THE START
From her berth beside the recreation pier at the foot of East
Twenty-fourth Street, New York, the _Roosevelt_ steamed north on the
last expedition, about one o'clock in the afternoon of July 6, 1908. As
the ship backed out into the river, a cheer that echoed over Blackwell's
Island went up from the thousands who had gathered on the piers to see
us off; while the yacht fleet, the tugboats and the ferryboats tooted
their good wishes. It was an interesting coincidence that the day on
which we started for the coldest spot on earth was about the hottest
which New York had known for years. There were thirteen deaths from heat
and seventy-two heat prostrations recorded in Greater New York for that
day, while we were bound for a region where sixty below zero is not an
exceptional temperature.
We started with about one hundred guests of the Peary Arctic Club on
board the _Roosevelt_, and several members of the Club, including the
president, General Thomas H. Hubbard; the vice-president, Zenas Crane;
and the secretary and treasurer, Herbert L. Bridgman.
As we steamed up the river the din grew louder and louder, the whistles
of the power-houses and the factories adding their salutations to the
tooting of the river craft. At Blackwell's Island many of the inmates
were out in force to wave us their good-bys, and their farewells were
not the less appreciated because given by men whom society had placed
under restraint for society's good. Anyhow, they wished us well. I hope
they are all enjoying liberty now, and, what is better, deserving it.
Near Fort Totten we passed President Roosevelt's naval yacht, the
_Mayflower_, and her small gun roared out a parting salute, while the
officers and men waved and cheered. Surely no ship ever started for the
end of the earth with more heart-stirring farewells than those which
followed the _Roosevelt_.
Just before we reached the Stepping Stone Light, Mrs. Peary, the members
and guests of the Peary Arctic Club, and myself were transferred to the
tug _Narkeeta_ and returned to New York. The ship went on to Oyster Bay,
Long Island, the summer home of President Roosevelt, where Mrs. Peary
and I were to lunch with the President and Mrs. Roosevelt the following
day.
Theodore Roosevelt is to me the most intensely vital man, and the
biggest man, America has ever produced. He has that vibrant energy and
enthusiasm which is the basis of all real power and accomplishment. When
it came to christening the ship by whose aid it was hoped to fight our
way toward the most inaccessible spot on earth, the name of _Roosevelt_
seemed to be the one and inevitable choice. It held up as ideals before
the expedition those very qualities of strength, insistence,
persistence, and triumph over obstacles, which have made the
twenty-sixth President of the United States so great.
In the course of that last luncheon at Sagamore Hill, President
Roosevelt reiterated what he had said to me so many times before, that
he was earnestly and profoundly interested in my work, and that he
believed I would succeed if success were possible.
After luncheon the President and Mrs. Roosevelt, with their three sons,
came on board the ship with Mrs. Peary and me. Mr. Bridgman was on deck,
to welcome them in the name of the Peary Arctic Club. The Roosevelt
party remained on board about an hour; the President inspected every
part of the ship, shook hands with every member of the expedition
present, including the crew, and even made the acquaintance of my Eskimo
dogs, North Star and the others, which had been brought down from one of
my islands in Casco Bay, on the coast of Maine. As he was going over the
rail, I said to him: "Mr. President, I shall put into this effort
everything there is in me--physical, mental, and moral." And he replied,
"I believe in you, Peary, and I believe in your success--if it is within
the possibility of man."
The _Roosevelt_ stopped at New Bedford for the whale-boats, and also
made a short stop at Eagle Island, our summer home on the coast of
Maine, to take aboard the massive, steel-bound spare rudder, which we
carried as a precaution against disaster in the coming battle royal with
the ice. On the former expedition, when we had no extra rudder, we could
have used two. But, as things turned out this time, when we had the
extra rudder we had no occasion to use it.
Our departure from Eagle Island was timed so that Mrs. Peary and I
should arrive by train at Sydney, Cape Breton, the same day as the ship.
I have a very tender feeling for the picturesque little town of Sydney.
Eight times have I headed north from there on my arctic quest. My
recollections of the town date back to 1886, when I went there with
Captain Jackman in the whaler _Eagle_, and lay at the coal wharves for a
day or two filling the ship with coal for my very first northern voyage,
the summer cruise to Greenland, during which journey the "arctic fever"
got a grip upon me from which I have never recovered.
Since that time the town has grown from a little settlement of one
decent hotel and a few houses, to a prosperous city with seventeen
thousand inhabitants, many industries, and one of the largest steel
plants in the western hemisphere. My reason for choosing Sydney as a
starting point was because of the coal mines there. It is the place
nearest to the arctic regions where a ship can fill with coal.
My feelings, on leaving Sydney this last time, though difficult to
describe, were different from those at the start of any previous
expedition. I felt no uneasiness once the lines were cast off, for I
knew that everything had been done which could be done to insure
success, and that every essential item of supplies was on board. On
former journeys I had sometimes felt anxiety, but through the whole of
this last expedition I allowed nothing to worry me. Perhaps this feeling
of surety was because every possible contingency had been discounted,
perhaps because the setbacks and knock-out blows received in the past
had dulled my sense of danger.
The _Roosevelt_ having coaled at Sydney, we crossed the bay to North
Sydney to take on some last items of supplies. When we started to leave
the wharf over there we discovered that we were aground, and had to wait
an hour or so for the tide to rise. In our efforts to move the ship, one
of the whale-boats was crushed between the davits and the side of the
pier; but after eight arctic campaigns one does not regard a little
accident like that as a bad omen.
We got away from North Sydney about half past three in the afternoon of
July 17, in glittering golden sunshine. As we passed the signal station,
they signaled us, "Good-by and a prosperous voyage"; we replied, "Thank
you," and dipped our colors.
A little tug, which we had chartered to take our guests back to Sydney,
followed the _Roosevelt_ as far as Low Point Light, outside the harbor;
there she ran alongside, and Mrs. Peary and the children, and Colonel
Borup, with two or three other friends, transferred to her. As my
five-year-old son, Robert, kissed me good-by, he said, "Come back soon,
dad." With reluctant eyes I watched the little tug grow smaller and
smaller in the blue distance. Another farewell--and there had been so
many! Brave, noble little woman! You have borne with me the brunt of all
my arctic work. But, somehow, this parting was less sad than any which
had gone before. I think that we both felt it was the last.
By the time the stars came out, the last items of supplies taken on at
North Sydney were stowed, and the decks at least were unusually free
for an arctic ship just starting northward--all but the quarter-deck,
which was piled high with bags of coal.
Inside the cabins, however, all was litter and confusion. My room was
filled so full of things--instruments, books, furniture, presents from
friends, supplies, et cetera--that there was no space for me. Since my
return some one has asked me if I played on the pianola in my cabin that
first day at sea. I did not, for the excellent reason that I could not
get near it. The thrilling experiences of those first few hours were
mainly connected with excavating a space some six feet long by two feet
broad in the region of my bunk, where I could lay myself down to sleep
when the time came.
I have a special affection for my little cabin on the _Roosevelt_. Its
size and the comfort of the bathroom adjoining were the only luxuries
which I allowed myself. The cabin is plain, of matched yellow pine,
painted white. Its conveniences are the evolution of long experience in
the arctic regions. It has a wide built-in bunk, an ordinary writing
desk, several book units, a wicker chair, an office chair, and a chest
of drawers, these latter items of furniture being Mrs. Peary's
contributions to my comfort. Hanging over the pianola was a photograph
of Mr. Jesup, and on the side wall was one of President Roosevelt,
autographed. Then there were the flags, the silk one made by Mrs. Peary,
which I had carried for years, the flag of my college fraternity, Delta
Kappa Epsilon, the flag of the Navy League, and the peace flag of the
Daughters of the American Revolution. There was also a photograph of
our home on Eagle Island, and a fragrant pillow made by my daughter
Marie from the pine needles of that island.
The pianola, a gift from my friend H. H. Benedict, had been my pleasant
companion on my previous voyage, and again on this it proved one of our
greatest sources of pleasure. There were at least two hundred pieces of
music in my collection, but the strains of "Faust" rolled out over the
Arctic Ocean more often than any other. Marches and songs were also
popular, with the "Blue Danube" waltz; and sometimes, when the spirits
of my party were at rather a low ebb, we had ragtime pieces, which they
especially enjoyed.
There was also in my cabin a fairly complete, arctic library--absolutely
complete in regard to all the later voyages. These books, with a large
assortment of novels and magazines, could be depended upon to relieve
the tedium of the long arctic night, and very useful they were found for
that purpose. Sitting up late at night means something when the night is
some months long.
On the second day out the carpenter began the repairs on the crushed
whale-boat, using lumber which we carried for such purposes. The sea was
rough, and the waist of the ship was awash nearly all day. My companions
were gradually getting settled in their cabins; and if any man had
qualms of homesickness, he kept them to himself.
Our living quarters were in the after deckhouse, which extends the full
width of the _Roosevelt_ from a little aft of the mainmast to the
mizzenmast. In the center is the engine-room, with the skylight and the
uptake from the boilers, and on either side are the cabins and the
messrooms. My own cabin occupied the starboard corner aft; forward from
this was Henson's room, the starboard messroom, and in the forward
starboard corner Surgeon Goodsell's room. On the port side aft was
Captain Bartlett's room, occupied by himself and Marvin, and forward
from this in succession the cabin of the chief engineer and his
assistant, the cabin of Percy, the steward, and the cabin of MacMillan
and Borup; then the mate and the boatswain were in the forward port
corner of the deckhouse, next the port messroom of the junior officers.
The starboard mess comprised Bartlett, Dr. Goodsell, Marvin, MacMillan,
Borup, and myself.
I shall not dwell at great length upon the first stage of the journey
from Sydney to Cape York, Greenland, for the reason that it is only a
pleasant summer cruise at that season of the year, such as any
fair-sized yacht may undertake without peril or adventure; and there are
more interesting and unusual things to write about. In passing through
the Straits of Belle Isle, "the graveyard of ships," where there is
always danger of encountering icebergs in the fog, or being swung upon
the shore by the strong and capricious currents, I remained up all
night, as any man would who had care for his ship. But I could not help
contrasting that easy summer passage with our return in November, 1906,
when the _Roosevelt_ was standing on end half the time, and the rest of
the time was rolling the rail under water, losing two rudders, being
smashed by the sea, creeping along the Labrador coast in the berg
season, through dense fog, and picking up Point Amour Light only when
within a stone's throw of the shore, guided only by the sirens at Point
Amour and Bald Head, and the whistles of the big steamships lying at the
entrance of the strait, afraid to attempt the passage.