THE POLE!
Captain Bartlett and his two boys had commenced their return journey,
and the main column, depleted to its final strength, started northward.
We were six: Peary, the commander, the Esquimos, Ootah, Egingwah,
Seegloo and Ooqueah, and myself.
Day and night were the same. My thoughts were on the going and getting
forward, and on nothing else. The wind was from the southeast, and
seemed to push us on, and the sun was at our backs, a ball of livid
fire, rolling his way above the horizon in never-ending day.
The Captain had gone, Commander Peary and I were alone (save for the
four Esquimos), the same as we had been so often in the past years, and
as we looked at each other we realized our position and we knew without
speaking that the time had come for us to demonstrate that we were the
men who, it had been ordained, should unlock the door which held the
mystery of the Arctic. Without an instant's hesitation, the order to
push on was given, and we started off in the trail made by the Captain
to cover the Farthest North he had made and to push on over one hundred
and thirty miles to our final destination.
The Captain had had rough going, but, owing to the fact that his trail
was our track for a short time, and that we came to good going shortly
after leaving his turning point, we made excellent distance without any
trouble, and only stopped when we came to a lead barely frozen over, a
full twenty-five miles beyond. We camped and waited for the strong
southeast wind to force the sides of the lead together. The Esquimos had
eaten a meal of stewed dog, cooked over a fire of wood from a discarded
sledge, and, owing to their wonderful powers of recuperation, were in
good condition; Commander Peary and myself, rested and invigorated by
our thirty hours in the last camp, waiting for the return and departure
of Captain Bartlett, were also in fine fettle, and accordingly the
accomplishment of twenty-five miles of northward progress was not
exceptional. With my proven ability in gauging distances, Commander
Peary was ready to take the reckoning as I made it and he did not resort
to solar observations until we were within a hand's grasp of the Pole.
The memory of those last five marches, from the Farthest North of
Captain Bartlett to the arrival of our party at the Pole, is a memory of
toil, fatigue, and exhaustion, but we were urged on and encouraged by
our relentless commander, who was himself being scourged by the final
lashings of the dominating influence that had controlled his life. From
the land to 87° 48' north, Commander Peary had had the best of the
going, for he had brought up the rear and had utilized the trail made by
the preceding parties, and thus he had kept himself in the best of
condition for the time when he made the spurt that brought him to the
end of the race. From 87° 48' north, he kept in the lead and did his
work in such a way as to convince me that he was still as good a man as
he had ever been. We marched and marched, falling down in our tracks
repeatedly, until it was impossible to go on. We were forced to camp, in
spite of the impatience of the Commander, who found himself unable to
rest, and who only waited long enough for us to relax into sound sleep,
when he would wake us up and start us off again. I do not believe that
he slept for one hour from April 2 until after he had loaded us up and
ordered us to go back over our old trail, and I often think that from
the instant when the order to return was given until the land was again
sighted, he was in a continual daze.
Onward we forced our weary way. Commander Peary took his sights from the
time our chronometer-watches gave, and I, knowing that we had kept on
going in practically a straight line, was sure that we had more than
covered the necessary distance to insure our arrival at the top of the
earth.
It was during the march of the 3d of April that I endured an instant of
hideous horror. We were crossing a lane of moving ice. Commander Peary
was in the lead setting the pace, and a half hour later the four boys
and myself followed in single file. They had all gone before, and I was
standing and pushing at the upstanders of my sledge, when the block of
ice I was using as a support slipped from underneath my feet, and before
I knew it the sledge was out of my grasp, and I was floundering in the
water of the lead. I did the best I could. I tore my hood from off my
head and struggled frantically. My hands were gloved and I could not
take hold of the ice, but before I could give the "Grand Hailing Sigh of
Distress," faithful old Ootah had grabbed me by the nape of the neck,
the same as he would have grabbed a dog, and with one hand he pulled me
out of the water, and with the other hurried the team across.
He had saved my life, but I did not tell him so, for such occurrences
are taken as part of the day's work, and the sledge he safeguarded was
of much more importance, for it held, as part of its load, the
Commander's sextant, the mercury, and the coils of piano-wire that were
the essential portion of the scientific part of the expedition. My
kamiks (boots of sealskin) were stripped off, and the congealed water
was beaten out of my bearskin trousers, and with a dry pair of kamiks,
we hurried on to overtake the column. When we caught up, we found the
boys gathered around the Commander, doing their best to relieve him of
his discomfort, for he had fallen into the water also, and while he was
not complaining, I was sure that his bath had not been any more
voluntary than mine had been.
When we halted on April 6, 1909, and started to build the igloos, the
dogs and sledges having been secured, I noticed Commander Peary at work
unloading his sledge and unpacking several bundles of equipment. He
pulled out from under his _kooletah_ (thick, fur outer-garment) a small
folded package and unfolded it. I recognized his old silk flag, and
realized that this was to be a camp of importance. Our different camps
had been known as Camp Number One, Number Two, etc., but after the
turning back of Captain Bartlett, the camps had been given names such as
Camp Nansen, Camp Cagni, etc., and I asked what the name of this camp
was to be--"Camp Peary"? "This, my boy, is to be Camp Morris K. Jesup,
the last and most northerly camp on the earth." He fastened the flag to
a staff and planted it firmly on the top of his igloo. For a few
minutes it hung limp and lifeless in the dead calm of the haze, and then
a slight breeze, increasing in strength, caused the folds to straighten
out, and soon it was rippling out in sparkling color. The stars and
stripes were "nailed to the Pole."
A thrill of patriotism ran through me and I raised my voice to cheer the
starry emblem of my native land. The Esquimos gathered around and,
taking the time from Commander Peary, three hearty cheers rang out on
the still, frosty air, our dumb dogs looking on in puzzled surprise. As
prospects for getting a sight of the sun were not good, we turned in and
slept, leaving the flag proudly floating above us.
This was a thin silk flag that Commander Peary had carried on all of his
Arctic journeys, and he had always flown it at his last camps. It was as
glorious and as inspiring a banner as any battle-scarred, blood-stained
standard of the world--and this badge of honor and courage was also
blood-stained and battle-scarred, for at several places there were blank
squares marking the spots where pieces had been cut out at each of the
"Farthests" of its brave bearer, and left with the records in the
cairns, as mute but eloquent witnesses of his achievements. At the North
Pole a diagonal strip running from the upper left to the lower right
corner was cut and this precious strip, together with a brief record,
was placed in an empty tin, sealed up and buried in the ice, as a record
for all time.
Commander Peary also had another American flag, sewn on a white ground,
and it was the emblem of the "Daughters of the Revolution Peace
Society"; he also had and flew the emblem of the Navy League, and the
emblems of a couple of college fraternities of which he was a member.
It was about ten or ten-thirty A. M., on the 7th of April, 1909, that
the Commander gave the order to build a snow-shield to protect him from
the flying drift of the surface-snow. I knew that he was about to take
an observation, and while we worked I was nervously apprehensive, for I
felt that the end of our journey had come. When we handed him the pan of
mercury the hour was within a very few minutes of noon. Laying flat on
his stomach, he took the elevation and made the notes on a piece of
tissue-paper at his head. With sun-blinded eyes, he snapped shut the
_vernier_ (a graduated scale that subdivides the smallest divisions on
the sector of the circular scale of the sextant) and with the resolute
squaring of his jaws, I was sure that he was satisfied, and I was
confident that the journey had ended. Feeling that the time had come, I
ungloved my right hand and went forward to congratulate him on the
success of our eighteen years of effort, but a gust of wind blew
something into his eye, or else the burning pain caused by his prolonged
look at the reflection of the limb of the sun forced him to turn aside;
and with both hands covering his eyes, he gave us orders to not let him
sleep for more than four hours, for six hours later he purposed to take
another sight about four miles beyond, and that he wanted at least two
hours to make the trip and get everything in readiness.
I unloaded a sledge, and reloaded it with a couple of skins, the
instruments, and a cooker with enough alcohol and food for one meal for
three, and then I turned in to the igloo where my boys were already
sound asleep. The thermometer registered 29° below zero. I fell into a
dreamless sleep and slept for about a minute, so I thought, when I was
awakened by the clatter and noise made by the return of Peary and his
boys.
The Commander gave the word, "We will plant the stars and stripes--_at
the North Pole!_" and it was done; on the peak of a huge paleocrystic
floeberg the glorious banner was unfurled to the breeze, and as it
snapped and crackled with the wind, I felt a savage joy and exultation.
Another world's accomplishment was done and finished, and as in the
past, from the beginning of history, wherever the world's work was done
by a white man, he had been accompanied by a colored man. From the
building of the pyramids and the journey to the Cross, to the discovery
of the new world and the discovery of the North Pole, the Negro had been
the faithful and constant companion of the Caucasian, and I felt all
that it was possible for me to feel, that it was I, a lowly member of my
race, who had been chosen by fate to represent it, at this, almost the
last of the world's great _work_.
The four Esquimos who stood with Commander Peary at the North Pole, were
the brothers, Ootah and Egingwah, the old campaigner, Seegloo, and the
sturdy, boyish Ooqueah. Four devoted companions, blindly confident in
the leader, they worked only that he might succeed and for the promise
of reward that had been made before they had left the ship, which
promise they were sure would be kept. Together with the faithful dogs,
these men had insured the success of the master. They had all of the
characteristics of the dogs, including the dogs' fidelity. Within their
breasts lingered the same infatuations that Commander Peary seemed to
inspire in all who were with him, and though frequently complaining and
constantly requiring to be urged to do their utmost, they worked
faithfully and willingly. Ootah, of my party, was the oldest, a married
man, of about thirty-four years, and regarded as the best all around
member of the tribe, a great hunter, a kind father, and a good provider.
Owing to his strong character and the fact that he was more easily
managed by me than by any of the others, he had been a member of my
party from the time we left the ship. Without exaggeration, I can say
that we had both saved each other's lives more than once, but it had all
gone in as part of the day's work, and neither of us dwelt on our
obligations to the other.
My other boy, Ooqueah, was a young man of about nineteen or twenty, very
sturdy and stocky of build, and with an open, honest countenance, a
smile that was "child-like and bland," and a character that _was_
child-like and bland. It was alleged that the efforts of young Ooqueah
were spurred on by the shafts of love, and that it was in the hopes of
winning the hand of the demure Miss Anadore, the charming daughter of
Ikwah, the first Esquimo of Commander Peary's acquaintance, that he
worked so valiantly. His efforts were of an ardent character, but it was
not due to the ardor of love, as far as I could see, but to his desire
to please and his anxiety to win the promised rewards that would raise
him to the grade of a millionaire, according to Esquimo standards.
[Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT IN WINTER QUARTERS AT CAPE SHERIDAN]
[Illustration: MATTHEW A. HENSON IN HIS NORTH POLE FURS, TAKEN AFTER HIS
RETURN TO CIVILIZATION]
Commander Peary's boy, Egingwah, was the brother of my boy Ootah, also
married and of good report in his community, and it was he who drove
the Morris K. Jesup sledge.
If there was any sentiment among the Esquimos in regard to the success
of the venture, Ootah and Seegloo by their unswerving loyalty and
fidelity expressed it. They had been members of the "Farthest North
party" in 1906, the party that was almost lost beyond and in the "Big
Lead," and only reached the land again in a state of almost complete
collapse. They were the ones who, on bidding Commander Peary farewell in
1906, when he was returning, a saddened and discouraged man, told him to
be of good cheer and that when he came back again Ootah and Seegloo
would go along, and stay until Commander Peary had succeeded, and they
did. The cowardice of their fellow Esquimos at the "Big Lead" on this
journey did not in the least demoralize them, and when they were
absolutely alone on the trail, with every chance to turn back and return
to comfort, wife, and family, they remained steadfast and true, and ever
northward guided their sledges.