September 1st came, and winter fell on us like a blanket. Snow, low
temperatures, and the prompt freezing over of all stray pools with a
coat of ice that failed to melt again gave the pack an immediate wintry
appearance that only deepened as the month drew on. September 6th, the
anniversary of our being first frozen in, opened our second year in
the pack, with the only change noticeable the fact that winter had set
in earlier and harder. But of course our present position, a hundred
and fifty miles north of that of the year before, might easily have
accounted for that.
September drifted by. October came. The temperatures dropped into
the sub-zero twenties. We noted only that we were less sensitive to
cold than the year before—luckily for us, for apparently we were in
for a worse freezing. All hands, officers and men, became more moody,
less talkative. By now it was evident to even the dullest-witted that
we might go on thus forever in the ice pack; that is, at least till
death in one form or another—by starvation, when our food gave out; by
freezing, when we exhausted our coal; or by the ice crushing our weak
bodies at any time—put a period to our tale. To talk further about what
the expedition would do when the ice released us seemed just a waste of
breath. The ice was not going to release us.
Meanwhile, in spite of our dreary outlook, we had to stick to the ship,
for what else could we do? But would the ship stick to us? What would
the ice do to the _Jeannette_ during this winter? Our memories of the
horrors of the winter past were not reassuring.
The month drew along. We ate our tasteless food, we drank our
distilled water, we kept ourselves alive. Two things only broke up
our unvarying daily routine—Divine Service on Sunday, and the weekly
issue (begun now for the first time on the cruise) on Wednesday of
two ounces of rum per man. Jack Cole did not have to pipe long of
a Wednesday afternoon to get the complete roster round the whiskey
barrel. But his long piping of a Sunday morning drew no such crowds. To
Divine Service, conducted weekly in the cabin by the captain, came not
a single seaman, and of the officers, just Chipp, Ambler, Dunbar and
myself—a congregation of four only to hear George Washington De Long,
acting chaplain, feelingly invoke the blessing of the Almighty upon our
enterprise and ask His mercy upon us—distressed, worn mortals trapped
in the Arctic wastes.
As October drew toward its close, distant rumblings in the pack,
cracks in the floes roundabout caused by contracting ice, ridges of
broken floe thrown up hither and yon, and the pistol-like snappings of
shrinking bolts in our timbers, warned us of trouble. November came;
we viewed its advent with trepidation, for the previous November had
inaugurated our reign of terror. On November 6th, the sun departed from
us and the long Arctic night commenced, our second. It would be longer
this time till the sun reappeared, ninety days or more instead of
seventy-one, for we were further north.
True to form, the thundering of the ice and the grinding of the pack
recommenced as per schedule in November and the tremors coming through
the thick floes shook the _Jeannette_ as in a storm. But we were
more calloused. Let the pack screech and roar! So long as nothing
was happening close aboard we merely listened. Newcomb and Collins,
however, who were more nervous than the rest, were forever running
up on deck at these shocks. They came back even more disturbed when
they could see nothing than when moving ice within eyesight gave the
explanation.
November drew along without visible disaster, but the dread and
anticipation of terrors yet to come caused trouble in other ways.
Newcomb, childish always, became mum as a clam at meals, and at other
times talked to no one, except perhaps to Collins. Whatever De Long
thought of this, he said nothing till one day passing through the
taxidermy room while Newcomb was mounting a crab, the latter stopped
him, queried,
“Captain, will you ask Mr. Dunbar whether he saw that _Uria Grylle_ he
shot with his rifle yesterday, in flight?”
De Long, a little piqued perhaps at being thus asked by a very junior
officer to serve as a messenger boy, said,
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Mr. Newcomb?”
“Because,” replied our naturalist, “he has declined any relations with
me.”
De Long looked at him puzzled.
“Declined? On a matter of duty? That seems queer. I’ll have to look
into this.” Poking his head into the cabin outside, he called the
veteran Dunbar into the workroom, then closed the door.
“What’s this, Dunbar, about your refusing to speak to Mr. Newcomb? He’s
just asked me to ask you a question about a bird you shot, because he
says you won’t speak to him.”
“Let him ask,” replied the ice-pilot. “I’ll speak to him any time about
anything in the line of duty. But not on other things; I despise that
little Yankee pedlar and he knows it!”
“Come now, Mr. Dunbar,” broke in the captain, “that’s no way to talk
about a shipmate. Don’t lay too much stress on that little trading
episode of Newcomb’s with those Indians at St. Michael’s; Mr. Newcomb
did it only as a joke.”
“A joke, eh?” burst out the angered whaler. “And I suppose it’s a joke
too, when he tries to write a letter home from Siberia, criticizing his
superiors, saying that you, the captain, are a profane Catholic and
Melville’s an atheist! A fine shipmate he is!”
De Long, at this unexpected personal turn, reddened, grew suddenly
stern, gazed intently at Newcomb.
“What’s that, Mr. Newcomb? I’m a Catholic, right enough, but I think no
man can truly say I’m a profane one. Did you write such a letter, sir?”
“I did not!” said Newcomb promptly.
“I didn’t say he _wrote_ one,” countered Dunbar. “I merely said he
_tried_ to. There wasn’t any mail going, so I guess he didn’t. But
the little fool’s too chummy with the men; it got out around the crew
somehow that he was going to. That’s where I heard it.”
“Well, never mind about any scuttle butt rumors, Mr. Dunbar. Mr.
Newcomb says he didn’t write such a letter, and that settles it. Now,
Mr. Newcomb, I’ve noticed before your not talking to your fellow
officers. Forget any such child’s play, and you’ll get along better.”
“Don’t I do my duty, sir?” asked Newcomb with apparent innocence.
“Yes, and I’ll take good care that you continue to,” responded the
captain.
“Very well, sir,” said Newcomb pertly. “If I do my duty, I must
respectfully continue the privilege of maintaining this silence.”
Nonplussed at this attitude, De Long looked at the infantile naturalist
a moment, then gave up, turned on his heel and left. Needless to
say, the ice-pilot promptly did likewise, leaving Newcomb in proud
possession of his privilege of silence.
But this was only a beginning of increased ill-will in the mess,
owing probably to the general state of ragged nerves. The very next
morning, Dr. Ambler and Collins had a fierce set-to about the slamming
of a door. It so happened that I was sitting in the wardroom, calmly
reading a book, when along came Starr, the Jack-of-the-dust, to break
stores out of the afterhold. He opened the wardroom door and fastened
it back in order to roll a barrel through it, which he did. Just then
four bells struck, and it being Ambler’s turn to get the ten o’clock
observations, the doctor drew on his parka and went out the opened
door, followed soon by the huge Russian, who, sailor fashion, kicked
the door to as he passed. The door closed with a bang, startling
Collins, who as usual was asleep during the morning. Collins, grabbing
a few clothes, shot by me out of his room, mad as a hornet. He never
noticed Starr who was still busy rolling his barrel forward, but
spotting the doctor on his way up to the deck above, raced after him,
seized him by the arm, and belligerently demanded,
“What d’ye mean by slamming the door like that? You know well enough I
always sleep in the morning!”
Ambler looked at him in complete mystification.
“Why, what are you talking about, Mr. Collins? I haven’t closed any
doors, let alone slammed them.”
“What d’ye think woke me up then? I’m not crazy! I heard you do it,
and I’m damned sick of my being broken out of my sleep by you or by
anybody!”
A dangerous hardness came into Dr. Ambler’s usually soft Virginian
voice.
“I tell you I didn’t slam any door! Mr. Collins, do you mean to say to
me that I lie?”
What might have happened, I don’t know. I scrambled up the ladder,
thrust myself between the two. From the glint in Ambler’s eyes, it
looked to me like bloodshed next.
“Hold on, gentlemen! Please!” I begged. “I know all about this. The
Jack-of-the-dust slammed that door; Dr. Ambler didn’t even notice it.
Now look here, Collins! If you’d been faster on your feet, you’d have
seen who did it yourself; and if you weren’t so damned fast at taking
offense at every little thing, you’d have rolled over and gone to sleep
again without bothering about a little noise. Now apologize to the
doctor and turn in again till you’ve slept off that grouch!”
Collins, very red in the face at having made a fool of himself, mumbled
out some lame apology, which Ambler accepted without comment and
departed to take the morning observations. I went below to continue my
interrupted reading, but Collins, instead of turning in, moped about
all day, no doubt trying to justify to himself his ridiculous conduct;
very possibly wondering also whether I had not fabricated from the
whole cloth that yarn about the Jack-of-the-dust to put him in a hole
and figuring how he might reciprocate.
At any rate, at dinner that evening, he startled me by breaking his
usual mealtime reticence and remarking as I was hacking away at the
salt beef,
“There’s old Melville, getting gray and bald over his confinement in
the ice.”
“No, Collins,” I shot back, “my hair’s no grayer than yours. And as for
my baldness, I’ve suffered neither heat nor cold from it since I’ve
been in the Arctic, but I will admit that if instead of being marooned
here, we were off Saint Patrick’s Land where we could all be hunting
now, probably I’d have a better time.”
“So?” said Collins, instantly offended. “That settles it! When a man
starts to get personal in his remarks, I don’t have anything more to
say.”
“Personal? Who’s getting personal?” I asked, perplexed, for if Collins’
commenting on my baldness was not personal, what was? Then recalling
my statement, I blushed myself, for in my haste in getting in my
repartee I realized suddenly that my tongue had slipped. “Did I say
_Saint_ Patrick’s Land, Collins? I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. I meant _Prince_ Patrick’s Land, off to the northeast of
here.”
“Oh, no, Melville; I’m not a fool!” Collins blazed out, obviously
certain now that I was altogether too facile in explaining away
embarrassing situations. “When you said Saint Patrick’s Land, you meant
Saint Patrick’s Land! And as for my gray hairs, I got them in honorable
service you’re completely ignorant of!”
Well, I thought to myself, where does he think I got mine? Surely the
Civil War, which started me off on both my grayness and my baldness,
was honorable service! But very prudently, I kept my thoughts to myself
and my mouth shut. What was the use of further inflaming him? Quietly
I bent my beard over my plate and resumed operations on my salt beef,
while the rest of the mess, content to let the matter drop, wisely
did the same and the meal closed in a tenser silence even than it had
opened.
It began to seem now as if every little thing caused trouble. That
night I had a remarkable dream, and there being so little to talk about
that all hands had not heard discussed a hundred times over, I sprang
it on the mess after breakfast, expecting to get a good laugh out of
them.
“Say, mates,” I began, “speaking of all the instruments we have to read
on our meteorological observations, I had a grand dream about ’em last
night. Want to hear it?”
“Guaranteed a brand-new dream, chief?” demanded Chipp. “If not, belay
the story, for I dream about instruments every night now myself.”
“Don’t mind Chipp, chief. Shoot it!” encouraged the blindfolded
Danenhower from the foot of the table. “I can stand it, anyway; I don’t
have to read those instruments any more.”
“Oh, it’s new all right,” I assured Chipp. “Stand by then. I dreamed
last night I was old Professor Louis Agassiz himself, king of the
scientific world, and without a stitch of clothes on, I was going
down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue on my way to the Smithsonian
Institution, decked out with necklaces of hygrometers, bracelets
made of thermometers, a belt like a South Sea hula-hula’s grass skirt
made up of mercurial barometers, and God knows what other instruments
dangling from my fingers and my toes. And there I was, dancing along
through the heart of Washington with all those instruments on me
clattering like castanets, offering to sell ’em to the crowd at only
two cents apiece, but nobody would buy!”
Amid a gale of laughter from my messmates, I danced around my chair
snapping my fingers, illustrating, then asked,
“Now, how’s that for a dream, boys?”
“I think it’s damned insulting to me and my profession, if you want my
opinion!” broke in an unexpected voice.
Taken completely aback, I stopped dead in my dance and whirled about.
There standing in his stateroom door, watching me, was Collins, who,
never on hand for breakfast, was at that time normally sound asleep. A
dead silence fell on the laughing mess.
“And if you’ve got to try to make me look like a damned fool, Melville,
with your jokes about nakedness and that my instruments are not worth
two cents, wait till I’m off the ship!”
Slam! went the door, closing off our meteorologist, whom I had never
even thought of in connection with my dream, from my sight. I sank back
into my chair with a deep sigh. I couldn’t even relate an innocent
dream without offending the touchy Collins.
However, that was not the end of it, though I had hoped it was. The day
itself wore along like all our other days, an utter blank, till about
ten p.m., when with all hands about ready to turn in, the captain in
his cabin sent for Collins, and as luck would have it, asked him, of
all things, to bring a thermometer!
Collins went to fetch the thermometer, some special one, and took
it into the cabin. There was some conversation about thermometers
which, the skipper’s door being open, was faintly audible to us in the
wardroom, but to which I paid little attention, till, the subject of
thermometers evidently being now a raw one with Collins, I heard him
say in a loud voice,
“Captain, I wish the officers would treat me with the same courtesy I
try to treat them.”
At that I pricked up my ears.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded De Long quickly. “If you have
any particular charge to make against any officer, make it right now
and I’ll investigate it.”
That was the last I heard, for the captain immediately closed his door,
wanting privacy of course for such a discussion.
“Well, here’s where I have to explain even my dreams,” I thought to
myself as I rolled into my bunk. “What a life!” Still, I managed to
sleep that night with no more nightmares about thermometers to disturb
me, and I woke in the morning quite refreshed. Nothing happened during
breakfast either, and I was beginning to think that perhaps Collins was
more of a man after all than the night before I had given him credit
for being, when a little after eleven, while out on the ice for my
regulation exercise, De Long hailed me,
“Come here, Melville. I want to see you.”
I went over. It was forty below zero, and, I thought, a devil of a
temperature in which to get hauled up over thermometers.
“Last night, chief,” said the captain, starting mildly enough, “in a
conversation with Mr. Collins, he reported you to me for plaguing him.
I asked him what the trouble was, and he said that you were always
cracking jokes and singing Irish songs to make game of him.”
“What?” I mumbled half to myself, completely flabbergasted. “Songs, in
addition to thermometers?”
But the captain, oblivious of my interruption, finished decisively,
“Melville, you had better not sing any more.”
“Why, captain!” I said in astonishment. “I don’t think I should be
muzzled in this manner. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t sing a song
if I want to. It’s my only relaxation. My songs don’t disturb anybody.”
“Collins says your Irish songs disturb him. Sing something else,”
ordered the captain flatly.
“But, captain, I can’t. I don’t know any other songs.”
“Well, sing psalms then.”
“Psalms? Me?” I protested. “Never! I didn’t ship as a psalm singer!”
“Very well, chief; suit yourself,” said the skipper with a note of
finality in his voice. “It’s a little cold out here to discuss the
matter further. You had better stop singing altogether then,” and
leaving me badly upset at the idea of losing my one diversion, he
walked off in the snow, resuming his exercise.
Naturally enough, I looked around the frosty field of ice to starboard
of the _Jeannette_, which constituted our exercise grounds, for the
cause of that muzzle the captain so unceremoniously had just slapped
on me. A little way off was Collins, undoubtedly a witness to what had
gone on, and in view of the extraordinary way sounds carried across
the ice in that Arctic air, probably a willing enough auditor also. I
strode over to him.
“Good morning, Collins.”
“Good morning, Melville.”
I was too hot in one way and too cold in another for any preliminaries.
I jumped headfirst into my subject.
“The captain tells me you complained to him and claimed his protection
against my jokes and my singing Irish songs and making game of you.
Collins, that was neither upright nor manly!”
“Hold on!” said Collins. “I’ll explain that thing.”
“I don’t want any explanations! It’s plain enough what you’ve done. If
you’d come to me like any shipmate should, and told me that my jokes
and songs were disagreeable to you, I wouldn’t have sung another song
or cracked another joke. But your tale-bearing makes me sick! From now
on, we’re through! You keep to your side of the ship and I’ll keep to
mine! And don’t you forget it!”
And from that day forward, I never spoke again to Collins nor he to me,
except when I was told to carry him an order.
Our wardroom mess was now in a fine state for sociability. Danenhower,
blinded, behind the bulkhead of his stateroom talked almost incessantly
to relieve his monotony but nobody paid any attention to that as
conversation. Dunbar wouldn’t talk to Newcomb; Collins and I were
not on speaking terms; Newcomb would not talk to anybody; Collins
was nearly as bad, speaking pleasantly only to Danenhower; Chipp was
naturally reticent and had little to say ever; Dunbar, much aged by
illness, was taciturn as a result; the captain, weighted down by his
responsibilities, felt compelled to maintain an extreme official
reserve; and only Dr. Ambler and I were left ever to carry on a
conversation like ordinary human beings. The ice was working on us, all
right. A casual visitor, had one been able to poke his head through our
door on the _Jeannette_ at any meal, would have concluded that we were
about to attend the funeral of some dear friend, and in that he would
not have been far wrong; subconsciously we felt and acted as if we were
going to a funeral, only it was—ours!
Matters in one direction at least soon came to a head with a rush.
Collins, usually the last man out on the ice at eleven a.m. for
exercise and the first man aboard at one p.m., when it ended, now
began to comply with the exercise order even less cheerfully. As a
regular thing he was considerably late in leaving the ship, and what
was worse, he took an ungodly length of time, when he went aboard at
noon to record the results of his midday observations in the log, to
get back again on the ice with the rest of us. This quickly became
such a flagrant flouting of the exercise order that while no one said
anything about it, De Long could hardly overlook it and keep his
authority with the rest of us. December 2nd brought the end.
Collins, late on the ice that day as usual, went promptly aboard at
eight bells to log the readings. When he failed to reappear after about
three times the period required to note them down, De Long with an
irritated look on his face boarded the ship. He glanced through the
door, always open for ventilation purposes while the ship was cleared,
into the cabin. There with his parka off, smoking his pipe, was
Collins, leisurely writing in the logbook and carrying on an animated
conversation through the opened doors and hatches with Danenhower in
his stateroom on the deck below. De Long, further irritated at this
confirmation of his suspicions, said nothing and returned to the ice,
pacing nervously back and forth for another period long enough for
anyone again to have logged the readings thrice over, and still no
Collins! De Long reached the end of his patience. With determination in
his stride, up the gangway went the captain and into the cabin. What
happened afterwards, I got from Danenhower, who, an unwilling listener
(unless he plugged his ears), was forced to take it all in.
Collins, at the stove drawing on his gloves, was still talking with
Danenhower, when he looked up in surprise to find the skipper regarding
him fixedly. De Long opened the ball.
“Well, Mr. Collins, has it required all this time for you to record the
12 o’clock observations?”
Collins, a little nettled, replied,
“Well, sir, I hardly know the meaning of your question.”
At this naive disclaimer of comprehending simple English, De Long
proceeded to explain in words of one syllable,
“The meaning of my question, sir, is this: Is it necessary for you, in
order to record the 12 o’clock observations, to remove your coat, light
your pipe, engage in a conversation with Mr. Danenhower, and remain in
the cabin for twenty minutes when you should be exercising?”
“Well,” answered Collins curtly, “perhaps I might have done it quicker,
but I didn’t know my minutes were being counted for me.”
With difficulty swallowing the broad implication of spying contained in
Collins’ last words, the captain said evenly,
“I have seen fit to issue an order that everybody should go on the ice
from 11 to 1, and your coming in the cabin and remaining for twenty
minutes is a violation I will neither submit to nor permit you to
continue. I have noticed for several days that you were longer than
necessary in logging the noon observations, and today I satisfied
myself on the subject.”
“Oh, very well,” said Collins contemptuously, “if you are satisfied,
of course I have nothing more to say. But you are doing me a great
injustice!”
That was too much for De Long, who as captain prided himself on
even-handed justice for all hands. Whatever his ideas were before, he
now changed his mind.
“Mr. Collins, as I have recently shown you, a representation to me of
injustice has only to be made in proper language to secure you all the
justice you want. But I do not like your manner or bearing in talking
with me. You seem to assume that you are to receive no correction,
direction, or dictation from me; that your view of an occurrence is
always to be taken; and that if I differ from you, it is my misfortune,
but of no importance to the result!”
At this Collins blazed up.
“Well, I don’t like the manner you speak to me either, nor the way in
which I am taken to task!”
De Long looked calmly at him.
“I am your commanding officer, Mr. Collins. I have a perfect right to
say what I say to you.”
But this Collins would evidently not admit. In a fiery tone, he shot
back,
“I acknowledge only the rights given you by Naval Regulations!”
That shot rocked De Long and he promptly flared up.
“Do you mean to imply that I am going contrary to Naval Regulations?”
he asked, outraged.
“I mean to say,” said Collins flatly, “that you have no right to talk
to me as you do!”
De Long considered that carefully before speaking, then in as official
a voice as he could still muster he stated,
“I consider that by coming into the cabin as you did today, removing
your coat, lighting your pipe, and carrying on a conversation with
Mr. Danenhower, you took advantage of the 12 o’clock observation to
disregard my order in relation to the exercise.”
“And when you say that,” roared Collins, “I say it is _not_ so!”
Amazed now by this open insubordination, De Long paused and regarded
the belligerent Collins with perplexity, puzzled by a situation so
complicated that the like of it no commanding officer in naval history
had ever had to deal with. The captain finally decided to try to calm
Collins down, educating him a bit in naval manners, before finally
admonishing him.
“Mr. Collins, great allowance has been made for your ignorance of Naval
Regulations, your position in this ship, and your being so situated the
first time. But you must remember that the commanding officer is to be
spoken to in a respectful manner and with respectful language, and you
do not seem to attend to either particular.”
Collins rudely tossed this olive branch into the scuppers, so to speak,
by retorting truculently,
“I treat the commanding officer of this ship with all the respect due
him as head of the expedition, but when he charges me with violating an
order, I say, I HAVE NOT!”
De Long accepted the challenge.
“Do you suppose you will be permitted to contradict me flatly in that
way, sir? Have you lost your senses?”
“No!” exclaimed Collins. “_I_ haven’t lost my senses. I know what I
say. And when you say I’ve violated an order, I say I have _not_!”
For the long-suffering De Long, that settled it. He rose, a dangerous
coldness in his voice.
“Enough, Mr. Collins! You can’t be properly dealt with in this ice.
When we get back to the United States, I’ll have you courtmartialed!
Meanwhile, turn in all your instruments, and perform no further duty on
this ship. You’re under arrest!”