Trial by Ice (5 page)

Wisely, masts were fitted to the vessel, adding the rigging of a fore-topsail schooner to the steamer. Why waste coal in the boilers? Whenever the wind could be used to power the vessel, that was the preferred method of locomotion, Hall argued. Bitter experience learned from whaling ships that ventured into those frozen lands showed that what coal a vessel needed for its engines must be carried along. More than one whaler had limped home by burning its own timbers in its boilers, cannibalizing the ship to its waterline. In the high Arctic, ice, water, and rock prevailed. Firewood and coal were nonexistent, and little else could be burned for warmth or fuel.

To guard against heavy ice's snapping the propeller blades, a slot was cut in the stern so that the drive shaft to the screw could be unfastened and the propeller raised out of harm's way. A powerful, compact engine, made especially in Philadelphia by Neafles & Levy, drove the propeller. The engine was a masterpiece, incorporating the latest advances in steam engine design. Being small meant that more space could be allocated to carrying precious coal. For all its advanced design, the engine packed less horsepower than that
found in a modern family car. Under the best conditions, it could drive the ship along at a top speed of less than ten knots.

The ship's boilers carried out dual responsibilities. Besides driving the engine, the boilers heated the crew's quarters through a series of steam pipes. Sir John Franklin's vessels also had steam radiators fitted to their ships. What good it did them will never be known. At Hall's suggestion, engineers even modified one of the boilers so it could burn whale or seal oil. With limited space, coal for fuel competed with foodstuffs and scientific gear. In the event of a shortage, blubber could provide lifesaving fuel.

Other innovations abounded. From the stern hung a life buoy sporting an electric lamp with wires reaching the ship's electric generator. A spring-loaded device allowed the life preserver to be released from the pilothouse. If a man fell overboard or became stranded on the ice, the light and cable attached to the buoy would aid his rescue. In the perpetual winter night and swirling snow, men separated by mere yards vanished from sight. In a storm the howling wind swallowed all sound. Only such a lighted beacon would help.

For exploration the ship carried four whaleboats and a flat-bottomed scow that could be dragged over the ice from one open lee to another. Roughly twenty feet long with a width of four feet, whaleboats carried oars and a collapsible mast and sail and normally held six to eight men. Designed for speed and durability, they were slim, sharply keeled, and built of heavy wood. A standard but inefficient practice was to use the whaleboats as makeshift sleds for exploring the ice pack. At Hall's urging a special collapsible boat patented by a man named Heggieman was added. Constructed of folding frames of hickory and ash, the twenty-foot-long boat could be packed aboard a sled for easy transportation. Once the frame was assembled, a waterproof canvas covering fitted over it. Theoretically, the folding boat could carry twenty men.

While in the Arctic, Hall had greatly admired the
oomiak
used by the Inuit to hunt whales and walrus. Similarly designed of a wooden frame, the
oomiak
was covered with walrus skin. Had Hall inquired, he might have discovered that the Inuit took special pains to cover their boat in the lighter-weight hides of the female walrus instead of the thick skin of the male. Weight was an inherent problem
in a boat that size and shape, especially one intended for hauling on and off ice floes. At 250 pounds, the Americans' folding boat would prove next to useless.

Extra spare parts that could not be fabricated crammed into whatever space food and coal did not occupy. Spars, line, kegs of nails, a spare rudder were stowed away. At the navy's insistence, the hold held a small mountain howitzer with sufficient powder and shot to intimidate any unfriendly Natives they might encounter. After all, this was a naval expedition. Anyone giving it much thought would have realized that the cannon was a useless and heavy item. If the howitzer were fired on the slick ice, the first shot would either upend it or send it speeding across the ice into the closest patch of open water.

In the captain's cabin, Hall packed books on Arctic exploration, including a copy of Luke Fox's
Arctic Voyage of 1635,
In one corner the workers loaded a cabinet organ donated by the Smith Organ Company. No one drew the parallel that Sir John's ill-fated party had carried two organs.

One thing seriously flawed the newly refitted
Periwinkle.
The ribs and keel of the old
Periwinkle
werp kept and used for the ship's back. To do otherwise would have been too costly. But the
Periwinkle's
keel was not designed to deal with ice. It was too narrow and too sharp-bowed. With a wide, thick-waisted beam, a ship “nipped” in the ice would lie level. As pressure from the floe increased, the wide keel would not the hull to be easily gripped by the ice. Instead, the broad hull would be squeezed literally out of the ice like a seed from a grape to lie comfortably atop the frozen water. The
Periwinkle's
narrower design doomed it to be seized by the ice. The ice's grip would tilt the ship precariously, while mounting pressure would spring the planking, opening the seams to sea-water. The ship's slender hull would plague the expedition and eventually lead to the vessel's death.

Hall, the landlubber, transformed from an intrepid explorer into an
explorer and a sea captain,
now unknowingly did something that no sailor would ever do. He renamed his vessel, a sure sign of bad luck to come. Inspired by the lofty aim of the expedition, he changed the name of the
Periwinkle
to
Polaris.

A H
EARTY
C
REW

Work on the newly named
Polaris
progressed feverishly throughout the winter and spring of 1871. Any delay extending into the summer months might doom the ship to miss its narrow window for sailing. Then the uncaring pack ice would close its open lees, icebergs calved from the pack and glaciers would choke the seas with deadly, white battering rams, and the fearful nor'easters would whip the seas. By October, when most people were celebrating their harvest, the Arctic sun slipped below the horizon, not to be seen again for months. Timing is critical in the high North, a land of extremes in which success often wobbled on the thin knife's edge of picking the best moment to proceed.

The refitting scheduled at the Washington Navy Yard progressed rapidly. Once completed, the ship would steam up to the Brooklyn Navy Yard for its final fittings. Time for departure was drawing close.

Hall now faced another problem. President Grant had appointed him in overall command of the expedition, and Congressman Stevenson, on reading the joint resolution, had referred to him as
Captain
Hall.

But Hall was no captain. The title was at best honorary. Still, it stuck. After that he was Captain Hall. At best Hall was a self-taught man with valuable Arctic experience
experience on land.
With the stroke of a pen, the explorer gained a title he was ill suited to carry.

Wisely, though, Hall realized he needed a stouthearted crew to man the ship. In an interesting departure from the British, Hall and the American navy turned to those sailors with the most experience in the Arctic. To them whaling men were the most obvious choice. Where the Admiralty placed its faith in the traditions and training of its officers and men, the first official American exploration into the Arctic turned to civilians to man the ship, which was still a registered Navy vessel. Perhaps those in the Navy Department with an instinct for self-preservation sniffed a fiasco and were hedging their bets. If so, their waffling would come back to haunt them.

To a man like Hall, knowledge and experience were everything, so he picked sailors who had served on whaling ships and faced the ice. But such men hold a loose allegiance to their officers, signing on whichever ship pays the best wages. Moreover, military vessels sail under strict, ironclad rules, grounded in years of harsh, swift punishment for disobedience. Such respect for order would hold a crew together in the face of adversity. Nothing but adversity would flow from the far North.

In the end lack of discipline would drive a knife deep into the heart of the
Polaris
expedition.

No expedition would succeed without a good ship's master. Fortunately Hall knew just the man. The fierce storm that had shattered Hall's small sailboat during his first visit to the Arctic also struck the nearby whaling ships. Many were sunk, including the
Rescue,
which accompanied the
George Henry.
Another brig, the
Georgiana,
was driven hard onto the rocks. Commanding this ship was George Tyson, a man with twenty years' experience whaling the Arctic waters. Only Tyson's ingenuity saved his crew and eventually the vessel. As the wind and waves battered his ship, the angle of the stricken vessel prevented launching the whaleboats. Attempting to swim in the frothing waves meant certain death. Tyson, keeping a cool head, ordered his men to secure what they could before floating them ashore using extra spars as life rafts. In the end his ship withstood twenty-four hours of pounding and was kedged free. Here was a captain who was lucky as well as good.

It also helped that both men were remarkably similar in background and appearance. Tyson had struggled in an iron foundry, dreaming of the Arctic, before escaping to sea. Both lacked formal education and were self-taught, self-made men. While Hall read about the North and gained experience on the land, Tyson followed the humpback whales and learned about the sea. In appearance the two men looked alike. Hall, the larger and more bearlike, could easily have passed for Tyson's older brother. With thick, dark hair and full, curly beards, heavy brows, and dark eyes, the two appeared robust and vigorous. Hall wore his hair parted on the left side and brushed across his forehead, while Tyson pushed his hair straight back, ignoring his receding hairline.

Unfortunately, when Hall approached Tyson to be the sailing master and ice pilot for the expedition, Tyson told Hall he had other plans. He was scheduled to hunt sperm whales.

Discouraged, Hall turned to his second choice: Capt. Sidney O. Buddington. Buddington, connected to a long line of New England whaling captains, had skippered the
George Henry,
the ship that first brought Hall to the North. During their voyage the men became friends, and Buddington introduced the novice Hall to the Eskimo pilots and hunters he knew. In his subsequent sorties Hall sailed often aboard Buddington's vessels. Certainly Buddington's expertise, with twenty years' whaling in the Arctic, equaled that of Captain Tyson. Buddington's trade wore more heavily on him than on Tyson, giving him a much older, careworn visage. He resembled a tired version of James Garfield. Tracts of gray streaked his thinning hair and grizzled his beard. Lines furrowed his high brow and encircled his eyes. He looked like a troubled and beaten man.

And Hall had a problem with his second choice. On one occasion the two men had quarreled bitterly over the two Inuit interpreters, Ebierbing and Tookoolito. The trouble arose during the summer of 1863 as Hall struggled to finance another trip to his beloved northland. But the bloody battles at Vicksburg and Gettysburg held the country's attention that summer, not the Arctic. Without resources Hall simmered in New York.

Buddington did have a whaling cruise scheduled. Whether he offered passage to Hall is unknown, but the point is moot. Lacking funds for food and supplies, Hall still could not go. Then, without
asking Hall's permission, Buddington offered the two Inuit a ride back to their homeland. At the time Ebierbing and Tookoolito were living with Hall in New York and showing signs of homesickness.