearer, its shoreline becoming more and more distinct. However, we could not yet determine whether we were near the Kharkov light or at another point farther along the Murmansk coast. But when night fell we could see no beam of light. We changed to a more southeasterly heading, skirting the coast. At about ten at night, when we had just had supper, we saw the lights of another steamer. It was advancing rapidly, lit up with electric lights, so that it stood out clearly in the dark. It could only be one of the passenger vessels of the Arkhangel’sk-Murmansk line, plying between Arkhangel’sk and the local fishing ports, and the Norwegian port of Vardø. We could not have asked for more: If the captain were willing, they could tow us to any port along the coast.