In the Land of White Death

by Valerian Albanov

  Arhireyev was the most resistant to continuing. During the last few days, he had reached the point that it was impossible to get him to fetch driftwood for the fire, or water from a nearby stream. Only at the threat that he would receive no lunch or dinner would he get to his feet and grumblingly do what he was told to. He got along with none of his comrades, cursing and snarling at us all.

  Lunayev, Gubanov, Smirennikov, Regald, and Arhireyev are on skis, the rest of us in the kayaks. We intend to meet up next at Cape Neale on Prince George Land, which is separated from Alexandra Land by the wide Cambridge Bay. The current is against us now, and we must paddle strongly to keep up with the skiers. Upon arriving at the bay, where the ice was still fairly thick, we hugged the edge of the pack ice to be able to keep the others in sight, in case they encountered some major obstacles. Moreover, the walruses would be a danger if we headed out to more open waters. I raised a sail, which helped us along; the other kayak could not do so as they have no mast: Those foolish sailors had burned it at their useless campsite on the glacier. Such thoughtless acts always come back to haunt one in such uncertain circumstances as these: Their punishment was now having to paddle twice as hard. If they had been brighter, they would have replaced the mast with a ski pole! A west wind is blowing strongly, whipping up some high waves.

  We arrived at Cape Neale at ten in the evening and found ourselves in a sheltered bay. The cape is a flat, moss-covered promontory that slopes down to the shore. A multitude of streams gush and splash noisily into the sea. Sheer walls of basalt protect the cape on both sides, one of them terminating in a steep glacier. No sooner had we landed than we heard an infernal clamor, but for a long time we could not determine its source. Shrieking noises seemed to be coming from the top of the rocks, and must have been the cries of birds, as on Cape Harmsworth. But the sound here was much more piercing, and so unbearable that it was actually painful to our ears. It was as if evil spirits were voicing their anger about our intrusion. But we did not manage to catch sight of the creatures themselves, as they remained hidden against the dark background.

  The birds were visible only as thick, cloudlike flocks against the blue sky, immense congregations of such density that one could not make out the slightest detail, as if they were distant swarms of buzzing flies. What sort of birds were they? If I was not mistaken, when I looked closely I thought they could have been gulls, murres, little auks, and others. We could have collected a huge number of eggs, but it would have been a risky business; it would have required days of acrobatic climbing to scale the sheer glacier, and it would have been impossible to descend again without ropes.

  ——

  We have been here for two days now, and the other group has not yet arrived. My mind is tormented by the possible causes of this long and inexplicable delay. So close to their goal, had they been overtaken by their chronic need for rest, as on the Worcester Glacier? I am sure they are capable of anything. They had taken their malitsi with them. I sent Maximov and Konrad to look for them. A fresh wind had picked up, driving ice floes toward the bay.

  My two envoys came back at six o’clock in the evening, having walked for seven hours without seeing the slightest trace of the missing men. A few hours later, we heard a noise, and there they were, only four of them: Arhireyev was missing!

  The new arrivals told us that Arhireyev had been having problems since the previous morning. He was constantly falling behind; sometimes he refused to go any farther, sitting or lying down on the ice. At first his comrades did not trust him, suspecting he was up to one of his old tricks. If they lifted him up and dragged him bodily along, he would walk for a little while, but then he would lie down again, saying, “You can kill me, but I’m not going any farther with you!” When his companions asked him what was the matter, he complained of pain in his lungs and eyes.

  Toward evening Arhireyev’s legs gave out completely, as if he were paralyzed. He lay motionless, unresponsive to questions, muttering incoherently. It was too difficult to transport him on skis, so his comrades decided to stop for the night. In the morning, Arhireyev could neither move or speak. His comrades sat with him until ten o’clock, when, worried that they would not be able to catch up with us, they left Arhireyev behind and hurried toward Cape Neale. They confessed that on their way they had noticed a great many bear tracks. And it was in these conditions that they had left the poor, helpless fellow! Such brutal behavior exasperated me greatly at first; then I reasoned that it would have been impossible to take the dying man with them, and even we ourselves could not have helped him. However painful the event, we had to accept the inevitable. Nevertheless, after the four of them had taken some comfort in the form of a nourishing soup, I sent them back with a sledge to the place where their comrade lay.

  JULY 2

  They returned at ten o’clock, announcing that Arhireyev had died during their absence. At first they wanted to carry the body from the ice onto earth; but as the ice was very unstable, they had to abandon that idea.

  Since three men are sick, I am obliged to change the teams and send Lunayev, Shpakovsky, and Nilsen off in one of the kayaks; they are suffering from swollen feet and symptoms of scurvy. Konrad and I will be in the other kayak. Now Maximov, Regald, Gubanov, and Smirennikov will be on skis. I entrusted Maximov with the command of this group, and gave him precise instructions in accordance with my map. They were to leave after we did, with one rifle, seventy cartridges, a bucket, and five cooked eiders. The weather is improving; the wind has shifted to the north. We shall rendezvous next at Cape Grant.

  JULY 3

  We set out at noon. We struggled through the broken pack ice, which had been driven against the shore by the wind, until we reached open water. Our frail craft headed for Cape Grant, fifteen to eighteen miles away. Fortunately, the unfavorable wind did not prevent us from raising our sail. We had replaced the missing mast on the other kayak with some ski poles. The two kayaks moved forward nicely, but the cold, biting wind and sizeable waves made the sailing conditions unpleasant. We often resorted to paddling to keep warm. The walruses paid us three unwelcome visits. Each time we managed to repel their attacks. The assailant generally rose up out of the water about 150 feet away, huffing noisily as he observed our movements. Suddenly he would dive and we could see him beneath the water as he turned on his side and headed our way to ram us with his powerful tusks. We quickly laid aside our rifles and raised our paddles to strike the beast, but in each instance he managed to avoid our blows, and eventually moved out of range. It was generally at that point that we would fire a shot, which put an end to his pursuit.

  We crossed Grays Bay and were heading for Cape Grant when a violent wind blew up out of the northeast. Together with the current, this wind threatened to carry us out into the open sea. It became obvious that there is a very strong tidal current between Cape Grant and Bell and Mabel Islands. Within only a few minutes, we had drifted four nautical miles from the cape. We had to rapidly furl the sails and paddle with all our might. It was not until about five in the morning that we reached the ice barrier that floated just offshore from the cape. But even during this exhausting incident, we still managed to shoot sixteen diving ducks, which we devoured raw, right then and there, with a bit of salt.

  And now all five of us are sitting in the shelter of a very steep, rocky cliff; glaciers descend on either side of us and, as at Cape Neale, there are countless birds’ nests.

  Although our journey has taken seventeen hours and we have been here for a whole day, we are still waiting for our companions on skis. Soaked to the skin, we cannot seem to dry out in this damp weather. This does nothing to raise our flagging spirits. At dawn, Nilsen and Konrad wanted to take the kayaks to a more sheltered place, but Nilsen started to be blown out to sea, and we had to rush to his rescue in the other kayak.

  Nilsen is sick and so lethargic that he seemed to surrender to the current almost without resisting; he did not even paddle as the current swept him away, and, despite the danger, seem
ed almost indifferent when we came to his rescue. Certainly he has become quite peculiar; he walks unsteadily and often sits silently on his own.

  JULY 4

  Abominable weather. Strong easterly wind with penetrating cold and snow. We are still patiently waiting for the others to join us. The sky cleared during the night, so that we can now see a rocky island to the east-northeast, which must be Bell Island. The strait that separates it from Prince George Land is not yet free of ice. A second island is now visible a little farther away, most probably Northbrook Island, site of the famous Jackson encampment at Cape Flora. It does not seem possible that we could be that close to our destination, but, according to my map, it can only be Northbrook Island. We are at least twenty-five miles away, and yet it seems so near. The air here is so perfectly clear that the contours of the tall, dark rocks stand out against their surroundings with incredible precision; such conditions ordinarily reduce one’s perception of distances by half. Nansen called one of the capes of the Franz Josef archipelago “The Castle” because of its distinctive shape. I fully agree with his description. Most of the headlands I have seen thus far looked indeed very much like castles or cathedrals, particularly the rocks of Bell Island when seen from Cape Grant or a more southerly point. Their slopes and lower cliffs are generally covered with ice or snow, while the ridgelines are crowned with rooflike glaciers. Even from this distance, the rock no longer gave the impression of a shapeless mass, but resembled an immense castle, or a giant, ornately constructed dome. The vertical escarpments of basalt seemed, from afar, to be perfectly regular and of identical height. On these rock palisades, between them, and behind them were thousands of nesting birds.

  After careful consideration, I no longer had any doubts that we were very close to the Jackson camp. I would soon find out whether my plan to head for Cape Flora was sensible, or whether all our trials and tribulations, all our efforts and losses, have been in vain. Twenty-two years is a long time.* What will remain of the camp? I was haunted by “ifs” and “buts.” What else could we do? Where else could we go? Toward Svalbard, perhaps? Not likely: From Cape Mary Harmsworth I had noted that loose pack ice stretched away to the west, and I knew that we had only two kayaks for ten men.

  * By 1914, it had actually been 17 years (not 22) since Jackson had abandoned Cape Flora. Albanov was ignorant of later visitors.

  Would we be capable of such a lengthy detour? My companions no longer had the strength for such a journey, and at present our equipment could barely stand up to our most basic and urgent needs. No sooner had we left the Saint Anna than our sledges were already falling apart; now they consist only of fragment and splinters, held together with wire and string. Our clothes are nothing but filthy rags soaked in seal oil and swarming with lice. Our supplies consist of two pounds of salt.

  No, absolutely not! There could be no question of heading for Svalbard, certainly not this year. What if we were to rest for a while at one of the capes, where there is shelter and an abundant food supply, as my men have so often suggested? But what would be the use? At best, we could winter over, but still without any hope of erecting a tolerable building or improving our equipment. It would be a form of suicide. And winter is so cruel in these latitudes! We would be living in the rocks, with a walrus pelt for a roof and a bearskin for a door! Such places are fine for men as strong as oxen with resolute souls and iron wills—the likes of Nansen and Johansen—but not for my sickly companions, with their sluggish souls, so easily disheartened, scarcely able to undertake a summer trek in relatively favorable conditions!

  No, by instinct I had found the only possible solution. When we were on the Worcester Glacier, there was only one viable choice—head as quickly as possible for Cape Flora! The hopes we have for the future may not be fulfilled for us all; perhaps the huts we are counting on have been in ruins for years. But with what is left, we may be able to build a shelter, and we shall find provisions for the winter. If everything else runs out, at least we have some cartridges left. This can be the only practical way of spending the winter. We will make complete repairs of our sledges and kayaks; then we will still be able, if necessary, to consider traveling to Svalbard or Novaya Zemlya.

  The snowstorm died down by evening. Konrad went duck hunting, while I climbed up the glacier with Lunayev to watch out for our four lagging comrades. We skied over four miles in the hope of meeting them, but other than those of a bear we found no tracks anywhere. We came back at ten o’clock and resolved, weather permitting, to go on to Bell Island the following day. I can no longer delay, out of consideration for Nilsen, who can hardly stand. Shpakovsky’s condition is scarcely more encouraging. And although his feet are also suffering, Lunayev can still stand and is much fitter than the other two.

  The fate of our skiers worries me greatly. What can have happened to them this time? Have they not always lagged behind before? Have they not always expressed the desire to stop and linger for quite some time? It is a pity they only half expressed that desire, rather than making an outright decision, which no doubt they had already reached. So often they have put me in a difficult situation and forced me to waste time.

  JULY 5

  The weather had improved, so we set off for Bell Island at two in the morning. No sooner had we started than the storm picked up again and we were forced to paddle for ten hours through very choppy waves, rallying our last remaining strength. At noon we were still three miles from the island. Exhaustion forced us to halt on the edge of an ice floe. After we had rapidly cooked and eaten our ducks, we stretched out on the ice, wrapped in our reindeer hides and sheltering ourselves from the wind with the help of the sails. We awoke at four in the afternoon and saw to our horror that the ice on which we had paused to rest was not coastal ice, but a great floating ice floe that, in the meantime, had drifted at least six miles from the island. We had no choice other than to try to recover the lost ground by the effort of our paddles and the sweat of our brows. But during our rest the weather had cleared, and we quickly reached the island.

  Nilsen is dying: He can hardly move, has lost the power of speech, and mumbles with great difficulty.

  Quite near the island, on a huge block of floating ice, we spotted two large walruses and one small one, about the size of a cow. They were basking in the sun and scarcely gave us a glance as we drew near to attack. We lay in wait, hidden behind the ice. It was a very risky undertaking. We dragged our kayaks onto the ice with poor Nilsen in tow. It was the sight of the young walrus that spurred us on. Its flesh is said to be delicious and we wanted to taste it at least once in our lives. It was an unfair combat. Lunayev and I took aim very slowly and carefully, and fired at the same moment. The cub must have been shot on the spot, for where he lay, the ice turned red at once. It would have been a simple affair if we had been dealing only with him. But the other two old walruses immediately entered the fray: One threw himself at our kayak, panting and roaring, while the other, no doubt the mother, promptly pushed the injured calf into the water. In great danger, we retreated on the ice, constantly firing upon the furious animal pursuing us; we then watched them both splashing frantically around the baby, trying to keep him from sinking. The water, red with blood, boiled and foamed. One of the walruses, certainly the male, kept us in sight and again plunged forward to attack us, bellowing ferociously, so we ran farther away. The struggle lasted for five minutes, then suddenly both of them disappeared into the water. We had wasted fifteen rounds and had most foolishly put ourselves in great danger. As we began to paddle back toward the island after this humiliating “battle,” we constantly kept a good lookout, convinced that the two walruses would follow us to take revenge on our attack. We anxiously scanned the ocean’s surface, in case the monsters suddenly appeared.

  We landed on the island at nine in the evening and immediately realized that Nilsen would not last much longer. He could not stand, and had to crawl on his hands and knees. His brain had already stopped functioning, for he no longer responded to us, only staring
with a glassy look. We made a makeshift tent out of some sails for our poor, dying companion, and wrapped him in our only blanket. But we were quite aware that our efforts were useless. He would probably not last the night. Danish by birth, he was one of the first to embark on the Saint Anna when she was bought in England, even though he did not speak a word of Russian, but after two years on board he had acquired a good command of our language. Since yesterday he appears to have completely forgotten his Russian, but I believe he no longer understands anything at all. I was particularly shaken by his vacant, terrified eyes, the eyes of a man who has lost his reason. When we cooked some bouillon and gave him a cupful he drank half of it, then lay down again. We had no doubt that Nilsen would be dead by morning.

  The loss of this brave man and fine sailor affected us all. Lunayev remarked that Nilsen had suffered the same kind of paralysis as Arhireyev and, in both cases, they must have been suffering from the same fatal illness. The others quickly fell asleep, and I took the rifle and climbed up the rocks to look out toward Cape Flora.

  SUNDAY, JULY 6

  As we expected, Nilsen is no more than a corpse this morning; his sufferings are over and he seems to have died peacefully, without pain. His features were calm. Remarkably, he did not display that terrible yellow hue, that waxen death pallor that makes the face of a corpse so ghastly.

  We wrapped the body in the blanket and carried it by sledge as far as the next terrace, roughly 900 feet from the shore, where we laid it in a grave made of stones. No one wept for this man who had accompanied us for months, sharing all our dangers, fatigue, and hardships. It seems we have become totally insensitive; we have seen death so often, it has been our unfailing companion and cannot frighten us anymore. Nilsen had suddenly disappeared. His hopes and everything he had lived for no longer meant a thing.