that Peary was preparing his 1891 expedition to the Arctic. I cannot
explain my sensations. It was as if a door to a prison cell had opened.
I felt the first indomitable, commanding call of the Northland. To
invade the Unknown, to assail the fastness of the white, frozen
North--all that was latent in me, the impetus of that ambition born in
childhood, perhaps before birth, and which had been stifled and starved,
surged up tumultuously within me.
I volunteered, and accompanied Peary, on this, the expedition of
1891-92, as surgeon. Whatever merit my work possessed has been cited by
others.
Unless one has been in the Arctic, I suppose it is impossible to
understand its fascination--a fascination which makes men risk their
lives and endure inconceivable hardships for, as I view it now, no
profitable personal purpose of any kind. The spell was upon me then. It
was upon me as I recalled those early days on the _Bradley_ going
Northward. With a feeling of sadness I realize that the glamor is all
gone now.
On the Peary and all my subsequent expeditions I served without pay.
On my return from that trip I managed to make ends meet by meager
earnings from medicine. I was nearly always desperately hard pressed for
money. I tried to organize several cooeperative expeditions to the
Arctic. These failed. I then tried to arouse interest in Antarctic
exploration, but without success. Then came the opportunity to join the
Belgian Antarctic Expedition, again without pay.
On my return I dreamed of a plan to attain the South Pole, and for a
long time worked on a contrivance for that end--an automobile arranged
to travel over ice. Financial failure again confronted me.
Disappointment only added to my ambition; it scourged me to a
determination, a conviction that--I want you to remember this, to bear
in mind the mental conviction which buoyed me--I must and should
succeed. It is always this innate conviction which encourages men to
exceptional feats, to tremendous failures or splendid, single-handed
success.
A summer in the Arctic followed my Antarctic trip, and I returned to
invade the Alaskan wilds. I succeeded in scaling Mt. McKinley. After my
Alaskan expeditions, the routine of my Brooklyn office work seemed like
the confinement of prison. I fretted and chafed at the thought. Let me
have a chance, and I would succeed. This thought always filled my mind.
I convinced myself that in some way the attainment of one of the
Poles--the effort on which I had spent sixteen years--would become
possible.
I had no money. My work in exploration had netted me nothing, and all my
professional income was soon spent. Unless you have felt the goading,
devilish grind of poverty hindering you, dogging you, you cannot know
the mental fury into which I was lashed.
I waited, and fortune favored me in that I met Mr. John R. Bradley. We
planned the Arctic expedition on which I was now embarked. Mr. Bradley's
interest in the trip was that of a great sportsman, eager to seek big
game in the Arctic. My immediate purpose was to return again to the
frozen North. The least the journey would give me was an opportunity to
complete the study of the Eskimos which I had started in 1891.
Mr. Bradley and I had talked, of course, of the Pole; but it was not an
important incentive to the journey. Back in my brain, barely above the
subconscious realm, was the feeling that this, however, might offer
opportunity in the preparation for a final future determination. I,
therefore, without any conscious purpose, and with my last penny, paid
out of my purse for extra supplies for a personal expedition should I
leave the ship.[1]
Aboard the _Bradley_, going northward, my plans were not at all
definite. Even had I known before leaving New York that I should try for
the Pole, I should not have sought any geographical license from some
vague and unknown authority. Though much has since been made by critics
of our quiet departure, I always felt the quest of the Pole a personal
ambition[2], a crazy hunger I had to satisfy.
Fair weather followed us to Sydney, Cape Breton.
From this point we sailed over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, then entered
the Straits of Belle Isle at a lively speed. On a cold, cheerless day in
the middle of July we arrived at Battle Harbor, a little town at the
southeastern point of Labrador, where Mr. Bradley joined us. He had
preceded us north, by rail and coasting vessels, after watching a part
of the work of outfitting the schooner.
On the morning of July 16 we left the rockbound coast of North America
and steered straight for Greenland. In this region a dense and heavy fog
almost always lies upon the sea. Then nothing is visible but
slow-swaying gray masses, which veil all objects in a shroud of ghostly
dreariness. Through the fog can be heard the sound of fisher-boat horns,
often the very voices of the fishermen themselves, while their crafts
are absolutely hidden from view. On this trip, however, from time to
time, great fragments of fog slowly lifted, and we saw, emerging out of
the gray mistiness, islands, bleak and black and weathertorn, and
patches of ocean dotted with scores of Newfoundland boats, which invade
this region to fish for cod. We entered the Arctic current, and
breasting its stream, a fancy came that perhaps this current, flowing
down from out of the mysterious unknown, came from the very Pole itself.
Continuing, we entered Davis Straits, where we encountered headwinds
that piled up the water in great waves. It was a good test of the
sailing qualities of the _Bradley_, and well did the small craft
respond.
Long before the actual coast line of Greenland could be seen we had a
first glimpse of the beauties that these northern regions can show.
Like great sapphires, blue ice floated in a golden sea; towering masses
of crystal rose gloriously, dazzling the eye and gladdening the heart
with their superb beauty. The schooner sailed into this wonderful yellow
sea, which soon became a broad and gleaming surface of molten silver.
Although this striking beauty of the North, which it often is so chary
of displaying, possesses a splendor of color equal to the gloriousness
of tropical seas, it always impresses one with a steely hardness of
quality suggestive of the steely hardness of the heart of the North. And
it somehow seemed, curiously enough, as if all this wonderful glitter
was a shimmering reflection from the ice-covered mountains of the
Greenland interior, although the mountains themselves were still
invisible.
We swung from side to side, dodging icebergs. We steered cautiously
around low-floating masses, watching to see that the keel was not caught
by some treacherous jutting spur just beneath the water-line. Through
this fairyland of light and color we sailed slowly into a region rich in
animal life, a curious and striking sight. Seals floundered in the
sunbeams or slumbered on masses of ice, for even in this Northland there
is a strange commingling and contrast of heat and cold. Gulls and
petrels darted and fluttered about us in every direction, porpoises were
making swift and curving leaps, even a few whales added to the magic and
apparent unreality of it all.
At length the coast showed dimly upon the horizon, veiled in a glow of
purple and gold. The wind freshened, the sails filled, and the speed of
the schooner increased. We were gradually nearing Holsteinborg, and the
course was set a point more in towards shore. The land was thrown into
bold relief by the brilliancy of lights and shadows, and in the
remarkably clear air it seemed as if it could be reached in an hour. But
this was an atmospheric deception, of the kind familiar to those who
know the pure air of the Rocky Mountains, for, although the land seemed
near, it was at least forty miles away. The general color of the land
was a frosty blue, and there were deep valleys to be seen, gashes cut by
the slow movement of centuries of glaciers, with rocky headlands leaping
forward, bleak and cold. It appeared to be a land of sublime desolation.
The course was set still another point nearer the coast; the wind
continued fair and strong; and, with every possible stitch of canvas
spread, the schooner went rapidly onward.
We saw rocky islands, drenched by clouds of spray and battered by
drifting masses of ice. There the eider duck builds its nest and spends
the brief summer of the Arctic. We saw dismal cliffs, terra cotta and
buff in color, in the crevasses of which millions of birds made their
homes, and from which they rose, frightened, in dense clouds, giving
vent to a great volume of clamorous hoarseness.
Through our glasses we could see a surprising sight in such a
land--little patches of vegetation, seal brown or even emerald green.
Yet, so slight were these patches of green that one could not but wonder
what freak of imagination led the piratical Eric the Red, one thousand
years ago, to give to this coast a name so suggestive of luxuriant
forests and shrubs and general lushness of growth as "Greenland." Never,
surely, was there a greater misnomer, unless one chooses to regard the
old-time Eric as a practical joker.
Between the tall headlands there were fiords cutting far into the
interior; arms of the sea, these, winding and twisting back for miles.
Along these quiet land-locked waters the Eskimos love to hunt and fish,
just as their forefathers have done for centuries. Shaggy looking
fellows are these Eskimos, clothed in the skins of animals, relieved by
dashes of color of Danish fabric, most of them still using spears, and
thus, to outward appearance, in the arts of life almost like those that
Eric saw.
Although this rugged coast, with its low-lying islands, its icebergs and
floating icefields, its bleak headlands, its picturesque scenes of
animal life, is a continuous delight, it presents the worst possible
dangers to navigation, not only from reefs and under-water ice, but
because there are no lighthouses to mark permanent danger spots and
because signs of impending storm are ever on the horizon. While
navigating the coast, our officers spent sleepless nights of anxiety;
but the shortening of the nights and lengthening of the days, the daily
night brightening resulting from the northerly movement, combined with
an occasional flash of the aurora, gradually relieved the tension of the
situation.
By the time the island of Disco rose splendidly out of the northern
blue, the Arctic Circle had been crossed, and a sort of celestial
light-house brightened the path of the schooner. Remaining on deck until
after midnight, we were rewarded by a sight of the sun magnified to many
times its normal size, glowing above the rim of the frosty sea. A light
wind blew gently from the coast, the sea ran in swells of gold, and the
sky was streaked with topaz and crimson.
Bathed in an indescribable glow, the towering sides of the greatest
icebergs showed a medley of ever-changing, iridescent colors. The
jutting pinnacles of others seemed like oriental minarets of alabaster
fretted with old gold. Here and there, as though flung by an invisible
hand from the zenith, straggled long cloud ribbons of flossy crimson and
silver. Gradually, imperially, the sun rose higher and flushed sky and
sea with deeper orange, more burning crimson, and the bergs into vivid
ruby, chalcedony and chrysophase walls. This suddenly-changing,
kaleidoscopic whirl of color was rendered more effective because, in its
midst, the cliffs of Disco rose frowningly, a great patch of blackness
in artistic contrast. A pearly vapor now began to creep over the
horizon, and gradually spread over the waters, imparting a gentle and
restful tone of blue. This gradually darkened into irregular shadows;
the brilliant color glories faded away. Finally we retired to sleep with
a feeling that sailing Poleward was merely a joyous pleasure journey
over wonderful and magic waters. This, the first glorious vision of the
midnight sun, glowed in my dreams--the augury of success in that for
which my heart yearned. The glow never faded, and the weird lure
unconsciously began to weave its spell.
Next morning, when we went on deck, the schooner was racing eastward
through heavy seas. The terraced cliffs of Disco, relieved by freshly
fallen snow, were but a few miles off. The cry of gulls and guillemots
echoed from rock to rock. Everything was divested of the glory of the
day before. The sun was slowly rising among mouse-colored clouds. The
bergs were of an ugly blue, and the sea ran in gloomy lines of ebony.
Although the sea was high, there was little wind, but we felt that a
storm was gathering and sought to hasten to shelter in Godhaven--a name
which speaks eloquently of the dangers of this coast and the precious
value of such a harbor.
As we entered the narrow channel, which turns among low, polished rocks
and opens into the harbor, two Eskimos in kayaks came out to act as
pilots. Taking them aboard, we soon found a snug anchorage, secure from
wind and sea. The launch was lowered, and in it we left the schooner for
a visit to the Governor.
Coming up to a little pier, we were cordially greeted by Governor
Fenker, who escorted us to his home, where his wife, a cultivated young
Danish woman, offered us sincere hospitality.
The little town itself was keenly alive. All the inhabitants, and all
the dogs as well, were jumping about on the rocks, eagerly gazing at our
schooner. The houses of the Governor and the Inspector were the most
important of the town. They were built of wood imported from Denmark,
and were covered with tarred paper. Though quite moderate in size, the
houses seemed too large and out of place in their setting of
ice-polished rocks. Beyond them were twenty Eskimo huts, nearly square
in shape, constructed of wood and stone, the cracks of which were filled
tightly with moss.
We deferred our visit to the native huts, and invited Governor Fenker
and his wife to dine aboard the schooner. The surprise of the evening
for these two guests was the playing of our phonograph, the tunes of
which brought tears of homesickness to the eyes of the Governor's gentle
wife.
Anywhere on the coast of Greenland, the coming of a ship is always one
of the prime events of the season. So uneventful is life in these
out-of-the-way places that such an arrival is the greatest possible
social enlivener. The instant that the approach of our schooner had been
noted, the Eskimo girls--queer little maids in queer little
trousers--decided upon having a dance, and word was brought us that
everyone was invited to take part. The sailors eagerly responded, and
tumbled ashore as soon as they were permitted, leaving merely enough for
a watch on board ship. Then, to the sound of savage music, the dance was
continued until long after midnight. A curious kind of midnight dance it
was, with the sun brightly shining in a night unveiled of glitter and
color glory. The sailors certainly found pleasure in whirling about,
their arms encircling fat and clumsy waists. They did admit, however,
when back on board the schooner, that the smell of the furs within which
the maidens had spent the past winter was less agreeable than the savor
of fish. The name of this scattered settlement of huts, Godhaven, comes,
clearly enough, from its offering fortunate refuge from storms; that the
place is also known as Lively is not in the least to be wondered at, if
one has watched a midnight dance of the little population and their
visitors.
Before hauling in anchor in the harbor of Godhaven, we made some
necessary repairs to the yacht and filled our tanks with water. With a
free wind speeding onward to the west of Disco, we passed the narrow
strait known as the Vaigat early the following morning. As I stood on
deck and viewed the passing of icebergs, glittering in the limpid,
silvery light of morning like monstrous diamonds, there began to grow
within me a feeling--that throbbed in pulsation with the onward movement
of the boat--that every minute, every mile, meant a nearing to that
mysterious center, on the attaining of which I had set my heart, and
which, even now, seemed unlikely, improbable. Yet the thought gave me a
thrill.
Before noon we reached the mouth of Umanak Fiord, into the delightful
waters of which we were tempted to enter. The lure of the farther North
decided us against this, and soon the striking Svarten Huk (Black Hook),
a great rock cliff, loomed upon the horizon. Beyond it, gradually
appeared a long chain of those islands among which lies Upernavik, where
the last traces of civilized or semi-civilized life are found. The wind
increased in force but the horizon remained remarkably clear. Over a
bounding sea we sped rapidly along to the west, into the labyrinth of
islands that are sprinkled along the southern shore of Melville Bay.[3]
Beyond, we were to come into the true boreal wilderness of ice, where
there were only a few savage aborigines, its sole inhabitants.
On the following day, with reduced sail and the help of the auxiliary
engine, we pushed far up into Melville Bay, where we ran into fields of
pack-ice. Here we decided to hunt for game. With this purpose it was
necessary to keep close to land. Here also came our first realistic
experience with the great forces of the North. The pack-ice floated
close around us, young ice cemented the broken masses together, and for
several days we were thus closely imprisoned in frozen seas.
These days of enforced delay were days of great pleasure, for the bears
and seals on the ice afforded considerable sport. The constant danger of
our position, however, required a close watch for the safety of the
schooner. The Devil's Thumb, a high rock shaped like a dark thumb
pointing at the sky, loomed darkly and beckoningly before us. A biting
wind descended from the interior.
The ice groaned; the eiderducks, guillemots and gulls uttered shrill and
disturbing cries, seemingly sensing the coming of a storm.
For three days we were held in the grip of the relentless pack; then the
glimmer of the land ice changed to an ugly gray, the pack around us
began to crack threateningly, and the sky darkened to the southward.
The wind ominously died away. The air thickened rapidly. A general
feeling of anxiety came over us, although my familiarity with storms in
the North made it possible for me to explain that heavy seas are seldom
felt within the zone of a large ice-pack, for the reason that the
icebergs, the flat ice masses, and even the small floating fragments,
ordinarily hold down the swells. Even when the pack begins to break, the
lanes of water between the fragments thicken under the lower temperature
like an oiled surface, and offer an easy sea. Furthermore, a really
severe wind would be sure to release the schooner, and it would then be
possible to trust it to its staunch qualities in free water.
Hardly had we finished dinner when we heard the sound of a brisk wind
rushing through the rigging. Hurrying to the deck, we saw coils of what
looked like smoky vapor rising in the south as if belched from some
great volcano. The gloom on the horizon was rapidly growing deeper. The
sound of the wind changed to a threatening, sinister hiss. In the
piercing steel-gray light we saw the ice heave awesomely, like moving
hills, above the blackening water. The bergs swayed and rocked, and the
massed ice gave forth strange, troublous sounds.
Suddenly a channel began to open through the ice in front of us. The
trisail was quickly set, the other sails being left tightly furled, and
with the engine helping to push us in the desired direction, we drew
deep breaths of relief as we moved out into the free water to the
westward.
We felt a sense of safety now, although, clear of the ice, the sea rose
about us with a sickening suddenness. Black as night, the water seemed
far more dangerous because the waves were everywhere dashing angrily
against walls of ice. Already strong, the wind veered slightly and
increased to a fierce, persistent gale. Like rubber balls, the bergs
bounded and rolled in the sea. The sound of the storm was now a thunder
suggestive of constantly exploding cannons. But, fortunately, we were
snug aboard, and, keeping the westerly course, soon escaped the dangers
of ensnaring ice.
We were still in a heavy storm, and had we not had full confidence in
the ship, built as she was to withstand the storms of the Grand Banks,
we should still have felt anxiety, for the schooner rolled and pitched
and the masts dipped from side to side until they almost touched the
water.
Icy water swept the deck. A rain began to fall, and quickly sheathed the
masts and ropes in ice. Snow followed, giving a surface as of sandpaper
to the slippery, icy decks. The temperature was not low, but the cutting
wind pierced one to the very marrow. Our men were drenched with spray
and heavily coated with ice. Although suffering severely, the sailors
maintained their courage and appeared even abnormally happy. Gradually
we progressed into the open sea. In the course of four hours the storm
began to abate, and, under a double-reefed foresail, at last we
gleefully rode out the finish of the storm in safety.
THE DRIVING SPUR OF THE POLAR QUEST
ON THE FRIGID PATHWAY OF THREE CENTURIES OF HEROIC MARTYRS--MEETING THE
STRANGE PEOPLE OF THE FARTHEST NORTH--THE LIFE OF THE STONE AGE--ON THE
CHASE WITH THE ESKIMOS--MANEE AND SPARTAN ESKIMO COURAGE
III
STRANGE TRAITS OF NORTHERNMOST MAN
I have often wondered of late about the dazzling white, eerie glamor
with which the Northland weaves its spell about the heart of a man. I
know of nothing on earth so strange, so wonderful, withal so sad.
Pursuing our course through Melville Bay, I felt the fatal magic of it
enthralling my very soul. For hours I stood on deck alone, the midnight
sun, like some monstrous perpetual light to some implacable
frozen-hearted deity, burning blindingly upon the horizon and setting
the sea aflame. The golden colors suffused my mind, and I swam in a sea
of molten glitter.
I was consumed for hours by but one yearning--a yearning that filled and
intoxicated me--to go on, and on, and ever onward, where no man had ever
been. Perhaps it is the human desire to excel others, to prove, because
of the innate egotism of the human unit, that one possesses qualities of
brain and muscle which no other possesses, that has crazed men to
perform this, the most difficult physical test in the world. The lure of
the thing is unexplainable.
During those dizzy hours on deck I thought of those who had preceded me;
of heroic men who for three centuries had braved suffering, cold and
famine, who had sacrificed the comforts of civilization, their families
and friends, who had given their own lives in the pursuit of this
mysterious, yea, fruitless quest. I remembered reading the thrilling
tales of those who returned--tales which had flushed me with excitement
and inspired me with the same mad ambition. I thought of the noble,
indefatigable efforts of these men, of the heart-sickening failures, in
which I too had shared. And I felt the indomitable, swift surge of their
awful, goading determination within me--to subdue the forces of nature,
to cover as Icarus did the air those icy spaces, to reach the
silver-shining vacantness which men called the North Pole.