His animation surprised everyone. During his long life, Anaukaq must have dreamed this scene over and over, many times. He must have fantasized about coming to his father’s land and being received as a hero by family and admirers. He was ecstatic.
Kali spoke with confidence and eloquence. “I don’t have words to express myself tonight. But I am reminded of the time when I was much younger and working in politics among my people. I learned an important thing. I learned the importance of cooperation among people. And I am thankful for that. Later, I was amazed when the first ships came up to the Thule air base, and we met other people. They wanted to cooperate with us, and we with them. And I thought that maybe the people have finally heard my words when I said that people must work together as people. It is very important for people to work together in achieving something. I can’t keep going now because this is more than I can handle,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Let some of the others take over. We are here with you tonight because we have all worked together—because of our cooperation. Kooyounah.”
The sustained applause testified to the powerful emotions that swept over the gathering. In a community where people typically depart quickly after a social affair, we were all surprised to see that most of the guests remained to talk with our Eskimo visitors and with each other long after the ceremony had ended.
The celebration continued at my house, where Anaukaq and Kali were later inspired to get up and dance to music they heard while watching television. They had everyone in stitches as they did old Eskimo dances to modern music.
The next morning, after a hefty breakfast, we boarded the bus for Charles County, Maryland, and Washington, D.C. A small group of friends gathered to see us off. I knew that Anaukaq and Kali charmed all who met them. But I never realized just how deeply the two men and their families had affected our community until I saw Harvard Gazette senior writer Marvin Hightower standing at the roadside, crying, as the bus pulled away. As a member of our committee, Marvin had helped us organize activities and chaperon the family. Like others who were involved with Anaukaq and Kali, he had also become emotionally very close to both families. The Eskimos fell silent when they saw Marvin’s tears. Staring back through the windows, they slowly waved good-bye to him as the bus pulled off. He, like the other Americans, had had a profound effect on them as well.
In some sections, Charles County, Maryland, is as bucolic and verdant today as it was when Matthew Henson was born here in 1866. We were met at the county line by members of the Charles County Afro-American Heritage Society, with whom I had earlier arranged a public reception. The group’s president, Mary Louise Webb, pinned black-eyed Susans on every member of our entourage and, with a motorcycle police escort, directed our long motorcade into the county seat. With sirens blaring, the police and motorcade led us down the main street to the town center. The Eskimo family sensed that this would be an important ceremony for them when they saw the parade of cars behind our bus, and the motorcycle police with lights flashing, in front.
“This is how they treat important people,” Avataq said to Kali, who was sitting beside him. “This is to show us how much they appreciate that we are here.”
I had also written the county commissioners to request an official reception for Anaukaq and his family. They welcomed us with a band and a flag-waving ceremony. The conductor led the band in “76 Trombones” as our entourage arrived.
Anaukaq and Kali stepped off the bus to loud applause from a gathering of more than two hundred citizens. Each of us received a small American flag from local officials as we were led to our seats behind the podium on the steps of the antebellum, white-pillared county courthouse.
Speeches by government officials and singing by local citizens rounded out the welcome.
“As a token of our appreciation for Mr. Henson’s visit, we are presenting his family with the county flag,” said the county commissioner, as she handed Anaukaq a large yellow banner with the Charles County insignia in its center.
“Kooyounah,” Anaukaq said, graciously accepting the flag and shaking the commissioner’s hand.
In the tiny town of Nanjemoy, in the center of Charles County, we walked deep into the thick woods so that Anaukaq could view the spot where his father was born. We were guided by long-time resident William Diggs who, along with other members of the Charles County Afro-American Heritage Society, had located and marked the spot for posterity. Diggs had met Matthew Henson on some of his visits to Charles County to see his family.
“I thought that I would see the igloo where my father Mahri-Pahluk was born,” Anaukaq said.
“Unfortunately, it is long gone,” Diggs replied. “It was a log cabin. Only parts of the fireplace remain.”
“It was over one hundred years old and made of wood,” I added. “It simply deteriorated over time.”
Anaukaq said he was pleased just to stand on the ground where his father was born. He took two bricks, part of the original fireplace, from the ruins of his father’s home. These he would take back to Greenland as mementos.
As we drove along the narrow, rustic back roads, Anaukaq sat alone on the bus, staring out the window at the thick green forest around us.
“What a beautiful country!” he said. “This is Mahri-Pahluk’s land. I can see that he lived in a beautiful area. It seems like I am dreaming, but I’m not. I have never been to such a beautiful place.”
Next, we traveled to Washington to commemorate the meeting of Anaukaq’s and Kali’s fathers in that city a century earlier and to visit Robert Peary’s grave in Arlington National Cemetery.
A few months earlier, I had contacted Mr. Raymond Costanzo, superintendent of Arlington National Cemetery, and told him about my plans. From the outset, Costanzo showed sincere interest in the subject and wanted to know how he could help. I requested that a small ceremony be held at Peary’s grave, with a navy honor guard and chaplain to salute both Kali’s visit and the memory of Robert Peary. Costanzo promptly contacted me to say that my request had been approved and that he would help arrange the ceremony. I then sent a letter to the White House, inviting the president or one of his representatives to join us for the ceremony.
About the same time, I contacted the Woodlawn Cemetery. Assuming that the president would not grant permission to transfer Henson’s remains to Arlington in time for Anaukaq’s visit, I requested a similar ceremony at Woodlawn, with a military honor guard, a minister, and a formal wreath-laying ceremony.
When our bus arrived at the gates of Arlington, uniformed soldiers snapped to attention and directed us up the winding road to Peary’s grave. The stately tombs lining the pastoral lanes entranced everyone on the bus as we made our way up the curving hill. The monument marking Peary’s grave sits alone on a spacious, hilltop site that commands a view of much of the cemetery.
About seventy-five Henson family members and friends greeted us when we reached the grave. The assembled guests were seated in front of the monument, under the branches of a large tree that shaded us from the afternoon sun. Standing to our left, behind a roped-off area, were some thirty members of the press, with cameras and sound equipment. Their cameras had started clicking the moment we stepped from the bus.
Costanzo greeted us with a warm smile. A man of gentle but firm demeanor, he had a special reverence for this cemetery, and he conveyed that feeling as he gave us a briefing on the procedures of the ceremony. Costanzo introduced me to Chase Untermeyer, assistant secretary of the navy, who attended the ceremony on behalf of the president of the United States, who was attending a summit meeting.
“I was sent to represent the president of the United States in the ceremony today. He has sent you a special message,” Untermeyer told me. I was very pleased.
Next to Untermeyer was Comdr. Stanley DeLong, navy chaplain of Arlington National Cemetery. I could see many other high-ranking military officials in attendance as well. DeLong, Untermeyer, and Costanzo gave Kali and Anaukaq small gifts with military insignia.
Costanzo called the gathering to order. “We gather here today to honor Admiral Peary and Matthew Henson. Peary’s and Henson’s accolades were not won on the battlefield, but they were no less gallant. Their daring sacrifices in uncharted and treacherous territories rank them among our nation’s most celebrated men of courage. They are linked to a long list of explorers and scientists who have been laid to rest here at Arlington. We are here to pay tribute to their immense contributions.”
The ceremony was now under way. Dressed in white uniforms, a five-man navy honor guard marched before the assembly carrying the ceremonial U.S. flag, the U.S. Navy flag, and rifles. At Costanzo’s signal, the entire gathering stood as the honor guard paraded before us. They stopped in front of Peary’s monument. “Abou-uuut face! Attennn-hut!”
After DeLong delivered the invocation, the cemetery historian told the gathering about Peary’s burial and the subsequent monument dedication. Although Peary was buried in Arlington in 1920 with full military honors, including airplane flights over his grave, the monument was given by the National Geographic Society and dedicated at an even larger ceremony by the president of the United States in 1922.
When my turn to speak came, I thanked the government officials for making this a special day for Kali. But I also reminded the gathering that we could not forget that Matthew Henson belonged in Arlington as well.
“Admiral Peary, the great explorer, deserves to be buried here. But Matthew Henson also deserves to be buried here among other American heroes. Henson and Peary were inseparable in their Arctic lives and accomplishments. They should be together in their resting places. I have written a letter to the president of the United States, asking him to consider reinterring the remains of Matthew Henson near those of his close friend and colleague Robert E. Peary here in the Arlington National Cemetery. This act would be appreciated by fair and patriotic Americans of all races, creeds, and colors.”
Next, Chase Untermeyer stepped up to the podium and read a letter from the president:
Greetings to everyone gathered at Arlington National Cemetery for a service honoring the memory of Matthew Henson and Robert Peary, and a very special welcome to Anaukaq Henson and Kali Peary and their families, who have made the long journey from Greenland for the occasion.
I am proud and happy to join with you in saluting the achievements of these Arctic explorers, who, with four Polar Eskimo companions, planted the American flag at the North Pole on April 6, 1909. Matthew Henson and Robert Peary worked together for twenty-three years and made eight Arctic voyages, during which Peary’s leadership and Henson’s interpreting and survival skills proved invaluable. The descendants and all the countrymen of these great Americans can be truly proud of their legacy of heroism and accomplishment in the service of science and our country.
You have my very best wishes. God bless you.
[signed] Ronald Reagan.
After a round of grateful applause, Kali spoke from the podium.
“I thank the people here for this day. I have come this far to see the burial place of my ahtahtah, and here he sleeps in this beautiful place that I could not have imagined back in my homeland. My son and my grandson are here with me to share this day. And I have brought this wreath that my oldest daughter helped me make, so that our family and the Hensons of Greenland could honor Peeuree by putting it on his grave today. Kooyounah.”
A lone officer dressed in navy whites and standing among the tombstones some distance away, played a soft “taps” as Kali stepped up to Peary’s monument and gently placed the wreath he had made for the occasion just beneath his father’s name. Talilanguaq, Ole, and Cousin Anaukaq then placed a second, larger wreath alongside the first. Kali asked me to walk to the monument with them. An honor guard escorted us.
After the ceremony, Kali bent over to try to read the inscription on the tombstone. I had it translated for him. It read: “Robert Edwin Peary—Discoverer of the North Pole—April 6, 1909.” The side inscription read: “His beloved wife—Josephine Diebitsch Peary.”
“This is Peary’s wife’s name,” I told Kali and Anaukaq, who had joined him. “She is buried here also.” He made no comment as he stared at the inscription.
This was the central ceremony planned for Kali in the itinerary. None of the American Pearys showed up. After the ceremony, he walked up to almost all the whites at the gathering, asking them one by one whether they were his relatives. They all said no. Sensing his loneliness, my Harvard students became very protective of him. They huddled around him and became his family. He never talked about it, but we hoped the Arlington ceremony was still a special event for him.
Between all the ceremonies, our guests had plenty of rest and relaxation. Their favorite pastime was playing in the swimming pool. The word “playing” is more appropriate than “swimming,” even for the adults, since no one swims in polar Greenland. In fact, to the Eskimos, the very idea of plunging into a body of water is associated with death. This was especially evident from the face of Anaukaq, who had lost his eldest son to the icy northern sea. He watched with trepidation as Talilinguaq, Ole, Avataq, and the others entered the water for the first time and began thrashing about. They screamed and yelled at the thrill of their own buoyancy and their surprising ability to move about in water. Ajako, who was afraid to enter the pool, kept sticking his foot in the water to allay his fears, until he was finally pushed in. After this, it was difficult to get him to come out.
Eventually Anaukaq, too, overcame his fears. Although he never braved the water himself, he and Kali sat at the poolside, directing the others and laughing deliriously at their antics.
“Look at that!” Anaukaq said. “How can they move about in the water like that?”
“Ole looks like a big pooeehee under the water,” Kali commented. “Look at him move,” he chuckled, as his grandson dove beneath the surface in the three-foot section.
“Move your arms more like this,” Anaukaq shouted to Malina, as he imitated swimming strokes.
With instructions from the experienced swimmers among our student escorts, Massauna-Matthew, Ole, Malina, and Aviaq, the youngest members of the group, quickly learned some strokes.
At 1237 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, a towering office building now stands where H. Stinemetz & Sons, Hatters and Furriers, stood a century earlier. As we passed the location, I pointed out to Anaukaq and Kali that this was the spot where their fathers had met a hundred years before.
The mayor had agreed to act as host at a reception for us at the Washington, D.C., Convention Center. Over a hundred guests, including American Hensons and friends, greeted us as we entered one of the reception areas of the massive building. In the center of the room stood a large ice sculpture of an igloo, surrounded by a profusion of elegant hors d’ouevres. The Eskimos cheerfully sampled everything until they were full.
We were officially welcomed by Washington Convention Center board chairman, and my old friend, Kent T. Cushenberry, who had arranged this affair at my request and who had been tremendously helpful to me throughout the project.
I had written Mayor Marion Barry about Matthew Henson’s Washington roots and his contributions to the discovery of the North Pole, and I asked that Barry name the day of Anaukaq’s first visit to Washington “Matthew Henson Day.”
“I had never heard of the name Matthew A. Henson, to be frank with you, because it was left out of our history books,” said Barry, surrounded onstage by Anaukaq, Kali, and their families. “And so I learned that Matthew Henson was a part of the North Pole expedition, that he was in fact chosen by Admiral Peary to actually, physically plant the flag at the North Pole. Never would I have thought in my wildest moments of fantasizing dreams that I would be here in Washington, D.C., today, as mayor of our nation’s capital, meeting the sons of Peary and Henson. Now that is history being made. Actually, I really can’t even write words to express what I’m talking about, I feel so touched.”
The gathering erupted in emotional applause.
T
he mayor read from the proclamation. “And therefore I, the mayor of the District of Columbia, do hereby proclaim Wednesday June 3, 1987, as Matthew A. Henson Day in Washington, D.C., and call upon all the residents of this city in saluting this famous explorer. Signed Marion Barry, Jr., Mayor.”
When the interpreter translated the mayor’s words for the Eskimos, Ajako, who was holding his daughter Aviaq close to him, started to cry.
Detecting these feelings, the translator added a little humor to her translations.
“This day is Matthew Henson Day in Washington, D.C., until the great earthquake comes [Eskimo talk for the day of the end of the earth]. “Bikdaoahgee [Congratulations],” she shouted to the family.
Anaukaq, Kali, and their families cheered.
The mayor handed the proclamation to a happy and very appreciative Anaukaq.
Kent Cushenberry presented Anaukaq and Kali with U.S. flags that had been flown over the Capitol in their names at the request of Walter Fauntroy, congressman from Washington, D.C. The two Eskimo patriarchs and their children were visibly overwhelmed by these gestures.
I watched as Anaukaq and Kali, swarmed by family, friends, and well-wishers reveled in the moment. I recalled that a century before this day, Matthew Henson had sat down, not far from where we stood at the Washington Convention Center, and written Peary a letter expressing his desire to continue working with him in the future. He signed the letter, “From a friend—Matthew Henson.” The friends who had met here in 1887 could never have dreamed that their sons, two very close friends, would be standing in Washington one hundred years later, being honored by the president of the United States, the mayor of the nation’s capital, and a member of Congress.
North Pole Legacy Page 19