Fatal North

by Bruce Henderson

  During a brief lull in the storm, the damage was assessed. Two sledges left outside had drifted away when the ice broke. Also missing were a handful of dogs, although they were soon found buried under a wall of fresh snow in a doghouse; cold but uninjured.

  When the gale picked up again, the water crashing against the ship’s side sounded ominous, and the shocks of the vessel against the ice were alarming. In spite of the heavy strain, the anchors and lines secured to the berg held fast.

  When the storm finally passed, the vessel was found to be exposed to wildly drifting floes the wind had driven into the bay. It was decided to bring Polaris more under the protection of Providence Berg. Crewmen sawed a narrow opening through the youngest ice—already seven inches thick—in order to bring the ship around under better shelter. With all hands pulling on the hawsers and adjusting anchor lines as they went, they managed to move her through the gap in the ice floe eighty feet to the middle of the berg on its long side, but still a safe distance away.

  Command of the ship had passed without challenge to Sidney Buddington, and his true nature was revealed early. As Hall’s body still lay aboard ship awaiting burial, Buddington had summoned the officers to his cabin. They expected an important consultation or perhaps even an inspirational message, but to their surprise they found him already three sheets to the wind, waiting to play poker with them. Upon Hall’s death, Buddington had inherited the captain’s keys, including the one that opened the locked supply of wine, rum, and whiskey that had been boarded for special occasions. Also, Buddington took possession of Hall’s personal effects, keeping some for himself and freely distributing the rest among members of the crew, sometimes selling or bartering them. The new skipper strolled the decks of the ship, sometimes sober and other times not, cursing and vilifying the memory of their tragically departed leader—often while wearing a favored article of the dead man’s clothing.

  Within days of Hall’s death, Bessels prepared a document that he and Buddington signed. It read:

  Consultation

  Thank-God Harbor

  November 13, 1871

  First consultation held between Messrs. S. O. Buddington and E. Bessels. Through the mournful death of our noble commander, we feel compelled to put into effect the orders given to us by the [Navy] Department, viz:

  “Mr. Buddington shall, in case of your death or disability, continue as the sailing master, and control and direct the movements of the vessel; and Dr. Bessels shall, in such case, continue as the chief of the scientific department, directing all sledge-journeys and scientific operations. In the possible contingency of their nonconcurrence as to the course to be pursued, then Mr. Buddington shall assume the sole charge and command, and return with the expedition to the United States with all possible dispatch.”

  It is our honest intention to honor our dear flag, and to hoist her on the most northern part of the earth, to complete the enterprise upon which the eyes of the whole civilized world are raised, and to do all in our power to reach our proposed goal.

  S. O. Buddington

  Emil Bessels

  With that, the potentially divisive split-command clause had been invoked. Buddington could take the ship wherever he pleased, while Bessels was assured a free hand in carrying out his scientific chores, and for any discoveries that were accomplished by way of explorations north, the honor would redound to him as sledge-journey leader.

  Whatever discipline had existed on Polaris died with Hall. Although now in command of the ship, Buddington exerted only minimal control over the crew. Unlike regular Navy officers, he did not appreciate the importance of finding work to keep idle men busy and out of mischief. Nor was any effort made to provide them with recreation, regular exercise, or religious expression. In one of his first official acts, Buddington put a stop to Hall’s daily religious services, at which attendance had been mandatory. Then he also made Sunday services voluntary, saying that everyone was free to pray on his own. Personally, he said, he preferred a good walk on Sunday morning.

  As for Bessels, he largely stayed to himself, spending much of his time in the Observatory and conducting various measurements and observations, although most of his scientific agenda would have to await better weather in spring and summer.

  Late in the afternoon of November 28 the barometer started to fall, usually a sign of a pending storm. Early that evening a snowstorm with a stiff gale set in from the south. Huge pieces of ice were driven by the wind toward Providence Berg. The immense pressure was too great for the berg, and it broke into two parts, between which ice was blown until the two halves were separated by a distance of eight feet. This demonstration, providing undeniable proof as to what the shifting ice floe might do to the hull of a wooden ship, caused considerable anxiety. The dogs were taken aboard, and preparations made for an approaching crisis.

  At eleven o’clock, the berg was found to be in motion, heading squarely for the vessel. The smaller part of the berg moved more rapidly than the other, pushing the cracking ice floe before it. In the interval before the berg reached the ship, even the bravest and most experienced Arctic hands held their breath, for it seemed that the vessel must be crushed in the onslaught.

  Ice pushed against the ship, and she bore the great pressure without yielding, although groaning under the strain. Several times it was thought that the ice had been forced through her side. Though the ship was standing the pressure heroically, everyone knew that no vessel afloat could hold together for long in such a position. The wind at the time was blowing at forty-seven miles per hour, and the air was filled with swirling snow. The berg was moving in toward the shore, shoving the ship before it, until the tide turned and the berg ceased its threatening movement.

  Soon a new danger presented itself. In the raging winds Polaris swung to her anchors, but she was soon forced upon the foot of the berg. At ebb tide, she keeled over, and lay nearly on her beam ends—careening so much that it was difficult for anyone to keep his footing on deck. The force of the ice floe had pushed the foot of the iceberg under the ship, raising the stern nearly four feet, shaking and straining the vessel badly.

  With the ship in imminent danger of being torn apart by the berg, the Eskimo women and children were sent to the Observatory until the storm abated. Also sent ashore were additional stores in the event the ship had to be abandoned.

  Evaluating the situation, Tyson thought there was a possibility that the vessel could be hauled off the berg. He urgently recommended to Buddington that they try. If she was left in her present position, there was a threat of the ship being pushed farther onto the spur of the berg. Such a strain could set her to leaking.

  Buddington fretted about the situation but refused to give the order.

  When the tide rose, the ship came to an even keel. There, on the berg, Polaris, having escaped two great dangers, remained ignobly stuck.

  Thanksgiving arrived, and dinner was the highlight of the day. The cook and steward went to special lengths to prepare the fare: oyster soup, lobster, turkey, different kinds of meats, vegetables (the favorite being green peas), a fine plum sauce, apple and cherry pies, nuts, raisins, and wine punch. Dinner was set for all hands in the lower cabin, and much time was spent at the table. Chaplain R. W. D. Bryan said a few brief words.

  Privately, Bryan was dismayed that daily religious services were not being held for the crew, and that attendance at the Sunday services had dwindled to only a handful of worshipers. But he said little about the situation. He was, by nature, a kind and true gentleman, and wished only to get along with everyone, including the new captain.

  On the Saturday and Sunday following the holiday, there was a paraselene—an illusion of multiple moons showing beside the true one, arranged so as to form an eerie but beautiful cross. The true moon was surrounded by a halo, which also embraced two of the false ones, while the other mock moons had a separate halo, making a large circle concentric with the first. The two false moons nearest to the true moon showed the colors of the prism.
It was a beautiful and curious sight—a strange phenomenon, sort of a double refraction—that brought the entire crew on deck to see for themselves.

  The land to the east of Robeson Strait the men of Polaris now called “Hall’s Land,” and it would so appear on all future charts and maps. When the weather was calm and very cold, unbroken ice closed off Robeson Channel, but with every strong breeze that blew, the ice gave way, opening the channel for miles at a stretch. Spotting these changing conditions from high in the crow’s nest, Tyson reported to Buddington that if they could get the ship off the berg and under way after one of the strong blows, they might succeed in making it into the channel; beyond, they could possibly find open water.

  An early breakout might be possible, Tyson told Buddington. “We could head north.” The word north in any discussion gave Buddington obvious discomfort.

  Tyson could see his worst fear being realized—that without the heart, soul, and vision of Charles Francis Hall, the expedition’s mission to reach the North Pole would be neglected or abandoned. Hall had been worried about this during his illness. He had once held Tyson’s forearm in a strong grip and be-seeched him: “If I die, you must still go on to the Pole.”

  Tyson felt powerless to keep the promise he made to the dying explorer. For better or worse, it was now Buddington’s ship to command, with Bessels in charge of sledges; there was little anyone else could do.

  The perpetual darkness continued. Soon would arrive the shortest day of the year. In the everlasting twilight they were hardly able to tell day from night. If not for their timepieces, they would have been constantly confused—all the more with such scant regularity in schedule, duties, or gatherings observed. No longer was there even a stated time for lights out. The men were allowed to do as they pleased, and some of them often made nighttime hideous for others who wished to sleep; loud carousing and card-playing sessions, most often attended by Buddington, went on all night. The commander had, in fact, become one of the unruly mob rather than remaining apart as a strong, effective skipper to maintain discipline. Opening the armory, Buddington had distributed loaded revolvers and other firearms to the crew, although some of the officers, Tyson included, could not imagine what use, under the present circumstances when hunting was not possible, they were expected to make of them.

  So far thirteen dogs had been lost—six large ones and seven puppies—from one cause or another. There still remained fifty-four—divided between Newfoundlands and Eskimo Huskies. These animals were exceedingly important to the expedition if there was to be any further advancement north by sledge.

  The dogs were generally fed every three days. At first they were fed on dried fish bought for that purpose at the Danish setdements, and sometimes on old seal meat procured at the same time. When those provisions were exhausted, they were given pemmican, a powdery cakelike mix of dried meat, fat, and raisins that was a main staple for the crew, too, as it had long been for polar expeditions due to its ability to withstand spoilage. One forty-five-pound can of pemmican was given to the dogs at each feeding, an event that was also exciting sport for the crew.

  When the dogs were to be fed, the whole pack was let in through the door in the awning over the gangway upon the deck. In the port gangway an Eskimo chopped up the pemmican and divided it in order to give each dog his portion. Several men were on hand to assist and control the dogs. When the food was ready, one dog at a time was allowed to go into the passage and remain there until he had eaten his portion; when he had finished he was put out on the ice again. Utmost vigilance was required to keep the dogs in order and prevent them, after being fed, from rejoining the others and getting a second share, thereby robbing another of his nourishment. At times their attack upon the door of the gangway was so violent that it was almost impossible to keep them back. Two men guarded the door, armed with clubs, which they were compelled to use occasionally upon the wildest and most determined of the creatures. For the men it was hard and dangerous work, but exhilarating, too—as well as a lively performance for those who came on deck to watch.

  December arrived, and the ship remained perched on the berg, rising and falling with the tide. The creaking of her timbers as she moved up and down against the berg sounded like volleys of musketry. The berg, which continued to break into smaller pieces, pressed unrelentingly toward the vessel. The ice floe rested against Polaris on her seaward side, and to the right and left of this floe hummocks were piled to a height of thirty feet above sea level, some nearly as high as the berg itself. The effect of this constant pressure was to raise the vessel still higher, increasing her steep inclination at low tide. Thus, her condition became worse as the winter advanced.

  With the ice piled up high about the stern from the constant pressure of the floe, it now appeared impossible to effect any change in the ship’s position. During high tide she was very nearly on even keel, but at low tide the list was exceedingly disagreeable. As she listed to port, those who bunked on that side did not mind it as much, since they could stay inside their berths, but on the other side it was often difficult to keep in the bunks. A new fire hole was made in the ice and the tidal apparatus erected over it. The regular tidal observations were resumed, after a suspension of fourteen days.

  On the second day of the new month, the weather was calm and the temperature rose to minus seven degrees, so many of the men took to outdoor sports. Some drove about the ice, having harnessed several of the dogs to sleds; others coasted on small push sleds near the Observatory. Those who stayed aboard ship whiled away the time in their cabins with cards, dominoes, checkers, and chess, with some games quite spirited.

  Inside the compartments, ice formed on the bulkheads. This could not be otherwise, what with so much ice pressed against the hull of the ship, and with the frigid wind whipping against the ship unblocked now without a protective snow wall around them. The berths could not be kept warm enough by the heat from the small cabin stoves, and inside, temperatures dropped so much that outdoor clothing was kept on much of the day.

  Tyson had not had a sound night’s sleep since Hall’s death. One evening, tired of the constant noise on board and longing for a moment’s quiet, he wandered away from the ship. One had to be careful taking such casual excursions this time of year, not only because of the darkness and how quickly the ship could be lost from sight, but also the threat of strong, unexpected winds. There was no telltale whistling of the wind among trees, for none existed here. Once out on the open plain, the wind struck full force without notice. The wind was felt before it was heard, except in close proximity to a deeply cut gorge, down which it could come roaring like an out-of-control locomotive.

  Once beyond the range of the men’s voices, Tyson heard no other sound. It was entirely calm: no wind, no movement of any living creature—nothing but a leaden sky above, ice beneath his feet, and silence everywhere. It hung like a pall over everything. So painfully oppressive did it become that Tyson was tempted to shout aloud to break the spell. At last he did, but no response came, not even an echo.

  The space was void; there I stood,

  And the sole spectre was the solitude.

  The twenty-first of December was not allowed to pass without that notice it always received from Arctic explorers. The twilight had daily grown less and less, until it was nothing but a light streak over the southern mountains for a few hours each day. It gave no light, and was just barely discernible. The long-continued darkness had become oppressive. The exclusive use of artificial light began to affect the eyes, and the trouble of carrying a lantern whenever one went out was trying. The absence of light produced the physical effect of languor, from which few in the crew were immune.

  Christmas week, Polaris, her stem still resting on the foot of the berg and continuously rising and falling on her perch with the tide, sprang a leak. It would have been possible, the officers agreed, to begin repairing the leak—gradually, if not all at once—by working a few hours at a time as the tide permitted, but Buddington gave no order
s to attempt the repairs. A regular watch kept up the pumping on an hourly basis.

  On Christmas Eve, all hands gathered in the lower cabin to exchange gifts and trinkets, most drawn from the ship’s stores. The object of the greatest admiration was a small Christmas tree that stood in the middle of a table, a regular pine in appearance that someone had found living a solitary life on the tundra. It was laden with golden fruit and toys; wax candles burning from every bough added to the effect.

  Dr. Bessel sliced open a branch with a knife—not unlike bleeding a patient—and as the sap poured forth it was gathered in glasses, and pronounced by all as delicious.

  The cook and steward set another bountiful table with very good steaks taken from a portion of the musk ox killed in the fall, and roast pork from a pig killed in Upernavik. The spare rib, notwithstanding its age of four months, was as fresh and sweet as though just taken from the animal, testifying to the preservation powers of Arctic cold. Among the desserts, mince pie appeared, made of fresh musk ox meat, dried apples, and raisins, and all declared it unquestionably good. A few bottles of wine were drunk.

  The twenty-fifth was a beautiful, pleasant day, giving all indication that even Nature herself was joining in the celebration. The thermometer read 33 degrees below zero.

  Three days later, Buddington finally decided to take action.

  The vessel’s position was so uncomfortable that life on board had become almost unendurable. At every low tide she lay over to port practically on her beam ends. It was desirable, for several reasons, to attempt to get her off the berg and enable her to remain upright. Not only were her constant movements a source of inconvenience to her occupants, but it was feared the vessel would sustain serious damage. Her rudder and propeller had not been unshipped in time and were frozen solid in place. They were so far under the ice that they could not be seen, and many thought that when the vessel lay over they were in danger of breaking off. It was also believed that the constant motion while the bow remained perched upon the tongue of the berg must necessarily result in wrenching the bow and breaking off the keel.