Fatal North

by Bruce Henderson

  While Tyson and others now held little hope that much could be done until late in the spring, when human efforts would be aided by the warming of the sun, Buddington decided that they should try to break up the foot of the berg that had hold of the vessel by blasting with explosives.

  Four large charges were exploded in different places not far from the ship’s side, introduced under the ice by means of long poles that served to regulate the positions of the gunpowder-filled bottles. But beyond jarring the ice and the vessel, no effect was produced. The thick ice was not even cracked. However, it was considered imprudent to explode a larger quantity of powder.

  To any who would listen, Buddington expressed anger that his advice in regard to winter quarters had not been followed. The vessel would have been safely anchored farther south he said, free from the dangers by which she was now beset. There would have been no drifting in the pack, no force upon the hull by the berg and ice floe, no daily gyrations in her icy bed, no need to break out and get closer to the musk-ox feeding grounds. For their current travails, he pointed a finger directly at one man: the man responsible for bringing them here, and the only one of those who had left America on Polaris who could no longer speak up to defend his decision.

  At midnight on January 1, the ship’s bell was rung merrily to welcome in the new year. The men forward fired a salute and sent a delegation to the cabin to congratulate the officers on the occasion. A bowl of hot spiked punch was brewed, and all were given an ample ration.

  It was decided to launch a hot-air balloon, and nearly all the ship’s company went out on the ice to watch the release. After stopping momentarily in the rigging, the balloon freed itself and moved off to the southwest, carried by a light wind from the east.

  Silence filled the air. It was not lost on anyone that the balloon had effortlessly achieved something that they could not: freedom to go elsewhere.

  When the balloon passed from sight, all were invited back to the cabin, where the remainder of the punch disappeared in a remarkably short space of time.

  That first day of 1872 marked the eightieth day since they had seen the sun. It grew intensely cold in the early days of the new year, dropping to 48 degrees below zero.

  An unusual atmospheric phenomenon became the subject of intense discussion among the members of the scientific corps. On January 10, at about 5:00 A.M., a bright arc was observed in the sky, extending from the western horizon toward the east and reaching up to the zenith. It appeared to be about twelve degrees from the Milky Way, and parallel with it. This continued only about an hour, but after it disappeared three cloud-like shapes of about the same brightness remained, resting near the zenith. Some narrow, bright stripes were visible coming from them. Whether this was an aurora or some unique electrical phenomenon was a question that remained unanswered.

  As the month progressed, the twilight toward the southeast began increasing. Every eye naturally turned to that quarter many times a day, in anticipation of seeing the first splashes of direct sunlight.

  To the north was open water, a clear sign that the ice was starting to drift freely in the strait. Bessels went out with two men and a sledge team to ascertain if the open water extended any great distance. He made only nine miles to the north and could get no farther because the headland was covered with smooth ice, over which the dogs could not go nor the men climb. They were unable to locate a route to get farther north, but as far as they could see it was open water.

  When Bessels came back, the first mate thought he would give it a try. Chester took with him four men and a dozen dogs to draw two sledges. He thought they could get over the mountains or find a pass through them. They started at ten and returned about four o’clock that same day, as stymied in his efforts as Bessels had been.

  Later in the month, a violent snowstorm hit, the wind blowing with hurricane force. It lasted two days, and during that time no one dared leave the ship, not even to take tidal observations.

  When the storm ended, Tyson hiked alone to Cape Lupton, a bold headland two thousand feet high. He managed to get to the top, and from that elevation he saw that the ice was completely cleared out of the channel. In fact, there was free water everywhere except in the bay, where the ship was firmly encased in ice. For eighty miles to the north—as far as he could see—it was wide open. Tyson knew had Polaris been in the channel where he had recommended to Buddington they should try to get, they would now be sailing in free water instead of remaining locked in the icy embrace of Thank God Harbor.

  Not long after, a thirsty Tyson got up in the middle of the night for a drink of water. As he passed Buddington cabin’s—the ship’s new commander had a small, private compartment for himself—Tyson saw him lying in his berth with the light on. Upon Tyson’s return down the passageway to his own cabin, Buddington spoke up, asking him to come into his room.

  Tyson went to the door of Buddington’s room and stopped.

  “Come in and shut the door,” Buddington said.

  Tyson did so, wondering why Buddington was being so secretive, since there was not another soul in sight. “Tell me, Tyson, what do you think of the talk going around some quarters that we should stay here another winter?” he asked.

  Tyson knew that members of the scientific corps had expressed interest in conducting more observations and geographical surveys before heading home. Personally, he did not wish to spend another winter at Polaris Bay—it would be a waste of time and wouldn’t accomplish anything meaningful—and he told Buddington so.

  “Before going home we should either work the ship north,” Tyson went on, “or do everything in our power to gain as high a latitude as possible by sledges and small boats.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything about this,” Buddington said. “We can keep our own counsel. It is my intention to go home come summer. I don’t care a damn what the rest say. I want you to work with me, and the rest of ’em can go to hell.”

  Tyson said nothing.

  “In the first place,” Buddington continued, “we have no business being this far north. We ought to have spent the winter at Port Foulke. I came very near getting Hall to stop there. We would be a damned sight better off now if he had listened to me. I’ll tell you what we are going to do, no matter what the rest say. I am going south this summer, and if we get out all right, we’ll go down as far as Upernavik.”

  Upernavik was the northernmost of Greenland’s Danish settlements—450 miles south of their present position, about 73 degrees north.

  “There are plenty of reefs along there, and we can easily, if it’s a little foggy, pile her up on them without being blamed and do it without any danger to ourselves.”

  Tyson felt blood rushing to his head. The lawful commander of Polaris had suggested that they purposefully scuttle the ship? In all his years going to sea, Tyson had never heard such oudandish and cowardly talk from a ship’s master. Was the man drunk?

  “Then we can take the boats and go in to Upernavik,” Buddington said as casually as if discussing plans for an extended holiday. “From there we can go down to Disco. We have everything there to make ourselves comfortable. From Disco we go to Denmark on a whaler, and then home on a steamer, with the government paying our expenses. We’ll see something of the world, and our pay goes on as if we were still on the expedition. We’ll make a damn good voyage of it.”

  Buddington waited for Tyson to comment.

  Tyson decided that Buddington was sober, and that he was dead serious. “Why do you want to lose the vessel?” Tyson asked quietly.

  “What the hell does the government want of the vessel?” Buddington said disgustedly. “What do they care for the vessel or the North Pole, either? This thing was started by a few damned fools in Washington to feather their own nest. Damn the North Pole! I came here for greenbacks. I never meant to pass Port Foulke. Old Hall got me in this scrape, damn him. He is dead and in hell, I hope.”

  “Captain, I can’t go along with your plan,” Tyson said firmly, eyes borin
g into the dishonorable man in whose hands nearly three dozen lives rested. “We ought to do what we can to carry out Captain Hall’s wishes and the just expectations of the government and our country. If this season should prove as favorable as it was last year, there is no reason why we should not reach the Pole itself. It would be a lasting disgrace not to utilize to the utmost a ship fitted out with such care and expense. I want to go home—yes, sir, I do. We all do. And when that time comes, I think it will be more to your credit to carry the ship home with us.”

  At that, Tyson turned and left the room.

  As Tyson lay on his bunk, sleep would not come. The astonishing proposition he had heard was enough, he knew, to make Hall stir in his ice-cold grave.

  For hours he ruminated. Should he make a confidant of someone—perhaps the first mate—about Buddington’s plan to wreck Polaris on a reef? The expedition had already been disgraced through the actions of the incompetent wretch now in command. Throughout the ship was such a state of distrust and suspicion that everybody looked on everyone else as possible enemies. He had never seen so much infighting among a ship’s crew.

  Tyson decided to say nothing for the time being. He would keep a sharp eye on Buddington and be prepared to act. In naval tradition, nothing was more serious than a mutiny, except a captain who would unnecessarily and incompetendy lead ship and crew into harm’s way. If that happened, it was the duty of another officer to step forward and assume command, even if it meant arresting and restraining the captain.

  If I can get through this horrid winter, Tyson thought wearily, shortly before fitful sleep finally came, I think I shall be able to live through anything.

  George Tyson had no idea just how severely he would be tested.

  9

  Land of Desolation

  From the journal of George Tyson, assistant navigator, Polaris:

  Feb. 22, 1872. Day is beginning to look like day, or rather dawn. We do not see the stars any more in the middle of the day, but neither do we see the sun yet. For over three months we have seen the stars in the day-time whenever the sky was unclouded, and the moon when it was not stormy. Much of that time the stars were very bright, and the moon also.

  Sunday, Feb. 25. No service; walked over to Captain Hall’s grave. Always seem to walk in that direction. It is now getting so much lighter that we shall be able to do something, I hope, soon. As yet, the hunting has amounted to nothing; where there is water one day, ice is found the next. Nothing to record; first a gale, then a snow-drift, then squalls, then fair weather, and repeat. This formula would do for the whole winter, with slight variations.

  Feb. 28. A glorious day. The sun has showed himself. I happened to be the first to see him. If it had not been for the hills, we should have seen him yesterday, or day before. Never was an expected guest more warmly welcomed. It is one hundred and thirty-five days since we have seen his disk. Poor Hall! how he would have rejoiced in the return of the sun. His enthusiasm would have broken loose today, had he been with us. And to think that there are those who are glad that he can not come back to control their movements!

  The entire crew gathered on the ice eagerly to await the approaching spectacle. They waited expectandy, exchanging only hushed whispers as if not to scare off the solar god. A few small clouds over the tops of the mountains became brilliant with the light of the sun. Then, at 11:55 A.M., a small portion of the sun’s upper half was seen through a gorge in the mountains. But before it was hardly recognized, it disappeared. Twenty-five minutes later, the entire orb suddenly appeared to all. It soon rolled in full glory over the southern fjord.

  At that instant the floe seemed alive with young schoolboys out for a short recess; cheer after cheer went up from the joyful company. The crew leaped and jumped about, exclaiming their delight. “O! How warm it is!” “He has not forgotten us!”

  As they watched, the sun continued rising above the horizon until two o’clock. At that time it appeared as an oversized red ball hanging over the straits to the southwest. Half a bottle of wine was given to each man along with a hundred cigarettes. It was the happiest day of the expedition.

  With the reappearance of the sun, nights rapidly became lighter. By the middle of March, it could hardly be said nighttime was dark at all. Soon, as spring began to blossom in the land of extremes, there would be no perceptible difference between day and night; both would be equally sunlit.

  The winter had not brought on any new cases of illness, and that special dread of Arctic travelers, scurvy, had not shown itself in the slightest form. As the sunlight increased so that the crew could look upon each other without the aid of artificial light, it was noticed that the long winter darkness and confinement had given everyone a peculiar pallor. There was nothing in this to cause real anxiety, however. After only a few days of sunlight, normal skin color returned.

  Bessels decided in late March to undertake a two-week sledge trip south. He intended to get as far as Cape Constitution, and to make surveys and astronomical observations en route. It was the opposite direction that Tyson wanted to go, and he suggested to the head scientist that a trip north would be a more credible expenditure of energy and supplies. But Bessels had his mind set, and off he went with astronomer Bryan, both men in a single sledge driven by Joe and pulled by fourteen dogs.

  Conditions had changed for the scientific corps since Hall’s death. The scientists were now autonomous from the rest of the ship’s complement, answering to no one but themselves, with Bessels serving as the final authority. The ship’s most valuable books and charts, once kept by Hall, were now in the possession of the scientists. Importantly, so were all the best measuring instruments, compasses, and other devices necessary for travel in the Arctic. Because Bessels zealously guarded his domain and refused to loan out equipment to other officers, it was impossible for anyone else to mount an exploring party without his cooperation and involvement. The scientists spent most of their time ashore at the Observatory, and were supplied with all the coal they could burn.

  Buddington, in fact, made sure everyone had plenty of coal, and encouraged the crew to burn all they wanted. “Burn away,” he said upon reviewing a status report showing they had burned—for heating and cooking—five thousand pounds of coal for the month of November alone. “Damned if I care if we burn twice as much.”

  While Hall had instituted strict rationing to conserve fuel, food, and other supplies to last through the long expedition, the new commander encouraged gluttony. Although many in the crew appreciated Buddington’s generosity, Tyson knew the real reason for the new captain’s wasteful ways. He was intent on consuming provisions and exhausting the coal as fast as possible so that, come summer, there would be no opposition to heading south—a full year before Hall had intended for Polaris to return.

  In his journal, which he no doubt knew would be read by others upon their return, Buddington laid the groundwork for the retreat. “If the consumption of fuel is continued at the same rate—stoppage of which [is not possible] without endangering our health—we will hardly have enough for two winters, to say nothing of using steam on our return. The idea of piloting the vessel with sails is an absurdity.” He also added a dash of braggadocio: “The first opportunity, however, we get to leave this winter-harbor will be taken, and with the aid of steam or sails, as conditions permit us, we will attempt to reach a higher latitude, so as to enable us to carry out the objects we are sent for.”

  During this time Buddington made it clear that, once home, he expected to be recognized for taking Polaris farther north than any vessel had gone before, apparently believing that the record of his opposition to proceeding northward would be overlooked. He was, however, wary of Bessels trying to steal the show. “I believe that damned doctor wishes to take some honor away from me,” Buddington complained to Tyson. “If he attempts it when we get home, I’ll accuse him of poisoning the old man. Damn him if he thinks he has got me fooled.”

  As soon as Bessels left on the sledge journey south, Budding
ton headed for the locked cabinet where the doctor now kept his supply of alcohol. Buddington had managed to fit a key to the lock and was helping himself, albeit more carefully than before because with the regular supply of liquor gone he did not want the doctor to move the “medicinal alcohol” to a more secure location. Also, Bessels had put out the word that if he suspected his alcohol was being drained, he would poison some of the bottles and only he would know which ones—an odd threat given the suspicions still whispered among the crew. Believing he had gotten the best of the salty old sea captain, Bessels checked regularly to make sure the levels in the corked bottles were unchanged, blissfully unaware of Buddington’s latest trick: when he emptied a bottle, he refilled it with water or urine, then marked the cork so he would not return to it.

  Buddington led his sailors in a long binge. The revelers were shocked, four days after Bessels’ departure, to see his sledge on the horizon. It turned out to be not the doctor interrupting the festivities, but Bryan and Hans returning to replace their damaged sledge while Bessels remained encamped on a little island in the mouth of a southern fjord. Hans was blunt about the cause of the damage. Bessels had been “too lazy” to get off the sledge when going over rough ice, and as a result one of the sledge’s runners had broken.

  Bryan was down below washing up when a fistfight broke out between a drunken John Herron and the cook, William Jackson. Bryan separated the two men, but not before the diminutive English steward was so badly injured that he would be confined to his bunk for the next two months.

  Bryan and Hans departed the next morning in two replacement sledges pulled by fresh dogs to rejoin Bessels.

  Aboard Polaris, the partying resumed, culminating in what Tyson described in his journal as a “bacchanalian feast.”