The Ice Master (5 page)

Signs of unrest stirred in the crew, who had not been outfitted with winter clothing, even though their orders had promised that they would be. Bring nothing, their orders had dictated. You will be taken care of. But they were still waiting and, it seemed, winter had already arrived. Meanwhile, the Eskimos were fitted out immediately and extensively by Stefansson, with mukluks—or boots made of animal skins—parkas, and sheepskin coats. Now some members of the crew were threatening mutiny if they weren't taken care of accordingly.

There had been trouble already between the crew and the first Eskimos hired by Stefansson—Pauyuraq and Asecaq, who went by “Jerry” and “Jimmy,” respectively. In their early twenties, they spoke good English and had been assigned to bunk with the crew in the fo'c'sle. But the crew kicked them out and went together to Bartlett to voice their grievances. They were not going to room with any Eskimos, they said. In the end, of course, Bartlett got his way, and—in his presence, at least—not another word was said.

On the evening of August 6, Stefansson arrived shortly after the Eskimo family and Kataktovik with fifty-seven-year-old John “Jack” Hadley. He was an irascible-looking old salt, grizzled and weathered, with a trim white beard. His narrow eyes peered from a taut, finely lined face, burned by years in the sun and wind. He was an Englishman, from Canterbury, who had lived as a trapper, trader, and whaler in the far American north for over twenty years. No one on the staff or crew had any idea what his position was to be in the expedition, or what he had been hired to do, and Stefansson did not enlighten them on this matter. But Hadley immediately moved his belongings into Stefansson's cabin, which he was to share. Molly, his pet dog and traveling companion, moved in with the other dogs.

As the days wore on, the staff and crew received clues to the mystery of Hadley. He had a sharp tongue and he didn't mince words. He was forthright and ornery and growled when he talked.

He was on his way to a new trading post and seemed, from what they could tell, to be merely hitching a ride with the
Karluk
. He was an old friend of Stefansson's and had recently lost his Eskimo wife. In search of new surroundings, and a way to forget, he had decided to move on.

Hadley had a lifetime of experience, and he treated his shipmates to tales of being adrift on an ice floe for fifty-three days with only fourteen days provisions. When these ran out, he had survived by chewing his mukluks and sealskin coat. He had been a tramp in Australia, an officer in the Chilean Navy, and a soldier on a Chinese ship in the Chinese-Japanese War. He was also aboard the first United States revenue cutter to sail to the Arctic in 1889. Ernest Shackleton had three polar winters to his credit, Bartlett had spent four, Peary had endured nine, and Stefansson ten in all. But Hadley had survived at least twenty, and he was a good man to have around.

Later that night, after Hadley and the Eskimos had settled in, Stefansson stood by and watched as the staff and crew cleared the deck on the port side of the lab to make a house for the Eskimo family. Sandy gave the orders; the coal, lumber, and casks of goods were removed from the alleyway beside the lab, and the alleyway turned into a shelter. The work took hours, and the scientists were irritated by the way their leader stood on the sidelines and refused to help. Tempers flared. There weren't enough men to do the job, and they felt that the least Stefansson could have done was lend a hand.

Beuchat hated doing any kind of physical labor and snapped at Mamen, who called him a “pup.” Mamen was not one to let things pass, and he would always speak his mind when he felt the need to defend himself or set someone straight. Now, he set Beuchat straight, calling him the “laziest man I
³⁰
have ever seen in all my life.”

S
TEFANSSON HAD MADE
his scientific staff pose for one last picture before they climbed aboard ship on June 17. The docks were lined with strangers, gathered to send the adventurers off. The entire Canadian Pacific Fleet had come to cheer them onward. Men of the fleet sounded their sirens, blew their whistles, dipped their flags, and hoisted good luck signals while the crowds of strangers—thousands of them—cheered and applauded.

For days, the scientists and crewmen had searched the docks for a cat to bring aboard as their mascot. According to maritime superstition, a feline presence aboard ship would bring them luck, but Stefansson put his foot down, saying that as soon as he hired sled dogs in Nome, the dogs would kill the cat. Just before pulling away from the dock, one of the engineers smuggled aboard a thin black kitten, which lived in the shipyard. They dubbed her Nigeraurak, or “Little Black One.” Fireman Fred Maurer quickly came to think of her as his own.

On their first night at sea, geologist George Malloch had organized the members of the staff as lots were drawn for their quarters. Photographer George Wilkins and Chief Engineer John Munro would share the engineer's cabin; the decidedly unsociable Dr. Mackay ended up with a cabin to himself next door to Bartlett's cabin; and the remaining scientists drew the Cabin DeLuxe, as they called it, so named for its great size, at least four to five times larger than any of the other cabins. This cabin was to be shared by Malloch, Scottish school teacher McKinlay, the youthful and athletic Mamen, anthropologist Diamond Jenness, Stefansson's secretary Burt McConnell, and Beuchat, the well-mannered Frenchman.

From the beginning, the
Karluk
's crew and staff were divided. “Bloody scientists” was what the crew took to calling their more educated colleagues, with nothing but the most adamant disgust. Scientists and crew would live separately but in close quarters at the outset of the voyage, because the
Karluk
alone had to convey all men, equipment, and supplies as far as Nome, Alaska, where a second ship would be added to the Northern Party's expedition.

The crew's quarters were located in the bow of the ship. Fred Maurer's fellow fireman, or stoker, was a freckled, outspoken, cheeky Welshman named George Breddy. The A.B., or able-bodied, seamen were just as colorful, but the one who stood out most—and fit in least—was Hugh Williams, also from Wales. He was a tall, dark, sturdy fellow with a rough, handsome face; hooded eyes; a quiet humor; and a disarming smile. He had long ago earned the nickname “Clam” because he rarely spoke. While his comrades sat around and swore and cursed and bantered with one another, he would sit back quietly and observe them. He didn't swear and he didn't talk when he had nothing to say. When he did speak, it was with none of the profanity of his fellow crewmen.

Cook Robert Templeman and Ernest F. Chafe, the mess room boy and assistant steward, roomed in the steward's cabin, just next to the galley. Chafe, or “Charlie,” as he was called, was the youngest crewman. Impressionable and athletic, he had a love of the outdoors and was an expert marksman. To prove it, he brought aboard the
Karluk
his most cherished possessions, two armloads of trophies and prizes he had won for marksmanship in his native Canada.

Second engineer Robert Williamson bunked with Sandy and the second mate, a Victoria, British Columbia, native who had been promoted when Sandy was made first officer. Meanwhile, the diminutive McKinlay took the upper bunk on the inside wall of the impressive Cabin DeLuxe, continually bumping his head against the berth or missing his footing and landing directly on the broad-shouldered, long-legged Malloch, who had the misfortune of sleeping below him. There were eight berths and the cabin itself was stacked full of boxes, books, magazines, and other paraphernalia. A major cleanup had to be performed before the men could sleep, and they spent a good while reorganizing and throwing things away.

The
Karluk
had soon left the Southern Party's
Alaska
behind, loaded with twice as many provisions as she could carry, and not long afterward, Stefansson purchased the
Mary Sachs,
a forty-one-ton gasoline schooner, to take the overflow of supplies. Not only was the expedition racking up more expenses than either the government or Stefansson had originally anticipated, it was beginning to look as impressive as it sounded. One of the scientists wrote, “The Canadian Arctic
³¹
Expedition Navy now consists of the
Karluk, Alaska, Mary Sachs,
five whale boats (one with power), two other motor boats, three canoes, two dories, one dinghy and several skin boats.”

O
N
A
UGUST 8,
Bartlett gave orders to push through the ice. They were expected to rendezvous with the Southern Party at Herschel Island in less than a week, and they hoped to reach the island in two or three days. Slivers of water, called “leads,” occasionally opened in the ice around the ship, and the captain, navigating from the crow's nest, scanned the approaching ice for the farthest and most open of these, “at the same
³²
time trying to keep the ship on its course as straight as possible,” observed mess room boy Chafe. The ice had loosened a bit, and the ship took advantage, steaming through to the east.

At times, the
Karluk
would pass between two mountainous ice floes that would scrape her on either side, creating such a violent shiver throughout the ship that the men expected her to be crushed. The lookout in the crow's nest—most often Bartlett, who was always on duty and never seemed to sleep—would send out continuous updates and commands: “Starboard—steady—Port
³³
—steady—go astern—go ahead.” The commands were repeated by the officer on the bridge, and then from the man at the wheel, to confirm the path he was to follow.

Because of the perilous and unpredictable ice conditions, the ship could not rely upon her compass and traveled in a haphazard, vagabond path. When a floe crossed her bow, the men would direct her astern and ahead, in an attempt to break up the ice. Because she was forced to follow the spidery veins of open leads, the ship waltzed in a zigzag, moving two or three miles for every one advanced in the desired direction. The result was that the
Karluk
's route was continually changing and the ship often went round in circles.

As the ice began to crush around the ship, the fine white cakes dissolving into powder, the men forgot their previous irritations. McKinlay, Mamen, and the others were drawn by the sight of it—the ice, alive and grinding against the ship, floes crashing against floes. The sound of it was a grisly, bone-chilling roar, continuous and deafening. The men were terrified, but fascinated. Afterward, when the din had faded to a distant rumble, there were signs of open water to the east of Point Barrow.

Stefansson immediately wanted to send members of the Southern Party ashore to await the
Mary Sachs
and the
Alaska,
which had traveled a separate route and had hopefully avoided the encroaching ice. McKinlay, James Murray, Wilkins, Jenness, and Beuchat should join their party as soon as possible, but it would be quite an undertaking. The equipment they would need for the journey would be cumbersome and the ice conditions were precarious at best. Bartlett and Hadley at once denounced the plan as “absurd & suicidal
³⁴
.” Furthermore, they said, the
Karluk
would probably work her way free in a few days, and then she would be on her way again.

M
C
K
INLAY, AS A MEMBER
of the Southern Party, wasn't even supposed to sail on the
Karluk
. In fact, in the haste of their departure, hardly anyone wound up on the ship where he was supposed to be stationed. The idea was that they would sort it all out at Herschel Island, where the
Karluk
was to rendezvous with the
Alaska
and the
Mary Sachs
. This confused, arbitrary strategy was symptomatic of how the whole expedition was run.

Because the
Karluk
had more passenger room, Beuchat, Jenness, Wilkins, Murray, and McKinlay sailed on her when they should have been on the
Alaska
with the rest of their party. Most of their scientific equipment, meanwhile, sailed aboard the
Alaska
.

For two weeks, they waited in Port Clarence while Stefansson remained in Nome, supervising the outfitting of the
Alaska,
the
Mary Sachs,
and his latest purchase, the thirteen-ton
North Star
.

The scientists had demanded a conference with Stefansson on July 10. They were alarmed by the disorganization of the supplies and their equipment. They could find guns, but could not find the ammunition. Several boxes of provisions were packed badly, and some of them were half empty. The men were provided with only one towel each, and the smaller members of the company—including McKinlay—had to make do with drawers and shirts that were too big for them. Stefansson had also purchased some secondhand parkas in Nome, which were horrible to look at, diseased and thin. He handed them to Dr. Mackay to disinfect, but the doctor pronounced the job impossible; so the men had to make do.

Stefansson seemed unconcerned about the chaos of the
Karluk
's decks and the confused order of the supplies. “We'll sort it out at Herschel Island,” became his favorite response.

The staff of his expedition was also astounded to learn that their private diaries would be property of the Canadian government and that their rights to grant interviews or supply news to the outside world had been signed away, without their knowledge, by Stefansson.

Stefansson, meanwhile, had drawn up contracts with three international newspapers, planning to send exclusive reports and articles for publication. He also sold
³⁵
all the newspaper, magazine, book, and photographic rights to the story of the expedition to the London
Chronicle
and the
New York Times
. In addition, he planned to write a book about the expedition and wanted to control all communications about the upcoming adventure, thus protecting his contracts.