International circumpolar stations.—Failure of Dutch
expedition.—Greely expedition reaches Lady Franklin
Bay.—Life at Fort Conger.—Sledge journey of Brainard and
Lockwood.—Farthest north.—Greely’s journey to interior of
Grinnell Land.—Lake Hazen.—Failure of relief ship _Neptune_ to
reach Conger in 1882.—Official plans for Greely’s relief in
1883.—_Proteus_ crushed in ice.—Garlington’s retreat.—Greely’s
abandonment of Fort Conger.—Greely reaches Cape Sabine.—The
beginning of a hard winter.—Death of members of the party from
starvation and cold.—Schley’s brilliant rescue of the remnant
of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition in 1884.
The plan for establishing International Circumpolar Stations within or
near the Arctic Circle, for the purpose of recording a complete series
of synchronous meteorological and magnetic observations, was outlined in
a well-thought-out paper delivered by Lieutenant Karl Weyprecht, A. H.
Navy, before the German Scientific and Medical Association of Gratz in
September, 1875, soon after the return from his remarkable journey in the
_Tegetthof_.
Though Lieutenant Weyprecht did not live to see his splendid scheme
carried into effect, the coöperation of Prince Bismarck and the hearty
indorsement of the plan by a commission of eminent scientists, as well as
the decision of the International Meteorological Congress, which reported
“that these observations will be of the highest importance in developing
meteorology and in extending our knowledge of terrestrial magnetism,”
resulted in the International Polar Conference, at Hamburg, October 1,
1879, in which eleven nations were represented, and a second conference
at Berne, August 7, 1880, at which it was decided that each nation should
establish one or more stations where synchronous observations should be
taken from August, 1882.
With the exception of the Dutch expedition, the scheme was successfully
carried out and the stations established without accident.
Norwegians—Bosekof, Allen Fjord, Norway, under direction of M. Aksel
S. Steen.
Swedes— Ice Fjord, Spitzbergen, under direction of Mr. Ekholm.
Russians— Sagastyr Island, mouth of Lena, Siberia, under Lieutenant
Jürgens.
Möller Bay, Nova Zembla, under Lieutenant Andreief.
Americans— Point Barrow, North America, under Lieutenant Ray, U. S. A.
Lady Franklin Bay, 81° 44´ N., under Lieutenant A. W.
Greely, U. S. A.
English— Great Slave Lake, Dominion of Canada, under Lieutenant
Dawson.
German— Cumberland Bay—west side of Davis Strait, under Dr. Giese.
Danes— Godthaab, Greenland, under A. Paulsen.
Austrian— Jan Mayen, North Atlantic, 71° N., under Lieutenant
Wohlgemuth, A. H. Navy.
[Sidenote: _FAILURE OF DUTCH EXPEDITION_]
As to the unsuccessful Dutch expedition, the Varna sailed from Amsterdam
July 5, 1882, bound for Dickson Harbor, but was beset in the Kara Sea in
September; she was crushed in December, 1882, when the crew took refuge
on board Lieutenant Hovgaard’s vessel, the _Dymphna_, which had also
been forced to winter in the pack. Nevertheless, Dr. Snellen did his
utmost to procure regular observations from their besetment until the
following August, when they started by boat and sledge for the coast of
Nova Zembla. By August 25, they reached the south point of Waigat Island,
where they met the _Nordenskjöld_ and were safely landed in Hammerfest,
September 1, 1883.
The inestimable value of the combined and systematic record of the
scientific observations secured by the International Circumpolar Stations
is a matter of public record. The success was complete, and all but the
American nation might well be proud of the management and protection
offered to the fearless men detailed to the splendid work.
The unparalleled disaster which overtook the Lady Franklin Bay expedition
under Lieutenant Greely and his brave companions, through no fault of
their own, but by a series of mismanaged accidents for which there was
neither excuse nor condonation, leaves a blot upon the American records
which the centuries cannot obliterate.
“If the simple and necessary precaution had been taken,” writes Markham,
brother of the famous explorer, “of stationing a depot-ship in a good
harbour at the entrance of Smith Sound, in annual communication with
Greely on one side and with America on the other, there would have been
no disaster”; and he continues, “If precautions proved to be necessary
by experience are taken, there is no undue risk or danger in polar
enterprises. There is no question as to the value and importance of
polar discovery, and as to the principles on which expeditions should be
sent out. Their objects are explorations for scientific purposes and the
encouragement of maritime enterprise.”
Lieutenant Greely’s party consisted of three officers besides the
commander, nineteen men of the army, including an astronomer, a
photographer, and meteorologist, and two Eskimos. Sailing from St.
John’s, Newfoundland, July 7, 1881, they were conveyed in the sealer,
_Proteus_, to Littleton Island, where they hunted up the mail of the
_Alert_ and _Discovery_, then proceeded in open water to Cape Lieber,
81° 37´ N. There the ship was delayed by encountering ice in Hall
Basin. By August 11, she had pushed through and safely landed the party
at the old winter quarters of the _Discovery_ in 1875-1876. Immediate
preparations were made for building a house, and after all supplies were
landed, the _Proteus_ sailed home, leaving Lieutenant Greely and his
party at “Fort Conger.” Indications of approaching winter appeared as
early as August 27, and the season proved one of unusual severity. Sledge
journeys, hunting parties, and exploring trips, combined with regular
duties, scientific observations, exercise and moderate amusements,
insured the party a season of successful labour and good health.
Travelling in one instance a week, in another ten days, in frightful
temperatures averaging 73° below freezing, Lieutenant Lockwood and Dr.
O. Pavy, surgeon of the expedition, with their companions, endured the
severity with surprising energy. The ice conditions of Robeson Channel
were ascertained and depots established at Cape Sumner for use in the
following spring.
[Illustration: COLONEL DAVID LEGGE BRAINARD, U.S.A.
_From a painting in the possession of A. Operti, Esq._]
The sun left on October 15, and was absent one hundred and thirty-five
days. The curious effect upon the mind produced by the long Arctic night
is recorded in December. “About the 10th,” writes Lieutenant Greely in
his Report, “a few of the men gave indications of being affected by the
continual darkness, but such signs soon disappeared and cheerful spirits
returned. The Eskimos appeared to be the most affected. On the 13th, Jens
Edward disappeared, leaving the station in early morning, without mittens
and without breakfast. Sending two parties with lanterns to describe a
half-mile circle around the station, his tracks were soon found, leading
towards the straits. He was at once pursued, and was overtaken about ten
miles from the station, near Cape Murchison. He returned to the station
without objection, and in time recovered his spirits. No cause for his
action in this respect could be ascertained.”
Dr. Pavy, who had spent the previous year among the Eskimos, said
that this state of mind was not infrequent among the natives of lower
Greenland, and often resulted in the wandering off of the subjects of it,
and, if not followed, by their perishing in the cold.
[Sidenote: _SLEDGE JOURNEY OF BRAINARD AND LOCKWOOD_]
As early as February 19, 1882, Lockwood and Brainard made a dog-sledge
trip to one of the depots, deposited the previous autumn, a journey
over the foot-ice of twenty miles. On the 29th of February, Lieutenant
Lockwood, accompanied by Brainard, four other men, and two dog teams,
made an experimental trip to Thank God Harbor preparatory to his proposed
grand expedition along the coast to northern Greenland. Visiting the
grave of Charles Francis Hall, Lockwood wrote in his journal the
following touching tribute:—
“The head-board erected by his comrades, as also the metallic one left by
the English, still stands. How mournful to me the scene, made more so by
the howling of the winds and the thick atmosphere! It was doubtless best
that he died where he did. I have come to regard him as a visionary and
an enthusiast, who was indebted more to fortune than to those practical
abilities which Kane possessed. Yet he gave his life to the cause, and
that must always go far toward redeeming the shortcomings of any man. The
concluding lines of the inscription on the English tablet, I think good.
‘To Captain Hall, who sacrificed his life in the advancement of science,
November 8, 1871. This tablet has been erected by the British polar
expedition of 1875, which followed in his footsteps and profited by his
experience.’”
Dr. Pavy, accompanied by Sergeant Rice and Eskimo Jens with a dog-sledge,
started March 19, 1882, for the north of Grinnell Land. A supporting
sledge under Sergeant Jewell accompanied him as far as Lincoln Bay. On
April 1, an unfortunate accident to a sledge runner caused a five days’
delay at Cape Union. Sergeant Rice and Eskimo Jens made a forced march
back to Fort Conger and secured a new runner. Storms retarded their
advance, but in spite of the rough condition of the ice, all supplies
were brought up to Cape Joseph Henry and left there April 20. Two days
later a violent storm set in, and after it subsided, the party pushed on
toward Cape Hecla. A lane of open water was seen extending from Crozier
Island round Cape Hecla. As this channel rapidly increased in width, a
retreat was decided on, but to his consternation, before land could be
reached, Dr. Pavy found himself adrift on a floe in the Polar Ocean.
Fortunately the floe was driven against the land near Cape Henry, and
after abandoning all articles not absolutely indispensable, he escaped to
the mainland, but was obliged to give up further explorations.
In the meantime, Lieutenant Lockwood had completed his preparations, and
the advance party, consisting of Sergeant Brainard and nine men dragging
four Hudson Bay sledges, left Fort Conger April 3, 1882, to be followed
the next day by Lieutenant Lockwood with two men and one dog-sledge,
under instructions to explore the coast of Greenland near Cape Britannia
“in such direction as (he) thought best to carry out the objects of the
(main) expedition,—the extension of knowledge regarding lands within the
Arctic Circle.”
The 5th of April, Lockwood joined the advance party at Depot A. On the
afternoon of the 8th, they reached Cape Sumner. Bags of pemmican were
added to the sledge loads for dog food. The parties encountered violent
gales and extreme cold (81° below freezing) as they pushed on to Newman
Bay. The hard experience of sledge travel was already telling upon the
men, and at this point four were sent back, being unfit for continued
field work. Pushing on for Repulse Harbor, with three hundred rations and
eight men, Lockwood advanced in the face of storms, rough ice, and broken
sledges, at the average rate of nine miles per day. The men suffered
much from snow-blindness, and the unwonted fatigue of dragging the heavy
sledges through areas of soft, deep snow. At Cape Bryant, which was
reached April 27, a rest of two days was taken, during which Brainard,
with two companions, visited the highest point of Cape Tulford.
On the 29th of May, Lieutenant Lockwood sent back the supporting
sledge-men and, with Brainard and the Eskimo Christensen, the dog-sledge
and twenty-five days’ rations, pursued his journey north across the Polar
Ocean to Cape Britannia, which was reached May 5, after six journeys, the
last a very short one.
“From the top of the mountain, 2050 feet,” writes Lockwood, “which forms
Cape Britannia, I got a good view all around. Towards the northeast lay
a succession of headlands and inlets as far as I could see—some 15 or 20
miles—and this was the character of the coast beyond as far as I got.”
[Sidenote: _FARTHEST NORTH_]
They had followed out the letter of their instructions and had reached
the destination mentioned therein, but finding it possible to continue
their explorations, they pushed on over land never before explored by
man, crossing the frozen ocean and reaching Mary Murray Island the 10th
of May. The party were now suffering from cold and insufficient food. To
husband their rations, they had eaten very little of late.
“The dogs were ravenous for food, and when feeding time came, it was amid
blows from the men and fights among the dogs that the distribution was
made.”
In spite of serious delays by violent wind and storms, by floes so
high that the sledge was lowered by dog-traces; by ice so rough as to
necessitate the use of the axe before they could advance, and by widening
water cracks which delayed their progress, these men pushed boldly
on, and on May 15, 1882, made a world’s record, reaching on that day
Lockwood Island, 83° 24´ north latitude, 42° 46´ west longitude. Gaining
a considerable elevation, Lockwood unfurled Mrs. Greely’s pretty little
silken flag and “for the first time in two hundred and seventy-five years
another nation than England claimed the honors of the farthest north, and
the Union Jack gave way to the Stars and Stripes.”
From this point the most northerly land seen was Cape Washington; beyond
to the north “lay an unbroken expanse of ice, interrupted only by the
horizon.” Haven Coast trended to the northeast, in a succession of high,
rocky, and precipitous promontories.
Evidences of vegetation and game were found in this high latitude.
Lemmings, ptarmigan, foxes, and hares found their way to these desolate
shores, and small plants struggled for a foothold in the uncongenial soil.
“As we think of Lockwood,” writes Charles Lanman, his biographer, “at
the end of his journey, with only two companions, in that land of utter
desolation, we are struck with admiration at the courage and manly spirit
by which he was inspired. Biting cold, fearful storms, gloomy darkness,
the dangers of starvation and sickness, all combined to block his ice
pathway, and yet he persevered and accomplished his heroic purpose,
thereby winning a place in history of which his countrymen may well, and
will, be proud to the end of time.”[1]
The return was even more arduous than the advance, and as they pursued
their weary trail, thoughts wandered to home and creature comforts.
“What thoughts one has when thus plodding along!” writes Lockwood in his
journal. “Home and everything there, and the scenes and incidents of
early youth! Home again, when this Arctic experience shall be a thing
of the past! But it must be confessed, and lamentable it is, as well
as true, that the reminiscences to which my thoughts oftenest recur on
these occasions are connected with eating,—the favourite dishes I have
enjoyed,—while in dreams of the future, my thoughts turn from other
contemplations to the discussion of beefsteak, and, equally absurd, to
whether the stew and tea at our next supper will be hot or cold.”
[Sidenote: _LAKE HAZEN_]
Joining the supporting party at Cape Sumner, the entire party, suffering
from exhaustion and snow-blindness, reached Fort Conger, June 1, 1882.
During the absence of Lockwood, Lieutenant Greely had left Fort Conger,
April 26, 1882, and penetrated Grinnell Land, reaching Lake Hazen, a
glacial lake, some five hundred square miles in area. Lake Hazen was
again visited by Greely in June. “Following up Very River to its source,
the farthest reached was 175 miles from the home station, between Mount
C. A. Arthur and Mount C. S. Smith, which evidently form the divide of
Grinnell Land,—between Kennedy Channel to the east and the Polar Ocean
to the west.” Ascending Mount C. A. Arthur, the highest peak of Grinnell
Land, Greely stood 4500 feet above the sea, and saw to the north of
Lake Hazen snow-clad mountains, and distant country to the southwest
was also covered with eternal snows. Lieutenant Lockwood subsequently
supplemented Greely’s discoveries of the interior of Grinnell Land with
the result that jointly 6000 square miles of territory was examined, an
accomplishment which “determines the remarkable physical conditions of
North Grinnell Land. It brought to light fertile valleys, supporting
herds of musk-oxen, an extensive ice-cap, rivers of considerable size,
and a glacial lake (Hazen) of extensive area....”
Traces of Eskimos having wintered at Lake Hazen, as shown by permanent
huts, were a source of surprise to the explorers.
“Successful to such a degree as were these geographical explorations,”
writes Greely, “they were strictly subordinated to the obligatory
observations in the interests of the physical sciences. Systematic and
unremitting magnetic observations served to round out knowledge by
enabling scientists to calculate the secular variation of the magnetic
declination of the Smith Sound region. Apart from the general value of
the meteorological series, it has most fully determined the climatic
conditions of Grinnell Land.
“The tidal observations were so complete at the station and so amply
supplemented by outlying stations, that scientists have determined not
only the co-tidal lines of the Polar Ocean with satisfactory results,
but also learned from them that the diurnal inequality of the tidal wave
conforms at Fort Conger to the sidereal day. The pendulum observations
have been classed as ‘far the best that have ever been made within the
Arctic Circle’ and the ‘determination of gravity (therefrom) has been
singularly successful.’ Botanical, zoölogical, and anthropological
researches were pursued with similar unremitting attention, so that the
scientific work of the expedition may be considered as satisfactory and
complete,—especially in view of the high latitude of the station.”
Summer had passed, and though the men had scanned the horizon long and
earnestly for promised relief, no ship reached them. A second winter
passed in the slow monotony characteristic of the Arctic night.
In order to facilitate his retreat in case the relief vessel of 1883
failed to reach him, Greely laid down stores at Cape Baird before the sun
returned in February, 1883. Under his orders, Lieutenant Greely was to
abandon Fort Conger not later than September 1 and retreat southward by
boat, until he met the relief vessel, or Littleton Island was reached,
where he would find a fresh party with fresh stores awaiting him.
[Sidenote: _FAILURE OF RELIEF SHIP “NEPTUNE”_]
As early as December 2, 1881, active steps were taken at the War
Department in Washington for the relief vessel of 1882, estimates for an
appropriation of $33,000 asked for, and negotiations for supplies opened
with firms at St. John’s and with the Danish government for stores to be
delivered in Greenland. In May, 1882, a board of officers attached to
the Signal Service met at Washington to consider plans for the relief
expedition. And the ultimate result was the sailing from St. John’s,
Newfoundland, on July 8, 1882, of the sealing vessel _Neptune_, with
Mr. William M. Beebe, Jr., a private in general service, and formerly
Secretary to the Chief Signal Officer, in charge of the relief work.
The _Neptune_ touched at Godhaven on the 17th and took on supplies; then
directing her course slowly and with difficulty across Melville Bay, she
came in sight of Cape York on the 25th; Littleton Island was reached on
the 29th, where she was blocked by ice and obliged to return and anchor
in Pandora Harbor. The next forty days the _Neptune_ made fruitless
efforts to enter Kane Sea. In the course of her many failures to
penetrate to the north, she found anchorage between Cape Sabine, Brevoort
Island, where Beebe examined the English cache made by the _Discovery_ in
1875. This cache, of so much importance to Greely’s men later, was found
to contain one barrel of canned beef, two tins (forty pounds each) of
bacon, one barrel (one hundred and ten pounds) dog-biscuit, two barrels
(one hundred and twenty rations each) biscuit, all in good condition;
two hundred and forty rations, consisting of chocolate and sugar, tea
and sugar, potatoes, wicks, tobacco, salt, stearin, onion powder, and
matches, in fairly good condition. Beebe failed to leave any provisions
of his own.
On August 25, after a fourth trial to penetrate the pack, the _Neptune_
returned to Littleton Island with the intention of making depots. Natives
being in the vicinity, who in all probability would steal any deposits
left, Beebe concluded to postpone making the cache and proceeded to Cape
Sabine. Here he deposited, according to his orders, two hundred and
fifty rations, one-eighth of a cord of birch wood, and a whale-boat. The
_Neptune_ then made a fifth attempt to penetrate the pack, and again
on September 2, her sixth and final effort. Finding it impossible to
advance, she returned to Littleton Island, and a second depot of two
hundred and fifty rations was cached. She now started on her homeward
voyage, September 5, 1882. Beebe, having carried out to the letter his
instructions from the signal office, for the relief of the Lady Franklin
Bay expedition, and left two depots of two hundred and fifty rations, or
ten days’ supply, returned to St. John’s, carrying safely from the barren
shores of the Arctic two thousand rations, or a full supply for three
months.
[Sidenote: _OFFICIAL PLANS FOR GREELY’S RELIEF IN 1883_]
The return of the relief party of 1882 made the expedition that was
to follow the next summer one of grave importance. In the course of
official communication on the subject between the Chief Signal Officer
and the Secretary of War, General Hazen stated that “it is most desirable
that the officer and the enlisted men who are to go next year, be
detailed as early as practicable, in order that they may be trained and
have experience in rowing and managing boats, and in the use of boat
compasses.... It is desirable that men be selected whose service has been
in the northwest, and it is also important that the entire party, before
going, should be familiar with boats and their management under all
conditions.”
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT JAMES B. LOCKWOOD, U.S.A.
_From a portrait in the possession of A. Operti, Esq._]
In the Secretary’s reply, the suggestion is volunteered, “It seems that
it would be much more desirable to endeavour to procure from the Navy the
persons who are needed for this relief party.” To this General Hazen made
answer:—
“To change the full control of this duty now would be swapping horses
while crossing the stream, and when in the middle of the stream. To
manage it with mixed control, or even with mixed arms of the service
under a single control, would be hazardous, and such action is strongly
advised against by the many persons of both Army and Navy I have
discussed the subject with. The ready knowledge of boats and instruments
is but a very small part of the indispensable requisites in this case.
This whole work has required a great deal of attention and study from
the first, and I have not a doubt but any transfer of control now would
result in failure to convey all the threads of this half-finished work,
and that it would work disastrously in many ways. In view of these facts,
I would consider the transfer now of any part of this work to any other
control as very hazardous and without any apparent promise of advantage.”
First Lieutenant Ernest A. Garlington of the 7th Cavalry, having
volunteered his services, was ordered, February 6, 1883, to report at
Washington. Since his graduation from the Military Academy in 1876, he
had served with his regiment at Fort Buford, Dakota Territory. Four
enlisted men who had volunteered were also ordered from Dakota.
The _Proteus_ was chartered and made ready for her voyage. A request was
made by the Chief Signal Officer on the 14th of May that a Navy vessel
should be detailed for service in connection with the expedition, “as
escort to bring back information, render assistance, and take such other
steps as might be necessary in case of unforeseen emergencies.” The
_Yantic_, under Commander Frank Wildes, was selected, and underwent such
preparation as the limited time permitted.
Garlington was instructed to examine, if possible, all depots of
provisions and replace any damaged articles of food, and if the _Proteus_
could not get through, the party and stores should be landed at Life-Boat
Cove, the vessel sent back, and the party should remain. The _Yantic_
was to accompany the _Proteus_ as far as Littleton Island and render
such assistance as might become necessary. Lieutenant J. C. Colwell of
the Navy, having volunteered his services, was detailed to accompany
Garlington. The _Proteus_ and the _Yantic_ left St. John’s the 29th of
June, 1883, and were soon out of sight of each other.
[Sidenote: _“PROTEUS” CRUSHED IN ICE_]
The _Proteus_ encountered ice in Melville Bay. Garlington examined the
Nares cache of eighteen hundred rations on Southeast Gary Island, 60 per
cent of the rations proving to be in good condition. There is no record
that the 40 per cent were replaced from the _Proteus’s_ stores.
Littleton Island was passed without a cache being left there. The
ice prevented an advance, and Garlington thereupon decided to go to
Cape Sabine “to examine cache there, leave records, and await further
developments.” “At half-past three the _Proteus_ came to anchor at
Payer Harbor,” writes Schley. “She remained at her anchorage from 3:30
to 8 P.M. This stay of four hours and a half at Cape Sabine was a
turning-point in the history of the relief expedition. It was made up of
golden moments. It is true that no one could predict that by that time
next day the _Proteus_ would be at the bottom of the Kane Sea. It is
also true that Garlington’s instructions had been officially construed
as not including the formation of depots on the way north, and that the
importance of reaching Lady Franklin Bay had been impressed upon his
mind as the main purpose of his enterprise. At the same time it was
known with tolerable certainty that two months later Greely would be at
that point, if he carried out his intentions; and the commander of the
relief expedition, although not expressly directed to land anywhere, had
been instructed that if landings should be made at points where caches
of provisions were located, he was, if possible, to examine them, and
replace any damaged articles of food.
“Now there were two caches at or near Cape Sabine. One of them, left
by Beebe the year before, was around the point of the cape. The other,
left by Nares in 1875, was on Stalknecht Island, a long, low rock in
the harbour itself, due west from Brevoort Island, and close to it.
The position of the cache was well known. Beebe had visited it in 1882.
The _Proteus_ was now at Payer Harbor, probably within half a mile of
Stalknecht Island; and on board the vessel were the four depots of
provisions, of two hundred and fifty rations each, that had been arranged
at Disco to be in readiness for landing at some tune and at any time.”
Garlington ordered two privates to land and take a set of observations,
while he went with a party of men to examine the caches. The repair of
a cache and the set of observations are all the work reported as having
been done at Cape Sabine on the way north.
Garlington then put to sea, and followed the open leads of water to the
northward. After an advance of twenty miles, the ship was stopped by the
pack near Cape Albert. The following day she was crushed, and the crew
and relief party took to the floe, throwing overboard such stores and
provisions as came to hand. Lieutenant Colwell was the last man to leave
the ship. Garlington and his party of fifteen men, two whale-boats, and
provisions for forty days reached Cape Sabine in safety. He now followed
the “Wildes-Garlington agreement,” which said “Should _Proteus_ be lost,
push a boat with party south to _Yantic_.”
[Sidenote: _GARLINGTON’S RETREAT_]
Garlington’s record left by him on Brevoort Island read in part:—
“Depot landed ... 500 rations of bread, tea, and a lot of canned goods.
Cache of 250 rations; left by expedition of 1882, visited by me, and
found in good condition. English depot in damaged condition, not visited
by me. Cache on Littleton Island; boat at Isabella. U.S.S. _Yantic_ on
her way to Littleton Island, with orders not to enter ice ... I will
endeavour to communicate with these vessels at once. Everything in power
of man will be done to rescue the (Greely’s) brave men.”
“It transpired,” writes Greely, “that there was no boat at Isabella;
that Garlington’s orders to replace damaged caches were imperative and
disobeyed; that he had no knowledge that the Littleton Island cache was
safe; that at Sabine he took every pound of food he could reach, though
told that Greely was provisioned only to August, 1883; and that after
Colwell’s skill had brought Garlington safe to the _Yantic_, he did not
even ask Wilde to go north and lay down food for Greely, otherwise doomed
to starvation.”
On September 13, 1883, Garlington wrote from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to
the Chief Signal Officer, U.S.A., Washington:—
“It is my painful duty to report total failure of the expedition. The
_Proteus_ was crushed in pack in latitude 70° 52´, longitude 74° 25´,
and sunk on the afternoon of the 23d July. My party and crew all saved.
Made my way across Smith Sound and along eastern shore of Cape York;
thence across Melville Bay to Upernavik, arriving there on 24th Aug. The
_Yantic_ reached Upernavik 2d Sept. and left same day, bringing entire
party here to-day. All well.”
To telegraphic inquiries from the Signal Office asking what stores had
been left for Greely, came answer:—
“No stores landed before sinking of ship. About five hundred rations from
those saved, cached at Cape Sabine; also large cache of clothing. By the
time suitable vessels could be procured, filled, provisioned, etc., it
would be too late in the season to accomplish anything this year.”
We leave to the imagination the alarm aroused by the sudden realization
of what this failure meant to our fellow-countrymen at Fort Conger.
From July, 1882, to August, 1883, not less than 50,000 rations were
taken in the steamers _Neptune_, _Yantic_, and _Proteus_, up to or
beyond Littleton Island, and of that number about 1000 were left in that
vicinity, the remainder being returned to the United States or sunk with
the _Proteus_.
[Illustration: GENERAL A. W. GREELY, U.S.A.
_Courtesy of Clinedinst_]
The date of Garlington’s letter read “September 13.” With what horror did
it dawn upon the public mind that the abandonment of the well-supplied
station at Fort Conger was ordered “not later than” September 1. Even
now Greely and his men, leaving behind them a scant year’s army rations,
and carrying with them every pound of food possible, were making their
hazardous retreat in “heavily laden boats through water-ways crowded
with ice, acted on by strong currents and high winds, the recurring
heavy gales, keeping the pack in constant motion, to and fro against the
precipitous and rockbound coast.”
“Time and again,” writes Greely, “only the most desperate efforts and
measures secured the safety of the specially strengthened launch,
while the whale-boat escaped destruction only by speedy unloading and
drawing-up on floes. Every cache, however small, was taken up, ending
with damaged, mouldy bread, etc., at Cape Hawks.”
[Sidenote: _GREELY’S ABANDONMENT OF FORT CONGER_]
Fort Conger had been abandoned August 9, 1883; on September 13, the
whale-boat had been left behind (afterward recovered), and the men were
fighting their desperate way across the pack to the shore. The following
day Greely made this entry in his journal:—
“The absence of sufficient light to cast a shadow has had very
unfortunate results, as several of the men in the past few days have been
sadly bruised or strained. When no shadows form and the light is feeble
and blended, there is the same uncertainty about one’s walk as if the
deepest darkness prevailed. The most careful observation fails to advise
you as to whether the next step is to be on a level, up an incline,
or over a precipice. These conditions are perhaps the most trying to
Sergeant Brainard, who, being in advance selecting our road, finds
it necessary to travel as rapidly as possible. A few bad falls quite
demoralize a man, and make him more than ever doubtful of his senses.
Travelling slowly, with our heavily laden sledges, we rarely suffer much
from this trouble, as our steps are slow and uncertain at the best, but
when a jar does come on a man pulling his best, it gives his system a
great shock and strain.”
On September 17, all articles that were not of vital importance were
abandoned, and yet the men were hauling about six thousand pounds. At the
end of a weary day Sergeant Brainard wrote in his journal:—
“Turned in at 11 P.M., after ten hours of the severest physical strain.
As the sleeping-bags (of those of us in the tepee) are protected from the
ice by only one thickness of canvas, our comfort can be imagined.”
Three days later he adds:—
“We are now carrying burdens which would crush ordinary men, but the
texture of the party is of the right sort, and adversity will have very
little effect on our spirits.”
On September 29, 1883, Greely made a landing at a point midway between
Cape Sabine and Isabella, after fifty-one days of the most arduous travel.
“The retreat from Conger to Cape Sabine,” writes Greely, “involved over
four hundred miles’ travel by boats, and fully a hundred with sledge and
boat; the greater part of which was made under circumstances of such
great peril or imminence of danger as to test to the utmost the courage,
coolness, and endurance of any party, and the capacity of any commander.
As to my officers and men, it is but scant justice to say that they
faced resolutely every danger, endured cheerfully every hardship, and
were fully equal to every emergency (and they were many) of our eventful
retreat.”
On October 5, Lieutenant Lockwood says:—
“We have now three chances for our lives: First, finding American cache
sufficient at Sabine or at Isabella; second, of crossing the straits
when our present rations are gone; third, of shooting sufficient seal
and walrus near by here to last during the winter. Our situation is
certainly alarming in the extreme.”
These men were shelterless, with but a small food supply, with impassable
barriers of ice north and south. “Some hunted on land, others on ice;
some put up stone huts, others searched for cairns and records.” The
Arctic night had settled upon them before their huts were barely
finished, these huts of heavy granite stones, dug from the snow and ice,
lifted with swollen and bleeding hands, put in place with back-breaking
efforts, by enfeebled, weary men, and into them they crawled with torn
clothing, hand and footgear in holes, covering shivering, aching bodies.
[Sidenote: _GREELY REACHES CAPE SABINE_]
In this desperate plight, scouts returned with news of the sinking of
the _Proteus_ and with the notice from Lieutenant Garlington, describing
the disaster, his plans and his retreat, and the caches of provisions at
Cape Sabine. Relying on the expressed promise that “everything within the
power of man will be done to rescue the brave men at Fort Conger from
their perilous position,” Greely at once endeavoured to move his party
near that point. “Camp Clay” was established on Bedford Pim Island, which
was reached October 15, with forty days’ rations to tide over two hundred
and fifty days of darkness and misery until help could come. Another hut
was erected by the same arduous methods employed in building former huts.
The rock walls were about two feet thick and three feet high; outside
this wall was an embankment of snow at first four feet thick, but as the
season advanced the winter gales buried the hut entirely in snow.
“The whale-boat just caught on the end walls, and under that boat was the
only place in which a man could even get on his knees and hold himself
erect. Sitting in our bags, the heads of the tall men touched the roof.”
“Compared to our previous quarters,” writes Greely, “the house is warm,
but we are so huddled and crowded together that the confinement is
almost intolerable. The men, though wretched from cold, hard work, and
hunger, yet retain their spirits wonderfully.”
It now behooved the party to gather in the stores from all the caches,
and this was done under the most trying conditions. The news of the loss
of the _Jeannette_ was learned by a newspaper found among the stores
and brought in with other articles. Records and instruments of the Lady
Franklin Bay expedition were safely cached early in October on Stalknecht
Island.
During the few remaining days of light, the hunter, Long, with the
Eskimo, remained out of the floe in the intense cold, ill fed, without
shelter, for the purpose of securing seals or other game that might be
seen. A seal was all that was secured under the most trying circumstances.
When certain of the stores were examined to ascertain their condition,
the dog biscuits were evidently bad, but “When this bread, thoroughly
rotten and covered with green mould, was thrown on the ground, the
half-famished men sprang to it as wild animals would.” October 26, 1883,
marked the last day of sunlight for one hundred and ten days. The hunters
still pursued their labours, but without success. However, on the last
day of the month, “Bender was fortunate enough to kill a blue fox with
his fist; it was caught with its head in a meat-can.”
All rations had been collected except one hundred and forty-four pounds
of beef cached by Nares in 1875, forty miles distant at Cape Isabella.
A further reduction of the quantity of food served to each man was
inaugurated November 1. The following day Rice, Frederick, Elison, and
Lynn started in the Arctic night for Cape Isabella; on the fifth day
out they reached their destination after the most hazardous travel in
temperatures ranging from -20° to -25° with only sixteen ounces of food
per day to each man. Taking up their cache of meat, they started on the
return journey. On reaching their first camp after fourteen hours of hard
travel, Elison, who had done this day’s work on a cup of tea and no food,
was found to have frozen both his hands and feet. “Our sleeping-bag was
no more nor less than a sheet of ice,” writes Frederick in his journal.
“I placed one of Elison’s hands between my thighs, and Rice took the
other, and in this way we drew the frost from his poor frozen limbs. This
poor fellow cried all night from pain. This was one of the worst nights I
ever spent in the Arctic.”
Continuing the next two days with their half-frozen comrade, they reached
Eskimo Point. Here they cut up an abandoned ice-boat for fuel, and
endeavoured to thaw out Elison’s limbs and dry his clothing. “When the
poor fellow’s face, feet, and hands commenced to thaw from the artificial
heat,” says Frederick, “his sufferings were such that it was enough to
bring the strongest to tears.”
After labouring nineteen hours for the welfare of their suffering
comrade, Rice and Frederick attempted to advance.—“We tried to keep
Elison in front of us, but to no avail. He would stagger off to one side,
and it seemed every moment that the frost was striking deeper into the
poor man’s flesh. We fastened a rope to his arm and the sledge, as it
now took three men to haul our load, but every few rods the poor fellow
would fall, and then sometimes he was dragged several feet. No person can
imagine how that poor man suffered.”
Unable to haul Elison any farther, in the face of a gale and the piercing
temperature of -20°, it was decided that Rice should start for Camp Clay
for assistance. With only a bit of frozen meat for food, he started alone
in the Arctic darkness and travelled twenty-five miles in sixteen hours,
reaching the camp at midnight. Immediate relief was started, Sergeant
Brainard and Christiansen leading the advance, to be followed two hours
later by Lieutenant Lockwood, the doctor, and four of the men.
The fearful night spent by Frederick, Lynn, and their frozen companion
can hardly be pictured. “We tried to warm him,” says Frederick, “but as
we lay helpless and shivering with the cold, and poor Elison groaning
with hunger (his frozen lips did not permit him to gnaw the frozen meat)
and pain, you can imagine how we felt. Lynn was a strong, able-bodied
man, but the mental strain caused by Elison’s sufferings made him weak
and helpless. In fact, I was afraid that his mind would be impaired at
one time. We were but a few hours in the bag when it became frozen so
hard that we could not turn over, and we had to lay in one position
eighteen hours; until, to our great relief, we heard Brainard’s cheering
voice at our side. There was nothing more welcome than the presence of
that noble man, who had come in advance with brandy for Elison and food
for all.”
The rescue party, although weak and half-starved themselves, reached
Elison with all despatch to find him in a very critical condition; his
hands and feet were frozen solid; his face frozen to such an extent that
there was little semblance of humanity.
[Sidenote: _THE BEGINNING OF A HARD WINTER_]
If November was ushered in with such misfortune, the succeeding months
record a history of unparalleled misery and suffering. The hunters were
ever on the alert, and the occasional game brought in was the only cheer
that surrounded these famishing outcasts. A seal, a bear, a few foxes,
dovekies, and ptarmigan were all that the desolate land gave forth to
the unremitting vigilance of the hunters, and, reduced to the last
extremities of famine, shrimps, seaweed, reindeer-moss, saxifrage, and
lichens were diligently sought for and devoured.
On Thanksgiving Day,—what irony in the mere name,—these men celebrated by
a little extra allowance of food—and Greely wrote in his journal:—
“To-day we have been _almost_ happy, and had _almost_ enough to eat.”
On December 9, there is rejoicing because Brainard and Long shot two blue
foxes.
“We are all very weak,” writes Lieutenant Lockwood, ten days later, “and
I feel an apathy and cloudiness impossible to shake off. It is a great
difficulty to know each night just how much bread to save for breakfast
on the morrow,—hunger to-night fights hunger to-morrow morning. I always
eat my bread regretfully. If I eat it before tea, I regret that I did
not keep it; and if I wait until tea comes, and then eat it, I drink my
tea hastily and do not get the satisfaction I otherwise would. What a
miserable life, when a few crumbs of bread weigh so on one’s mind! It
seems to be so with all the rest. All sorts of expedients are tried to
cheat one’s stomach, but with about the same result.”
On December 21, Lieutenant Greely says:—
“Sergeant Brainard is twenty-seven to-day. I gave him half a gill of rum
extra on that account, regretting my inability to do more for him. He
has worked exceedingly hard for us this winter; and, while all have done
their best, his endurance, unusual equanimity of temper, and impartial
justice in connection with the food have been of invaluable service to
me.”
“Mouldy hard bread and two cans of soup make a dinner for twelve,” says
Brainard. “At Fort Conger ten cans of soup were needed to begin dinner.
But even the dire calamity which now confronts us is insufficient to
repress the great flow of good nature in our party generally.”
“A terrible scene occurred in our wretched hut during the morning,”
writes Brainard, March 24, 1884. “While preparing breakfast (tea) the
cooks had forgotten to remove the bundle of rags from the ventilators in
the roof, and the fumes thrown off by the alcohol lamps, being confined
to the small breathing space, soon produced asphyxia. Biederbick, one
of the cooks, was the first to succumb to its effects, and Israel
immediately afterwards became insensible. At the suggestion of Gardiner,
all the rest of us rushed for the door, and the plugs were at once
removed from the roof and the lamps extinguished. By prompt attention,
Dr. Pavy succeeded in reviving Israel and Biederbick. Those who went
outside were less fortunate than those who fainted in their bags. As soon
as they came in contact with the pure outside air, all strength departed,
and they fell down on the snow in an unconscious state. In consequence
of the absence of all animation, many of us were frost-bitten—Lieutenant
Greely and myself quite severely. The lives of several of the men were
probably saved through the noble efforts of Gardiner, who, though weak
and sick, did all in his power to get us in the hut.... During the
excitement of the hour about half a pound of bacon was stolen from
Lieutenant Greely’s mess, and as soon as the fact became known, great
indignation was expressed that in our midst lived a man with nature so
vile and corrupt—so utterly devoid of all feelings of humanity—as to
steal from his starving companions when they were thought to be dying. A
deed so contemptible and heartless could not long remain concealed from
those who had been injured. We were not disappointed in the discovery
that Henry was the thief. He had literally bolted the bacon, and his
stomach was overloaded to such a degree that, in its enfeebled state, it
could not retain this unusual quantity of food, and his crime was thus
detected. Jens afterwards reported having seen him commit the theft, and
illustrated by signs his manner of doing it.”
“Poor suffering Elison!” he writes a few days later. “This morning he
turned to the doctor and said, ‘My toes are burning dreadfully, and the
soles of my feet are itching in a very uncomfortable manner; can you not
do something to relieve this irritation?’ He little dreams that he has
neither toes nor feet: they having sloughed off in January.”
On March 21, Greely makes this entry:—
“A storm prevents hunting.... It is surprising with what calmness we view
death, which, strongly as we may hope, seems now inevitable.”
[Sidenote: _DEATH FROM STARVATION_]
As the gaunt and ghostly form of Death laid its fatal touch upon the
weakest one by one, a strong man stole food from comrades, and stole
again, and justly forfeited his right to live. Then one by one they died,
the Eskimo, Christiansen, from exhaustion, and Lynn. “He asked for water
just before dying; and we had none to give.”
Then Rice sacrificed his life for others, dying in the arms of his
comrade, Frederick, near Baird Inlet, where he had gone in search of a
hundred pounds of English beef abandoned in November, that Elison might
be brought to camp alive. Then Lockwood died and Jewell failed—and soon
joined his sleeping comrades, and yet in face of horror crowding upon
horror, there is an entry:—
“On Easter Sunday we heard on our roof a snow-bird chirping loudly—the
first harbinger of spring.”
In the meantime, the chief dependence of this rapidly diminishing
party was derived from the gathering of shrimps—or sea-lice; the small
crustacea were from one-eighth to one-half of an inch in length,
consisting of about four-fifths shell and one-fifth meat, and about seven
hundred of them were required to weigh an ounce.
“Dr. Pavy says,” writes Brainard in his journal, May 20, 1884, “that our
food must be something more substantial than these shrimps, or none of us
can live long. I caught twelve pounds of these animals to-day, and one
pound of marine vegetation. Returned very much exhausted from this trip.
Cannot last much longer.”
“Caterpillars are now quite numerous on the bare spots of Cemetery
Bridge,” he writes a day or two later. “Yesterday Bender saw one of
these animals crawling over a rock near the tent, and after watching it
intently for a moment he hastily transferred it to his mouth, remarking
as he did so, ‘This is too much meat to lose.’”
On May 29 there was a southeast gale and drifting snow. Brainard and Long
returned from their day’s hunting with a few pounds of shrimps and a
dovekie. “On returning to the tent,” writes Brainard, “Dr. Pavy and Lalor
refused to admit me to their sleeping-bag, in which I occupied a place.
Physically I could not enforce my rights in this matter, my condition
bordering on extreme exhaustion, and wishing to avoid any unpleasantness,
I crawled into one of the abandoned bags lying outside, as the only
alternative. This bag was frozen and filled with snow. Can my sufferings
be imagined? They certainly cannot be described.
“Suffering with rheumatism, and smarting under the sense of wrong done me
by my sleeping-bag companions, mental agony was added to physical torture.
“To-day I caught six pounds of shrimps. This evening (June 6) dinner
consisted of a stew composed of two boot-soles, a handful of reindeer
moss, and a few rock lichens. The small quantity of shrimps which I
furnish daily are sufficient only for the morning meal.
“Wednesday, June 11, 1884. Long returned at 1:30 A.M. from the open
water, bringing with him two fine guillemots which he had killed. One
of these was given to the general mess, and the other will be divided
among those who are doing the heavy work for their weaker companions.
This evening a great misfortune befell me. The spring tides have broken
out the ice at the shrimping place, and my nets have been carried away
and lost; my baits, poor and miserable as they were, are gone also. It
is anything but pleasant to reflect that to-morrow morning we will have
no breakfast except a cup of tea. It was quite late when I returned this
evening from shrimping, and everybody had retired. I did not have the
heart to awaken the poor fellows, but I let them sleep on quietly under
the delusion that breakfast would await them at the usual hour in the
morning. How I pity them!
“I made a flag, or distress signal, as it might be more properly termed,
which I intend placing on the high, rocky point just north of our tent,
where it may be seen by any vessel passing Cape Sabine.”
[Sidenote: _SCHLEY’S BRILLIANT RESCUE_]
Ten days later the whistle of the _Thetis_ blown by Captain Schley’s
orders to recall his searching parties fell lightly on the ears of the
dying Commander of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition.
“I feebly asked Brainard and Long if they had strength to go out,” writes
Greely, “and they answered, as always, that they would do their best.”
From the cutter, as it entered the cove, Lieutenant Colwell, straining
his eyes, recognized the familiar landmarks of the year before.
“There, on the top of a little ridge, fifty or sixty yards above the
ice-foot, was plainly outlined the figure of a man. Instantly the
coxswain caught up the boat-hook and waved the flag. The man on the ridge
had seen them, for he stooped, picked up a signal flag from the rock, and
waved it in reply. Then he was seen coming slowly and cautiously down the
steep, rocky slope. Twice he fell down before he reached the foot. As he
approached, still walking feebly and with difficulty, Colwell hailed him
from the bow of the boat:—
“‘Who all are there left?’
“‘Seven left.’”
“As the cutter struck the ice,” continues Schley, “Colwell jumped off
and went up to him. He was a ghastly sight. His cheeks were hollow, his
eyes wild, his hair and beard long and matted. His army blouse, covering
several thicknesses of shirts and jackets, was ragged and dirty. He wore
a little fur cap and rough moccasins of untanned leather tied around
the leg. As he spoke, his utterance was thick and mumbling, and in his
agitation his jaws worked in convulsive twitches. As the two met, the
man, with a sudden impulse, took off his glove and shook Colwell’s hand.
“‘Where are they?’ asked Colwell, briefly.
“‘In the tent,’ said the man, pointing over his shoulder, ‘over the
hill—the tent is down.’
“‘Is Mr. Greely alive?’
“‘Yes, Greely’s alive.’
“‘Any other officers?’
“‘No.’ Then he repeated absently, ‘The tent is down.’
“‘Who are you?’
“‘Long.’
“Before this colloquy was over, Lowe and Norman had started up the hill.
Hastily filling his pockets with bread, and taking the two cans of
pemmican, Colwell told the coxswain to take Long into the cutter, and
started after the others with Ash. Reaching the crest of the ridge and
looking southward, they saw spread out before them a desolate expanse
of rocky ground, sloping gradually from a ridge on the east to the
ice-covered shore, which at the west made in and formed a cove. Back of
the level space was a range of hills rising up eight hundred feet, with
a precipitous face, broken in two by a gorge, through which the wind was
blowing furiously. On a little elevation directly in front was the tent.
Hurrying on across the intervening hollow, Colwell came up with Lowe and
Norman, just as they were greeting a soldierly-looking man, who had come
out from the tent.
“As Colwell approached, Norman was saying to the man,—
“‘There is the Lieutenant.’
“And he added to Colwell,—
“‘This is Sergeant Brainard.’
“Brainard immediately drew himself up to the ‘Position of the soldier,’
and was about to salute, when Colwell took his hand.
“At this moment there was a confused murmur within the tent, and a voice
said,—
“‘Who’s there?’
“Norman answered, ‘It’s Norman—Norman who was in the _Proteus_.’
“This was followed by cries of ‘Oh, it’s Norman!’ and a sound like a
feeble cheer.
“Meanwhile one of the relief party, who in his agitation and excitement
was crying like a child, was down on his hands and knees trying to roll
away the stones that held down the flapping tent cloth.... There was no
entrance, except under the flap opening, which was held down by stones.
Colwell called for a knife, cut a slit in the tent cover, and looked in.”
“It was a sight of horror,” continues Schley. “On one side, close to the
opening, with his head toward the outside, lay what was apparently a dead
man. His jaw had dropped, his eyes were open, but fixed and glassy, his
limbs were motionless. On the opposite side was a poor fellow, alive, to
be sure, but without hands or feet, and with a spoon tied to the stump of
his right arm. Two others, seated on the ground, in the middle, had just
got down a rubber bottle that hung on the tent pole, and were pouring
from it in a tin can. Directly opposite, on his hands and knees, was a
dark man with a long matted beard, in a dirty and tattered dressing-gown,
with a little red skull cap on his head, and brilliant, staring eyes.
As Colwell appeared, he raised himself a little, and put on a pair of
eye-glasses.
“‘Who are you?’ asked Colwell.
“The man made no answer, staring at him vacantly.
“‘Who are you?’ again.
“One of the men spoke up,—
“‘That’s the Major—Major Greely.’
“Colwell crawled in and took him by the hand, saying to him,—
“‘Greely, is this you?’
“‘Yes,’ said Greely, in a faint, broken voice, hesitating and shuffling
with his words; ‘yes—seven of us left—here we are—dying—like men. Did
what I came to do—beat the best record.’
“The scene, as Colwell looked around, was one of misery and squalor.
The rocky floor was covered with cast-off clothes, and among them were
huddled together the sleeping-bags in which the party had spent most of
their time during the last few months. There was no food left in the
tent, but two or three cans of a thin, repulsive-looking jelly, made
by boiling strips cut from the sealskin clothing. The bottle on the
tent-pole still held a few teaspoonfuls of brandy, but it was their last,
and they were sharing it as Colwell entered. It was evident that most of
them had not long to live.
“Colwell immediately sent Chief Engineer Lowe back to the cutter to put
off to the _Bear_ with Long to report and to bring the surgeon with
stimulants, while he fed the dying men with bits of the food he had with
him. As their hunger returned, they cried piteously for more; fearing
too much at one time would injure them, Colwell wisely dissuaded them,
but ‘when Greely found that he was refused, he took a can of the boiled
sealskin, which he had carefully husbanded, and which he said he had a
right to eat, as it was his own.’
“The weaker ones were like children, petulant, rambling, and fitful in
their talk, absent, and sometimes a little incoherent.”
The _Bear_ having by this time arrived, Sergeant Long was lifted from
the cutter aboard, and there told his pitiful tale; all were dead except
Greely and five others, and they were on shore in “Sore distress—sore
distress”; it had been “a hard winter,” and “the wonder was how in God’s
name they had pulled through.”
“No words,” says Schley, “can describe the pathos of this man’s broken
and enfeebled utterance, as he said over and over, ‘a hard winter—a hard
winter’; and the officers who were gathered about him in the ward room
felt an emotion which most of them were at little pains to conceal.”
Soon after the _Thetis_ came in sight, and her officers, including
brave Melville, whose last sad offices for De Long had been but lately
finished, went ashore and aided those from the _Bear_ in the care and
succour of the forlorn party.
As soon as possible the men were carefully moved on stretchers and
carried in boats to the ships, but not before a hurricane had broken upon
them, which made the labour hazardous and difficult.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Emory of the _Bear_ was making a careful collection
of all articles belonging to the camp. Near the sleeping-bags were
found little packages of cherished valuables, carefully rolled up, and
addressed to friends and relatives at home; the survivors, too, had
already done up and addressed their own, and, strange as it may seem, a
pocket-book was found containing a large roll of bills carried by the
owner for some unaccountable reason to the barren shores of Lady Franklin
Bay. It was not difficult to move the bodies of the dead; there was only
a thin covering of sand above the mounds that formed the graves.
Looking out from the side of the hut to the ice-foot, Colwell’s attention
was fixed by a dark object on the snow. Following a path which led to it
from where he stood, he found the mutilated remains of a man’s body.
“It was afterward identified from a bullet hole,” writes Schley, “as that
of Private Henry, who had been executed on the sixth of June.”
Wrapping it in a blanket, Colwell carried it to the landing-place, where
a seaman took the bundle on his shoulder. Presently the boat came off,
and all who had remained on shore were taken on board the _Bear_. The
ships returned to Payer Harbor.
The next day, June 23, Lieutenant Emory, accompanied by Sebree and
Melville, and a number of men made a second search at Camp Clay, which
lasted several hours; everything was gathered up and brought away.
The officers of the _Thetis_ meanwhile had secured from Stalknecht
Island Greely’s tin boxes containing his scientific records and standard
pendulum.
The relief squadron in 1884 under Captain W. S. Schley and Commander W.
H. Emory, and fitted out under the personal orders of the Hon. W. E.
Chandler, Secretary of the Navy, had brilliantly executed its commission
and had out-rivalled the early Scotch whalers, to whom a bounty had been
offered by Congress for the speedy rescue of Greely, in pushing boldly
through the “middle ice.” “No relief or expeditionary vessels ever
ventured at so early a date into the dangers of Melville Bay,” writes
Greely.
“That the United States Navy won in the race for Sabine is an
illustration of the wonderful adaptability and abundant resources of
the representative American seaman, which so well fits him for coping
successfully with new and untried dangers and makes him a worthy rival of
our kin across the sea.”
In triumph they bore the remnant of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition home
to relatives and friends. Only six reached America alive (brave, pitiful
Elison had died at Godhaven, July 8), six soldiers out of a company of
twenty-five, broken in health, yet courageous in spirit, and loyal to a
nation that through “a hard winter—a hard winter—in sore distress—” had
left them to their fate!
[Illustration: REAR ADMIRAL SCHLEY, U.S.N.
_Courtesy of Clinedinst_]