the luxury of a civilized house, but in the Arctic it was palatial. The
interior fittings had changed somewhat from time to time, but now things
were arranged in a permanent setting. The little stove was close to the
door. The floor measured sixteen feet in length and twelve feet in
width. On one side the empty boxes of the wall made a pantry, on the
other side were cabinets of tools, and unfinished sledge and camp
material.
With a step we rose to the next floor. On each side was a bunk resting
on a bench. The bench was used as a bed, a work bench and seat. The long
rear bench was utilized as a sewing table for the seamstresses and also
for additional seating capacity. In the center was a table arranged
around a post which supported the roof. Sliding shelves from the bunks
formed table seats. A yacht lamp fixed to the post furnished ample
light. There was no other furniture. All of our needs were conveniently
placed in the open boxes of the wall.
The closet room therefore was unlimited. In the boxes near the floor, in
which things froze hard, the perishable supplies were kept. In the next
tier there was alternate freezing and thawing. Here we stored lashings
and skins that had to be kept moist. The tiers above, usually warm and
dry under the roof, were used for various purposes. There, fresh meat in
strips, dried crisp in three days. Taking advantage of this, we had made
twelve hundred pounds of dog pemmican from walrus meat. In the gable we
placed furs and instruments.
[Illustration: THE CAPTURE OF A BEAR ROUNDING UP A HERD OF MUSK OXEN]
[Illustration: SVARTEVOEG--CAMPING FIVE HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE]
The temperature changed remarkably as the thermometer was lifted. On the
floor in the lower boxes, it fell as low as -20 deg.. Under the bunks on the
floor, it was usually -10 deg.. The middle floor space was above the
freezing point. At the level of the bunk the temperature was +48 deg.. At
the head, standing, +70 deg., and under the roof, -105 deg..
We contrived to keep perfectly comfortable. Our feet and legs were
always dressed for low temperature, while the other portions of our body
were lightly clad. There was not the usual accumulation of moisture
except in the lower boxes, where it reinforced the foundation of the
structure and did no harm. From the hygienic standpoint, with the
material at hand, we could not have improved the arrangement. The
ventilation was by small openings, mostly along the corners, which thus
drew heat to remote angles. The value of the long stove pipe was made
evident by the interior accumulation of ice. If we did not remove the
ice every three or four days the draft was closed by atmospheric
humidity condensed from the draft drawn through the fire. From within,
the pipe was also a splendid supplementary heater, as it led by a
circuitous route about the vestibule before the open air was reached,
thus keeping the workshop somewhat warm. Two Eskimo lamps gave the added
heat and light for the sledge builders.
From Christmas Day until New Year's there were daily feasts for the
natives. I luxuriated in a long rest, spending my time taking walks and
reading. I got a sort of pleasure by proxy in watching the delight of
these primal people in real food, food which, although to us horribly
unpalatable, never gives indigestion. This period was one of real
Christmas rejoicing in many snow homes, and the spirit, although these
people had never heard of the Christ child, was more truly in keeping
with this holiday than it often is in lands where, in ostentatious
celebration, the real meaning is lost.
Wandering from igloo to igloo, to extend greetings and thanks for their
faithful work, I was often touched by the sounds of thin, plaintive
voices in the darkness. Each time a pang touched my heart, and I
remembered the time when I first heard my own baby girl's wee voice. The
little ones had begun to arrive. The Eskimo stork, at igloo after igloo,
was leaving its Christmas gift.
For some time before Christmas, Cla-you, easily our best seamstress, had
not come for her assignment of sewing. To her had been given the
delicate task of making hare skin stockings; but she had lost interest
in needle-work and complained of not feeling well. E-ve-lue (Mrs. Sinue)
was completing her task. Ac-po-di-soa (the big bird), Cla-you's husband,
whom we called Bismark, had also deserted the bench where he had been
making sledges. For his absence there was no explanation, for neither he
nor his wife had ever shirked duties before. To solve the mystery I went
to his igloo during Christmas week. There I first got news from the
stork world. The boreal stork comes at a special season of the year,
usually a few weeks after midnight when there is little else to interest
the people. This season comes nine months after the days of budding
passions in April, the first Arctic month of the year when all the
world is happy. In the little underground home, the anticipated days of
the stork visit were made interesting by a long line of preparations.
A prospective mother is busy as a bee in a charming effort to make
everything new for the coming little one. All things about must be
absolutely new if possible. Even a new house must be built. This places
the work of preparation quite as much on the father as on the mother.
There is in all this a splendid lesson in primitive hygiene.
To examine, first, the general home environment; there is a little girl
four years old still taking nature's substitute for the bottle. She
looks about for a meaning of all the changes about the home, but does
not understand. You enter the new house on hands and knees through an
entrance twelve or fifteen feet long, crowding upwards into an ever-open
door just large enough to pass the shoulders. You rise into a dungeon
oblong in shape. The rear two-thirds of this is raised about fifteen
inches and paved with flat-rock. Upon this the furs are spread for a
bed. The forward edge forms a seat. The space ahead of this is large
enough for three people to stand at once. On each side there is a
semi-circular bulge. In these are placed the crescent-shaped stone
dishes, in which moss serves as a wick to burn blubber. Over this
blubber flame, there is a long stone pot in which snow is melted for
water and meats are occasionally cooked. Over this there is a drying
rack for boots and furs. There is no other furniture. This house
represents the home of the Eskimo family at its best. Do what she will,
the best housewife cannot free it of oil and soot. It is not, indeed, a
fit place for the immaculate stork to come.
For months, the finest furs have been gathered to prepare a new suit for
the mother. Slowly one article of apparel after another has been
completed and put aside. The boots, called _kamik_, are of sealskin,
bleached to a spotless cream color. They reach halfway up the thigh. The
inner boot, called _atesha_, of soft caribou fur, is of the same length;
along its upper edge there is a decorative run of white bear fur. The
silky fur pads protect the tender skin of limb and foot, for no
stockings are used. Above these, there are dainty little pants of white
and blue fox, to protect the body to a point under the hips, and for
protection above that there is a shirt of birdskins or _aht-tee_. This
is the most delicate of all garments. Hundreds of little auk skins are
gathered, chewed and prepared, and as the night comes the garment is
built blouse-shaped, with hood attached. It fits loosely. There are no
buttons or openings. For the little one, the hood is enlarged and
extended down the back, as the pocket for its future abode. The coat of
fine blue fox skins, or _amoyt_, is of the same shape, but fits loosely
over all.
The word _amoyt_, or _amoyt docsoa_, in its application, also covers the
entire range of the art and function of pregnancy. This is regarded as
an institution of the first order, second only to the art of the chase.
All being ready for the mother, for the baby only a hood is provided,
while bird-skins and grass are provided to take the place of absorbent
cotton. For the first year, the child has absolutely no other wrap or
cover but its little hood.
The Eskimo loves children. If the stork does not come in due time, he is
likely to change his life partner. For this reason he looks forward to
the Christmas season with eager anticipation. Seeking the wilds far and
near for needed furs, in bitter winds and driving snows, he endures all
kinds of hardships during the night of months for the sake of the
expected child. Brave, good little man of iron, he fears nothing.
From a near-by bank of hard snow he cuts blocks for a new igloo. In
darkness and wind he transports them to a point near the house. When
enough have been gathered, he walls a dome like a bee-hive. The interior
arrangement is like the winter underground home. The light is put into
it. By this he can see the open cracks between snow blocks. These are
filled in to keep wind and snow out. When all is completed, he cuts a
door and enters. The bed of snow is flattened.
Then he seeks for miles about for suitable grass to cover the cheerless
ice floor. To get this grass, he must dig under fields of hardened snow.
Even then he is not always rewarded with success. The sledge, loaded
with frozen grass, is brought to the little snow dome. The grass is
carefully laid on the bed of leveled snow. Over it new reindeer skins
are spread. Now the new house of snow blocks in which the stork is to
come is ready.
As the stork's coming is announced the mother's tears give the signal.
She goes to the new snowhouse alone. The father is frightened and looks
serious. But she must tear herself away. With her new garments, she
enters the dark chamber of the snowhouse, strikes a fire, lights the
lamp. The spotless walls of snow are cheerful. The new things about
give womanly pride. But life is hard for her. A soul-stirring battle
follows in that den of ice.
There is a little cry. But there is no doctor, no nurse, no one, not a
kindly hand to help. A piece of glass is used as a surgical knife. Then
all is over. There is no soap, no water. The methods of a mother cat are
this mother's. Then, in the cold, cheerless chamber of ice, she fondly
examines the little one. Its eyes are blue, but they turn brown at once
when opened. Its hair is coal black, its skin is golden. It is turned
over and over in the search for marks or blemishes. The mother's eyes
run down along the tiny spine. At its end there is a blue shield-shaped
blot like a tattoo mark. This is the Eskimo guarantee of a well-bred
child. If it is there, the mother is happy, if not, there are doubts of
the child's future, and of the purity of the parents. Now the father and
the grandmother come. All rejoice.
If misfortune at the time of birth befalls a mother, as is not
infrequent, the snow mound becomes her grave; it is not opened for a
long time.
After a long sleep, into which the mother falls after her first joy, she
awakes, turns over, drinks some ice-water, eats a little half-cooked
meat, and then, shaking the frozen breath from the covers, she wraps
herself and her babe snugly in furs. Again she sleeps, perhaps
twenty-four hours, seemingly in perfect comfort, while the life-stilling
winter winds drive over the feeble wall of snow which shelters her from
the chilly death outside.
One day during Christmas week there was a knock at our door. The proud
Ac-po-di-soa walked in, followed by his smiling wife, with the sleeping
stork gift on her back. The child had been born less than five days
before. We walked over and admired the little one. It suddenly opened
its brown eyes, screwed up its little blubber nose, and wrinkled its
chin for a cry. The mother grabbed her, plunged out of the door, pulled
the undressed infant out, and in the wind and cold served the little
one's want.
New Year's Day came starlit and cold. The year had dawned in which I was
to essay the task to which I had set myself, the year which would mean
success or failure to me. The past year had been gracious and bountiful,
so, in celebration, Francke prepared a feast of which we both ate to
gluttonous repletion. This consisted of ox-tail soup, creamed boneless
cod, pickles, scrambled duck eggs with chipped smoked beef, roast
eider-duck, fresh biscuits, crystallized potatoes, creamed onions, Bayo
beans and bacon, Malaga grapes, (canned), peach-pie, blanc-mange, raisin
cake, Nabisco biscuits and steaming chocolate.
The day was spent in making calls among the Eskimos. In the evening
several families were given a feast which was followed by songs and
dances. This hilarity was protracted to the early hours of morning and
ended in an epidemic of night hysteria. When thus afflicted the victims
dance and sing and fall into a trance, the combination of symptoms
resembling insanity.
In taking account of our stock we found that our baking powder was about
exhausted. This was sad news, for a breakfast of fresh biscuits, butter
and coffee was one of the few delights that remained for me in life. We
had bicarbonate of soda, but no cream of tartar. I wondered whether we
could not substitute for cream of tartar some other substance.
Curious experiments followed. The juice of sauerkraut was tried with
good results. But the flavor, as a steady breakfast food, was not
desirable. Francke had fermented raisins with which to make wine. As a
wine it was a failure, but as a fruit acid it enabled us to make soda
biscuits with a new and delicate flavor. Milk, we found, would also
ferment. From the unsweetened condensed milk, biscuits were made that
would please the palate of any epicure. My breakfast pleasure therefore
was still assured for many days to come.
EN ROUTE FOR THE POLE
THE CAMPAIGN OPENS--LAST WEEKS OF THE POLAR NIGHT--ADVANCE PARTIES SENT
OUT--AWAITING THE DAWN
X
THE START WITH SUNRISE OF 1908
Two weeks of final tests and re-examination of clothing, sledges and
general equipment followed the New Year's festivities. On January 14
there was almost an hour of feeble twilight at midday. The moon offered
light enough to travel. Now we were finally ready to fire the first guns
of the Polar battle. Scouts were outside, waiting for the signal to
proceed. They were going, not only to examine the ice field for the main
advance, but to offer succor to a shipwrecked crew, which the natives
believed was at Cape Sabine.
The smoke of a ship had been seen late in the fall, and much wood from a
wrecked ship had been found. The pack was, therefore, loaded with
expedition supplies, with instructions to offer help to anyone in want
that might be found.
I had just finished a note to be left at Cape Sabine, telling of our
headquarters, our caches and our willingness to give assistance. This
was handed to Koo-loo-ting-wah, standing before his restless dogs, whip
in hand, as were his three companions, who volunteered as scouts. They
jumped on the sledges, and soon the dogs were rushing toward the Polar
pack of Smith Sound.
It was a beautiful day. A fold of the curtain of night had been lifted
for a brief spell. A strong mixed light, without shadows, rested on the
snow. It changed in quality and color with the changing mystery of the
aurora. One might call it blue, or purple, or violet, or no color at
all, according to the color perception of the observer.
In the south the heavens glowed with the heralds of the advancing sun.
The light was exaggerated by the blink of the ice over which the light
was sent, for the brightness of the heavens was out of proportion to its
illuminating effect upon the surface snows. In the north, the half-spent
moon dispelled the usual blackness Poleward, while the zenith was
lighted with stars of the first and second magnitude.
The temperature was -41 deg. F. The weather was perfectly calm--all that
could be expected for the important event of opening the campaign.
In the course of a few hours the cheerful light faded, the snows
darkened to earthy fields, and out of the north came a smoky tempest.
The snow soon piled up in tremendous drifts, making it difficult to
leave the house without climbing new hills. The dogs tied about were
buried in snow. Only the light passing through the membrane of
intestines, which was spread over the ports to make windows for the
native houses, relieved the fierce blackness.
The run to Cape Sabine, under fine conditions, was about forty miles,
and could be made in one day, but Smith Sound seldom offers a fair
chance. Insufficient light, impossible winds or ice make the crossing
hazardous at best. The Eskimos cross every year, but they are out so
much after bears that they have a good knowledge of the ice before they
start to reach the other shores.
Coming from the north, with a low temperature and blowing snow, the wind
would not only stop our scouts, but force the ice south, leaving open
spaces of water. A resulting disruption of the pack might greatly delay
our start with heavy sledges. Furthermore, there was real danger at hand
for the advance. If the party had been composed of white men there
surely would have been a calamity. But the Eskimo approaches the
ventures of the wild with splendid endurance. Moreover, he has a weather
intelligence which seldom finds him unprepared.
At midnight of the second night the party returned. They were none the
worse for the storm. The main intent of their mission had failed. The
storm had forced them into snow embankments, and before it was quite
spent a bear began to nose about their shelter places. The dogs were so
buried with drift that they were not on watch until the bear had
destroyed much of their food. Then their mad voices aroused the Eskimos.
As they dug out of their shelter, the bear took a big walrus leg and
walked off, man-like, holding the meat in his forepaws. In their haste
to free the dogs, they cut their harness to pieces, for snow and ice
cemented the creatures. Oo-tah ran out in the excitement to head off the
bear--not to make an attack, but simply to stop his progress. The bear
dropped the meat and grabbed Oo-tah by the seat of his trousers. The
dogs, fortunately, came along in time to save Oo-tah's life, but he had
received a severe leg wound, which required immediate surgical
attention.
The bear was captured, and with loads of bear meat and the wounded scout
the party returned as quickly as possible. In the retreat it was noticed
that the ice was very much broken.
In the wreck of an Arctic storm there is always a subsequent profit for
someone. The snow becomes crusted and hardened, making sledge travel
easy. The breaking of the ice, which was a great hindrance to our
advance, offered open water for walrus and bear hunting. At this time we
went to Serwahdingwah for the last chase. Some of the Eskimos took their
families, so Annoatok became depopulated for a while. But on our return,
visitors came in numbers too numerous for our comfort.
Dogs and skins, bargained for earlier in the season, were now delivered.
Each corps of excursionists required some attention, for they had done
noble work for the expedition. We gave them dinners and allowed them to
sit about our stove with picture-books in hand.
Another storm came, with still more violent force, a week later. This
caused us much anxiety, for we counted on our people being scattered on
the ice along the shores of Cape Alexander. In a storm this would
probably be swept from the land and carried seaward. There was nothing
that could be done except wait for news. Messengers of trouble were not
long in reaching headquarters after the storm. None of the men were on
the ice, but a hurricane from the land had wrecked the camps.
Our men suffered little, but many of the natives in neighboring villages
were left without clothing or sleeping furs. In the rush of the storm
the ice left the land, and the snowhouses were swept into the sea. Men
and women, without clothing, barely escaped with their lives. Two of our
new sledges, some dogs, and three suits of winter furs were lost. A
rescue party with furs had to be sent to the destitute people.
Fortunately, our people were well supplied with bed-furs, out of which
new suits were made.
Sledge loads of our furs were also coming north, and instructions were
sent to use these for the urgent needs of the sufferers. Other things
were sent from Annoatok, with returning excursionists, and in the course
of a week the damage was replaced. But the loss was all on the
expedition, and deprived many of the men in their northern journey of
suitable sleeping-furs. Walruses were obtained after the storm, and the
natives now had no fear of a famine of meat or fat.
By the end of January most of the natives had returned, and new
preparations were made for a second effort to cross the Sound. Francke
asked to join the party, and prepared for his first camp outing. Four
sledges were loaded with two hundred pounds each of expedition advance
supplies. Four good drivers volunteered to move the sledges to the
American side.
The light had gradually brightened, and the storms passed off and left a
keen, cold air, which was as clear as crystal. But at best the light was
still feeble, and could be used for only about four hours of each
twenty-four. If, however, the sky remained clear, the moon and stars
would furnish enough illumination for a full day's travel. There was a
little flush of color in the southern skies, and the snows were a pale
purple as the sledges groaned in their rush over the frosty surface.
The second party started off as auspiciously as the first, and news of
its luck was eagerly awaited.
They reached Cape Sabine after a long run of twenty hours, making a
considerable detour to the north. The ice offered good traveling, but
the cold was bitter, the temperature being -52 deg. F., with light,
extremely humid and piercing winds.
Along the land and within the bays the snow was found to be deep, and a
bitter wind came from the west. Two of the party could not be persuaded
to go farther, but Francke, with two companions, pushed on for another
day along the shore to Cape Veile. Beyond, the snow was too deep to
proceed. The supplies were cached in a snowhouse, while those at Cape
Sabine were left in the old camp. The party returned at the end of four
days with their object accomplished. Nothing was seen of the rumored
shipwrecked crew.
The next party, of eight sledges, led by Es-se-you, Kud-la, and Me-tek,
started on February 5. The object was to carry advance supplies to the
head of Flagler Bay, and hunt musk ox to feed the sledge teams as they
moved overland. We were to meet this party at an appointed place in the
bay.
The light was still too uncertain to risk the fortunes of the entire
force. With a hundred dogs, a delay of a day would be an expensive loss,
for if fed upon the carefully guarded food of the advance stores, a
rapid reduction in supplies would follow, which could not be replaced,
even if abundant game were secured later. It was, therefore, desirable
to await the rising sun.
We made our last arrangements, fastened our last packs, and waited
impatiently for the sunrise, here at this northernmost outpost of human
life, just seven hundred miles from the Pole. And this was the problem
that now insistently and definitely confronted us after the months of
planning and preparation: Seven hundred miles of advance, almost a
thousand miles as our route was planned; one thousand miles of return;
two thousand miles in all; allowing for detours (for the line to be
followed could not be precisely straight), more than two thousand miles
of struggling travel across icy and unknown and uninhabitable wastes of
moving ice.
On the morning of February 19, 1908, I started on my trip to the North
Pole.
Early, as the first real day of the year dawned, eleven sledges were
brought to the door of our box-house and lashed with supplies for the
boreal dash. There were four thousand pounds of supplies for use on the
Polar sea, and two thousands pounds of walrus skin and fat for use
before securing the fresh game we anticipated. The eleven sledges were
to be driven by Francke, nine Eskimos, and myself. They were drawn by
one hundred and three dogs, each in prime condition. The dogs had been
abundantly fed with walrus skin and meat for several weeks, and would
now be fed only every second day on fresh supplies.