The Germans, who settled some distance from the others, continued their angry complaints that Tyson was to blame for their hopeless situation.
Tyson divided the party into two watches, and one group slept in the boat as best they could, stowing themselves here and there in all sorts of positions. The ice pack around them was very thick. They could not force the boat through it, and so they once again had to wait for a change.
April 22. The weather was very bad again last night; snow-squalls, sleet, and rain. The ice is closing around us. What we want most now is food. We begin to feel more than at first the exhausting effect of our overstrained efforts. As I recall the details, it seems as if we were through the whole of that night the sport and jest of the elements. They played with us and our boat as if we were shuttlecocks. Man can never believe, nor pen describe, the scene we passed through, nor can I myself believe that any other party has weathered such a night and lived … The more I think of it, the more I wonder that we were not all washed into the sea together, and ground up in the raging and crushing ice. Tet here we are, children and all, even the baby, sound and well—except for the bruises. Half-drowned we are, and cold enough in our wet clothes, without shelter, and not sun enough to dry us even on the outside. We have nothing to eat; everything is finished and gone. The prospect looks bad enough; but we can not have been saved through such a night to be starved now. God will send us some food.
Afternoon. If something does not come along soon, I do not know what will become of us. Fearful thoughts careen through my brain as I look at these eighteen souls with not a mouthful to eat. Meyer is actually starving. He can not last long in this state. Joe has been off on the soft ice a little way, but can not see anything. We ate some dried skin this morning that was tanned and saved for clothing, and which we had thrown into the boat when the storm first came on—tough, and difficult to sever with the teeth.
Joe ventured onto the ice again to see if he could spot water where seals might be found, and after looking a while from the top of a hummock, he was surprised to see a big bear, its nose in the air on a scent, lumbering toward them. He hadn’t expected to see a bear in this latitude, as it was farther south than Arctic bears usually wandered.
The hunter returned as fast as possible, anxious lest the creature be frightened off and turn another way. All the party was ordered to lie down, in imitation of seals on the ice, and keep perfectly still. Joe climbed to the top of the hummock and Hans secreted himself behind it, both with rifles ready. Food seemed within their reach, but it might yet escape.
The bear came on slowly, having seen their forms on the ice, no doubt thinking that they were seals and he would soon be making a good dinner of them.
After a few more steps, he was within range of the rifles.
Both fired, killing him instantly.
Everyone arose from the ice with a shout, the dreaded uncertainty over. They all rushed to the spot of the kill—the polar bear who had come for supper but who would instead provide supper. Lines were tied above the bear’s paws, and with a dozen men pulling, the body was dragged over the ice to camp, where it was cleaned and skinned.
Everyone agreed that the blood of the bear was exceedingly refreshing, as they were very thirsty from a lack of fresh water. As he was far south of his hunting grounds, the bear’s stomach was empty, and he was quite thin. His flesh, eaten raw, was the better for that, for when permeated with fat, bear meat can be very strong to the taste.
After spotting land off and on the day before, they launched the boat at 5:00 A.M. on April 25, determined to get to shore even though there were no favorable winds. Once in the water, the light, overladen, scratched, and patched-up little boat looked as if she would founder in the next big wave, but she made it through a fearful running sea, filled with small shards of ice as sharp as knives. After eight hours of fruitless labor at the oars—for they made it no closer to land—they hauled up on a floe, completely spent.
All night and the next morning it snowed, which brought them ample fresh drinking water. They saw plenty of open water some distance off, but knew they could not get to it through the ice pack. With the sun hidden behind the overcast, they could not take an observation. How far had they drifted? The coast, shrouded in heavy weather, was not recognizable to anyone.
That night, a gale sprang up from the westward, and with a heavy sea running, water again washed over the small floe they called home. They had to stand at the ready by the boat again all night, although the waves were not as bad as the other night.
The next morning, with the ice left in an unsafe condition from the storm, they again launched the boat, but could get nowhere for the jagged ice, a heavy sea, and a head wind blowing a gale right in their teeth. They had to haul up after an hour’s exhausting but useless effort.
By early afternoon, their position grew worse. Heavy icebergs threatened to smash their floe to pieces. The bergs were having a loud battle amongst themselves, all the time bearing right for them. The gale had set everything that could float in motion—a grand and at the same time awful sight. Accompanying the frightening collisions was the ceaseless roar of powerful waves.
Tyson called the watch in and ordered another move. They launched at one o’clock, this time for the purpose of getting out of the way of the approaching icebergs. Shortly after they left, the ice seemed very slack, and they saw more open water than they had seen in a long time.
“As far south as we must be,” Tyson said, “we could see whalers soon. Everyone keep a sharp lookout.”
Joe shot three young seals as they were under way, and they were brought aboard.
At 4:30 P.M., they spied a distant column of smoke. A steamer right ahead and bearing north of them! She was a commercial sealer, going southwest, and apparently working through the ice.
Tyson hoisted their colors atop the mast, and the men with oars pulled toward her.
For a few moments joy filled their breasts—the sight of relief so near.
But the ship did not see them, and they could not get to her.
When evening descended around them, she was lost to sight.
18
Hope of Rescue
The night was calm and clear. A new moon showed, and stars—the first they had seen for a week—shone brilliantly overhead like a monarch’s bejeweled cape. The sea, as if acting in concert with the rest of the elements to provide a brief respite, was quiet and still.
They took the remaining seal blubber and built fires on the floe so that if a vessel approached in the night, they might be spotted. There was much hopeful talk—most of the party felt not discouraged that the steamer had passed them, but rather took it as a sign that more ships would soon be seen and that help could not be far off.
To see the prospect of rescue so near, Tyson scrawled with a nub of a pencil so small he could barely grip it, though it was quickly withdrawn, has set every nerve thrilling with hope.
The men were divided into two watch sections—four hours on, scanning the horizon for ships, and four hours off. The anticipation of relief kept everyone extremely wakeful.
Morning dawned fine and calm. All were on the lookout for ships, and soon one was sighted about eight miles off. They quickly launched the boat and made for her. After an hour’s pulling, they gained on her a good deal, but still the ship did not see them. In another hour, they were beset with ice and could row no farther.
They landed on a floe and hoisted their colors. Climbing onto the highest part of the ice, they mustered their rifles and pistols and all fired together, hoping to attract the ship’s attention. The combined effort made a considerable report.
The steamer began to head in their direction. They were certain that the time of their deliverance had come. They shouted, involuntarily almost, but the ship was too far off yet to hear their voices.
Before long, the steamer changed course: first to the south, then north again, then west. They did not know what to think. They watched, but she did not get any ne
arer. She kept on all day, back and forth, as though trying to work through the ice, but unable to force her way in. Tyson thought it strange; any large sailing ship, especially a steamer, should have been able to break through the ice in its present state to reach them.
They fired several more rounds, but she came no closer, staying four or five miles off. All day they watched, making every effort within their means to attract attention. Whether the ship saw them or not they did not know, but late in the afternoon she steamed away, heading southwest.
Reluctantly, they abandoned the hope that had carried them through the day.
For a while she was lost from sight, but in the evening they saw her again farther off. While they were looking at her, though no longer with the expectation that she had seen or heard them, another steamer hove into sight. They now had two sealers near—one on each side of them—although as yet neither had made any signal. They began to count the hours before help arrived. One sealer would surely come closer, or they might be able to launch first thing in the morning and work their way toward a ship.
At five o’clock the next morning, Tyson was reclining in the boat, resting after coming off watch, when one of his reliefs suddenly let out an excited cry.
“There’s a steamer! A steamer!”
Tyson sprang up and saw a boat coming through a fog bank not more than a quarter of a mile away. He ordered the guns to be fired, after which everyone simultaneously sent up a loud shout. Quickly running the colors up the boat’s mast, Tyson held them in place, fearful that the ship might not see or hear them, though she was much nearer than the others had been.
Hans spoke up excitedly. He wanted to take the kayak out to them.
“Yes, Hans!” Tyson yelled, waving him forth. “Go!”
Hans started off, paddling through the thin ice and around the thicker pieces.
Since it was very foggy, Tyson feared that they would lose sight of the ship any moment, but to his great joy and relief the steamer’s bow turned toward them.
They had been spotted!
Hans kept on and paddled right up to the vessel. Singing out in his fractured English, “A-merry-con-stem-ar!” meaning to get across that they were survivors from an American steamer. He also tried to tell them where the stranded party had come from, but they did not seem to understand him.
In a few minutes, the steamer was alongside their piece of ice.
As the vessel slowed on her approach, Tyson took off his old Russian sailor’s cap, which he had worn all winter, and waved it over his head. He gave them three cheers, which all of the castaways heartily joined. It was instantly returned by a hundred men who had congregated on the steamer’s deck and aloft in her rigging.
She was the sealer Tigress, a three-masted barkentine out of Conception Bay, Newfoundland. Two of her small seal boats were lowered.
When the Tigress’ crews stepped onto the ice, they peered curiously at the dirty pans that had been used all winter over the oil lamps. They also saw the thick soup that Hannah had been brewing out of the blood and entrails of a small seal Hans had shot the day before. They saw enough to convince them that everyone on the ice floe was sorely in need of a proper meal, soap and water, and clean clothes. No words were required to make that plain.
They took the women and children in the seal boats, and the men tumbled into their own boat, leaving everything behind save their guns. What they left behind amounted to just a few battered, smoky tin pans and the suddenly unappealing debris of their last seal.
Soon they were alongside Tigress.
On stepping aboard, Tyson was at once surrounded by a horde of curious sailors. He explained who they were, and from what ship.
“How long have you been on the ice?” someone asked.
“Since the fifteenth of October,” Tyson replied.
They were so astonished that they looked blank with wonder, even disbelief.
One of Tigress’ mates, looking at him with open-eyed surprise, asked: “And was you on it night and day, sir?”
The peculiar expression and tone, along with the absurdity of the question, was too much for Tyson. He laughed from deep in his belly, filling him with an unfamiliar but glorious sensation. He laughed until his stomach ached and he could not catch his breath, at which point he saw the man who had asked the question looking at him with grave concern, as if seeking evidence of madness.
Tigress was commanded by Captain Isaac Bartlett, who approached the party on deck and introduced himself. He invited Tyson to his cabin.
“Sir, there’s another officer in our party,” Tyson said respectfully. “Mr. Meyer of the scientific department.”
Before food was served to the two hungry Polaris officers, the captain had questions about their party’s “miraculous escape,” as he kept calling it. As for Tyson’s question about the fate of Polaris, the captain had heard no reports.
They politely answered all their host’s questions, but Tyson and Meyer were very hungry, having not eaten anything since a few bites of raw seal the previous afternoon.
Tyson saw no signs of food or tobacco, and finally asked the captain if he would give him a pipe and some tobacco.
“I don’t smoke,” the captain replied.
Tyson’s great disappointment showed, and the captain quickly procured both pipe and a pouch of tobacco from one of his officers.
When breakfast arrived, Tyson and Meyer stopped everything else and ate.
Codfish, potatoes, bread, butter, and hot coffee.
Never in my life did I enjoy a meal like that; plain as it was, I shall never forget that codfish and potatoes. No one, unless they have been deprived of civilized food and cooking as long as I have, can begin to imagine how good a cup of coffee with bread and butter tastes. No subsequent meal can ever eclipse this to my taste, so long habituated to raw meat, with all its uncleanly accessories. How strange it seems to lie down at night in these snug quarters, and feel that I have no more care, no responsibility. To be once more clean—what a comfort!
Two days later, the heaviest and coldest gale of the season hit, with violent winds and monstrous seas; lasting for three days. As the steamer thumped hard against the ice, turning to the westward to escape a huge swell coming from the Atlantic, Tyson and the others realized how close they had come to facing perhaps their final storm.
Could we have outlived it had we remained exposed? How we would have fared on the ice throughout this long, cold gale, I know not. It is the general opinion on board that we should have perished, being so near the ocean. But He that guided us so far was still all-powerful to save.
Tigress rescued the nineteen Polaris survivors at latitude 53 degrees, 35 minutes north, off Grady Harbor, Labrador, on April 30, 1873.
Their journey on the drifting ice floe had lasted 197 days and taken them fifteen hundred miles.
IV
Inquiry and the Search
19
The Board Convenes
St. Johns, Newfoundland, May 9, 1873
The English whaling ship Walrus has just arrived, and reports that the steamer Tigress picked up on the ice at Grady Harbor, Labrador, on the 30th of April last, ten of the crew and eight of the Eskimo of the steamer Polaris, of the Arctic expedition. Captain Hall died last summer.
Tigress is hourly expected at St. Johns.
—Telegram sent by U.S. Consul
at St. John’s, Newfoundland
When the first news of Polaris and her crew in nearly two years flashed to the world over the telegraph wires from Newfoundland, it made headlines nationwide.
Vying for space in the newspapers of the day were the indictment and upcoming trial in the criminal case of the United States v. Susan B. Anthony for “illegally voting” in the November general election, and the government’s efforts to convince two hundred Kickapoo Indian warriors to give up their raiding ways and live on a reservation. There was other breaking news—in New York, the Brooklyn Bridge was under construction, and Boss Tweed was lining his pockets
with the widening of Broadway from Thirty-fourth to Fifty-ninth streets; the Ku Klux Klan was being fought down South; and the Boston Red Stockings were playing Washington in an exhibition of a new sport called baseball.
In Washington, D.C., however, the biggest story was the Polaris castaways, and the failure of America’s grandiose design to plant her flag at the North Pole. This had been, after all, an expedition of historic proportions funded by Congress and made a priority by influential U.S. senators and representatives of the Navy Department, and even the White House.
Navy Secretary George Robeson wired the United States consul at St. Johns to “instruct Captain George Tyson to keep his party together and remain in command” of the survivors. The consul was to ensure that they were amply provided for and did not want for food, clothing, or other necessities. Robeson promised to dispatch a Navy ship to bring the rescued party directly to Washington, D.C., where a full inquiry into the matter of the Tyson party’s separation from Polaris, and the shocking report of Captain Hall’s death, was to be held without delay.
The New York Times reported on May 11:
The news which appeared in THE TIMES yesterday of the death of Captain Hall, the probable loss of the Polaris, and the breaking up of the American Polar expedition, add another to the long list of Arctic failures, The story of the little band rescued by the Tigress is a strange one, and needs further explanation before its statements can be fully understood. We have, however, the consolation of knowing that whatever may be the fate of Capt. Buddington and his thirteen men, who were last seen on board the leaky and drifting Polaris, eighteen people at least are alive.
Even as additional details were received daily, sufficient to convince reasonable people that the rescue could not be a fabrication, Arctic experts were found who pronounced the story of the ice-floe survivors as “impossible” and “ridiculous.” Six months on the drifting ice pack? So ghastly were the perceived difficulties that would have had to be overcome to survive such an ordeal, some of those who knew the region best were the last to be convinced of the truth.
Fatal North Page 21