Fatal North

by Bruce Henderson

  Medieval scientists mistakenly believed the lights were reflections of sunlight and named the phenomenon for Aurora, Roman goddess of the dawn. It would not be known until the advent of high-powered, modern telescopes that the disturbances are caused by solar storms—solar flares that release bursts of energy into space. The term aurora borealis refers to lights in the northern hemisphere—or “northern lights.”

  Occasionally, amid the white and emerald slashes of light, the sky turned a blood red, leaving the crew of Polaris speechless, as it looked like an earthly event rather than a light show fifty miles high. Roman emperor Tiberius, upon seeing such an aurora, had been convinced a nearby port was burning and sent help to put out the blaze. To Eskimos, the dancing lights were spirits on their way to heaven.

  Under sail and steam, in spite of floating ice and occasional fog, Polaris reached Cape Alexander and the mouth of Smith Sound on August 27. Ahead lay three hundred miles of narrow waterway between Ellesmere Island and Greenland—waters often clogged with ice and whipped by violent gales that could send ice crushing into the hull of a ship, as both Kane and Hayes had learned. Both explorers, unable to navigate the rough waters, had been forced to drop back, leave their ships at anchor, and carry out the remainder of their expeditions to the north by sledge and small boat.

  At this point Sidney Buddington began to outwardly display a skepticism toward their mission that would soon widen the breach between him and the expedition’s commander.

  To his wife and friends prior to departure, the sailing master had admitted he did not share Hall’s confidence that the expedition could reach the Pole. Indeed, he had no intention of taking the kind of chances—with the ship, but especially with his own hide—that such an effort would require. He knew exactly how far he would go, and what he would do and not do. Why he hadn’t shared these thoughts with Hall was obvious. Not only was the three-year sailing-master assignment well paying, but all were hoping they would receive lucrative congressional bonuses. Buddington wanted to make the highly publicized trip, but in relative comfort and safety, and at his own speed. Increasingly he ridiculed Hall behind his back. He was always most solicitous to his commander, while sneakily deriding Hall as a novice to the entire crew. It was a grave breach of naval ethics and discipline.

  Buddington strongly recommended taking the ship into Port Foulke—Hayes’ winter quarters a decade earlier—eight miles northeast of Cape Alexander, and having the expedition continue toward the Pole by sledge. That they were still hundreds of miles away didn’t matter. He would stay with the ship, and the others who were so interested in exploring could forge ahead on foot.

  To Tyson’s relief, Hall refused. With clear water ahead, the commander decreed, Polaris would continue north as far as possible.

  Just before midnight the following evening, the first mate came down below deck and reported an “impassable barrier of ice” ahead. When Tyson came up a few minutes later to assume his watch, he found the vessel had slowed down. Buddington was in a fearful state of excitement at the prospect of going farther north.

  Tyson climbed to the crow’s nest and looked around. He saw a great deal of ice coming toward them, pushed by a light northerly wind. It looked bad ahead, but off to the west he saw a dark streak that appeared to be open water.

  Tyson knew they would have plenty of light to navigate their way around the dangerous ice, since at this time of year the sun was setting around 11:00 P.M. and rising again at 1:00 A.M. He came down and reported to Hall that the ship could skirt around the ice by sailing a little to the south and then steer west-northwest. By then, Tyson said, they should be in the open water he had spotted from aloft. Over vehement objections from Buddington—“It’s damn nonsense”—Hall gave Tyson permission to try.

  In the next few hours, Tyson, selecting the weakest points in the ice to attack and taking advantage of the most favorable openings, managed to get the vessel over to the west side of the sound. There, as he had seen from aloft, he found a passage of open water varying from one to four miles in width. The obstructing ice they had avoided was thick—from ten to forty feet—revealing that it had been formed on shore before breaking free. As Tyson knew, ice that thick never formed in open water.

  By the end of his watch at four o’clock, they had reached just above 80 degrees north. Hall was so gratified that he took Tyson’s hand and shook it firmly. Rejuvenated by their progress, Hall said he hoped to get still farther north before having to stop for the winter.

  Tyson ran into Buddington on deck. The sailing master looked chagrined and disappointed, and he was searching for Hall to have a talk with him. Tyson walked past without saying a word. Knowing the truth now, that Sidney Buddington was a coward, Tyson had resolved to avoid him as much as possible.

  Polaris stopped briefly a half hour later. While Hall went ashore and coasted around in a small boat, Buddington summoned Tyson to the wheelhouse on the aft deck.

  “Why is Captain Hall ashore?” Tyson asked before Buddington said anything.

  “To look for a harbor,” Buddington said smugly. “We cannot go any farther north. There is no open water.”

  “Yes, sir, there is plenty of open water,” Tyson countered. “It is your duty to put this vessel as far north as possible before we undertake sledge journeys.”

  “Well, now, see here,” stammered Buddington, perhaps tempted to dress down Tyson but then thinking better of it. “We must not go any farther north. We have gone far enough. We will never get back if we go any farther.”

  When Hall returned, he gave orders to move on, north. When they got to Cape George Back, the ice forced them to the northeast, and they crossed Kennedy Channel and then over to Cape Lieber, where fog descended on them about fifteen miles from land. Here they slowed, and a copper cylinder containing a record of their progress was thrown overboard, as mandated by their official orders and in the event things went badly.

  Continuing north, they began having trouble forging through the ice. They had gained latitude 81 degrees, 35 minutes—farther north than any known ship. At this point, sailing in unknown waters, their charts were no longer of any help.

  Meanwhile, Buddington was acting like a spoiled child. The sailing master was complaining to everyone—even the Eskimo hunters—and cursing behind their backs anyone he thought instrumental in convincing Hall to take the ship north.

  They were now in the area where Morton and Hans had made their discovery.

  Where is the open sea? Tyson thought as he searched the horizon from aloft.

  All hands not working below were up on deck looking hard for the same thing: the open Polar Sea, as reported by Morton and Hans, who were also on deck. So was Dr. Emil Bessels, who had announced that his wind and temperature readings in connection with the fog showed an indication of open sea farther north. Moist, foggy air from the north, the scientist contended, would not have passed over ice.

  But it soon became sadly clear to everyone that there was no open sea, but only a stretch of water forty-five miles across. They were not deceived because they had sailed right across it. The surrounding land was plainly seen because it was quite high in elevation.

  Aboard Polaris this day, everyone realized Morton and Hans had made a mistake. No one was surprised that their eyes had played tricks on them if it had been at all foggy when they were here. In reduced visibility they would not have been able to see across to the other side.

  It was not the gateway to the promised land but a landlocked bay.

  Hall, recovering from his disappointment, named it Polaris Bay.

  Finding a channel not far from the mouth of the bay, they sailed on. The channel, some seventeen miles wide, was obstructed by heavy ice. Tyson thought they would get through, but from the long faces he saw on deck, it was apparent that some of the men would rather they not try.

  Hall named Robeson Channel after the Secretary of the Navy. A good name, all agreed, for without Secretary Robeson’s support and goodwill, they wouldn’t be in t
hese waters never before parted by the keel of any ship.

  All night, surrounded by ice fields and fog, they slowly worked forward. The full force of the current was now felt, and the ship labored hard to make progress. To increase the difficulties of navigation, the fog again settled and shut out everything from view.

  They fastened Polaris to an ice floe and waited all the next day for an opening in the weather and the ice. A second cylinder containing a dated dispatch giving their position was thrown overboard.

  The crew grew perceptibly nervous, not unlike what ancient mariners must have felt as they ventured into unknown seas. “I believe,” Tyson wrote in his journal, “some of them think we are going over the edge of the world.”

  Finally, at 7:30 P.M., the fog lifted. Polaris headed through broken ice toward the eastern coast, where they spotted a possible harbor. Anchoring out, Tyson joined Hall in a small boat and went ashore to see if it would be serviceable. Although suitable for a comfortable winter’s home, the harbor proved too shallow for the ship.

  Upon their return, with the ice pressing heavily upon the hull, Hall ordered a quantity of provisions to be taken out and put on the ice—in case something happened and they were forced to abandon ship. They waited out the night.

  Under way again early the next morning, after bringing the supplies back aboard, they soon found the ice so compacted that it was impossible to force the vessel through. As far as the eye could see was impenetrable ice from one horizon to the other. At 6:00 A.M. on August 30, 1871, Polaris attained her highest northern latitude: 82 degrees, 16 minutes.

  Although Charles Francis Hall did not know it, no land lay between him and his goal. The only obstacles were the constantly shifting pack, with its immense pressure ridges and hummocks, sculpted mounds formed by the aggregation of ice piled up by repeated pressure, and a solid sea of ice extending four hundred and seventy miles—all the way to the Pole.

  II

  Thank God Harbor

  5

  Providence Berg

  Unable to maintain its northernmost position against a driving current and the pressure of the southward-drifting ice pack, Polaris steamed a few miles south before anchoring behind some icebergs for protection from a blowing gale.

  Hall convened a council of his top officers. “Gentlemen, the turn of the season is close at hand,” he said. “Do we seek a safe harbor at once and go into winter quarters, or do we attempt to proceed farther north?”

  He gave no outward sign as to which option he favored.

  Buddington weighed in first, strongly urging, not surprisingly, to take immediate refuge. On their way they had passed what appeared to be the entrance to a large bay some miles south of their present position. He pressed Hall to turn around and secure a winter anchorage there without delay.

  Hall turned to Tyson, who was thinking that Buddington ought to have stayed home given his fears. The sailing master’s highly praised seagoing experience—although he had never been farther north than 76 degrees—bore no relation to his courage and enthusiasm, both sadly lacking.

  “Sir, we have not come all this way to seek refuge at first opportunity,” Tyson said, directing his comments to Hall and purposefully ignoring the sailing master. “Our mission is to get as far north as possible.”

  “That it is, Mr. Tyson,” Hall agreed enthusiastically. “How might we do that?”

  “I have just come from aloft,” Tyson said.

  From the deck of Polaris, the radius of sight was limited—no more than seven miles on a clear day. This morning it had not been possible to see any open water from the deck. Observing from a perch fifty feet up the main masthead, though, had provided Tyson a clear picture of what lay ahead for fifteen or twenty miles. He and first mate Hubbard Chester were the only ones who regularly climbed to the crow’s nest.

  “The channel is closed on the west side, where we are now, and up the middle,” Tyson said. “But the wind has opened up the northeast. I saw an opening. We can go that direction.”

  North—the right direction.

  “I urge you, sir, to return to the north,” Tyson went on. “Add another two or three degrees to your record. Get us a hundred or two hundred miles closer to the Pole.”

  Hall’s eyes lit up at the prospect, but he had obviously not yet made his decision.

  The other assembled officers gave their opinions. Dr. Emil Bessels thought they should look for a harbor near their present location, on the west side of the channel. The two other scientists, Frederick Meyer and Richard Bryan, agreed.

  Hall asked Hubbard Chester for his opinion. The experienced first mate, strong in spirit as in body, did not waver. “North, sir,” Chester said without hesitation. “I agree with Mr. Tyson, there is an opening on the east side. I can’t say we’ll make it, but we should try to get over there and then as far north as we can.”

  Buddington turned his back, muttering between clenched teeth. “I’ll be damned if we’ll move from here.” He stamped from the cabin.

  Hall followed him and stood some time talking to him on deck.

  When the commander returned, he told Tyson and Chester to see to the landing of some provisions ashore in case something happened during the night. That was all—nothing as to what decision, if any, had been reached concerning the ship’s course.

  Later that afternoon, Hall approached Tyson on deck and asked him more about going north. While every sign indicated he personally favored it, Hall seemed worried. Tyson could only guess he wished to avoid offending his sailing master.

  “Sir, I should gain nothing by our going another two or three degrees,” Tyson said, “but it will be a great credit to you to do so.”

  Since he had received his commission papers in Disco, Tyson had felt a stronger sense of responsibility for the expedition. At the same time, he wasn’t entirely comfortable speaking his mind about Buddington, so soured had he become on the sailing master, who he knew had neither heart nor soul in the expedition. Tyson did not wish for Hall or anyone to misinterpret him in any way. He did not want to be seen as seeking a position to which he hadn’t been rightfully appointed.

  Tyson parted from his commander feeling they had gone as far north as they would that year, and his intuition proved correct. The next day Polaris was ordered to steam south, nearer inshore to find a safe harbor.

  Tyson was disappointed and surprised that Hall had accepted Buddington’s advice to turn tail. The extent to which Hall was able to overlook insolence and incompetence in those who owed him duty and allegiance was something Tyson had never before seen from a commander at sea. Was it a strength in this good man, he wondered, or a fatal flaw?

  That night, they pushed over to the west shore and got beset by ice and drifted to the south. From the crow’s nest, Tyson saw that the wind had opened up the east side, as he had predicted. Had they headed over there they would have had clear steaming north.

  Before they were clear of ice, they lowered a boat, and Tyson joined Hall in trying to get ashore to find an anchorage. They located a natural harbor but could not get into it, and they gave up after several tries. Hall named the place Repulse Harbor.

  The ice suddenly set them free, and Polaris steamed through open waters, this time heading to the east side. From the crow’s nest, Chester hollered excitedly that there was an open channel along the east coast as far north as he could see. But there was no more discussion about heading farther north. The first mate was convinced that had Tyson or someone else been sailing master, things would have been different.

  On the east side, they came across an extensive bay and anchored out. As a winter home, it was by no means a snug anchorage. It was, however, inside the line of the main current, and was somewhat sheltered from sea conditions by a cape four miles to the northwest of the ship’s position. Immediately before them lay a harbor formed by a large iceberg to the south and a little indentation on the coast to the north.

  On September 7, Polaris steamed in nearer to shore. The officers held
a brief conversation about whether to go over to the other side of the ten-mile-wide bay to look for a better anchorage, but Buddington declared that the ship should not move from where it was, and Hall relented.

  Polaris was brought around behind the iceberg, aground in thirteen fathoms of water, and secured to it. Four hundred and fifty feet long, three hundred feet broad, and sixty feet high, the great iceberg lay about two hundred and fifty yards from shore and about one hundred yards inside the ebb current of the strong tide that would otherwise have tried to push them southward daily.

  Their latitude was 81 degrees, 38 minutes. They had been, at one point, nearly fifty miles farther north.

  As Polaris had approached shore, they almost had a potentially disastrous explosion on board. The fireman on duty had allowed the water in the steam boilers to get dangerously low. Low water was one of the most serious emergencies that could arise in a boiler room. Safe operation of a fire-tube boiler of the type that powered Polaris required that the tubes be submerged in water at all times. If the water level fell below the tops of any of the tubes, they could overheat and rupture. The result would be what old-time steam-plant operators called a “violent rearrangement of the boiler room.” When boilers “blew up,” nobody could say in which direction the red-hot boiler parts would go during an explosion. A vessel’s hull could be ruptured as surely as if hit amidships by deadly cannon fire.

  The problem caused by the inattentive water tender was discovered just in time. With that close call in mind, the crew worked through a blinding snowstorm, unloading stores on shore so that if the vessel were struck by a berg or suddenly lost in any other way, they would not be stranded if they had to quickly abandon ship. Also, a fire hole was cut in the ice near the Polaris for the ample supply of seawater in event of a shipboard fire.

  That Sunday at divine services, Hall announced he had named their winter quarters Thank God Harbor, in recognition of “His kind providence” over them so far. He also named the iceberg to which Polaris was protectively fastened “Providence Berg.”