Trial by Ice

by Richard Parry

  Hall then turned on his heel, walked out of the tent, and handed his pistol to one of the startled Inuit who crowded outside. Returning to the fallen Coleman, Hall dragged the wounded man over to his own tent, half expecting the sailor to gasp an apology with his last breath. But Coleman refused to die, much less repent.

  Stricken now with guilt or remorse, Hall resolved to nurse the critically wounded Coleman back to health. Only moments before, he had aimed directly at this same man's heart, resolved to kill him. The avenging angel had instantly transformed into Florence Nightingale. Days passed as Hall tried everything he knew to save Coleman. Coleman died two weeks later, on August 14, having endured a slow and painful demise from infection and probably peritonitis and pneumonia. Two days after Coleman's death, the whaling ships returned to Repulse Bay. On the day the ships left to hunt whales, Hall awoke to find himself alone. His remaining whalers had deserted. Again, he was alone with the Inuit.

  Killing a man quickly is bad enough. Killing one of your own companions is even worse. Watching someone's protracted demise from your bullet, hearing his labored, gurgling breath, changing his fetid dressings in the close confines of a small tent, and watching his skin pale and mottle as his life slowly drains away must be horrendous. No doubt it seared deeply into Charles Francis Hall's mind.

  No official action came of the shooting. Judge Roy Bean might have been the only law west of the Pecos, but that far north there was no law at all. What authority visited this desolate notch along the western edge of Foxe Channel came and went with the whaling ships that wintered there. And that authority related only to the captain's law aboard his own vessel. That summer the whalers had long since sailed in search of the humpback.

  On his return to New York, Hall dutifully confessed his actions to his patron Henry Grinnell, who found that no one wanted authority for that desolate region. Repulse Bay, where the shooting had taken place, lay beyond the territorial borders of the Dominion of Canada. Years later Peter Bayne claimed that Coleman and he had discovered evidence as to the whereabouts of Sir John Franklin's grave from Eskimo and thus earned the enmity of Hall for their meddling, possibly adding revenge to the cause of the shooting.

  One thing is certain: The cold, isolation, alien landscape, and unforgiving ice make even the smallest slight grow out of proportion. In a place where the endless sky and boundless white land merge into one colossal landscape that assaults and overwhelms the senses, the value of a single human life diminishes to nothing. A person's very soul is threatened, so the mind turns inward in self-defense. Imagination and fear go hand in hand. Since everything is in short supplyfood, firewood, shelter, and warmthsurvival becomes the main preoccupation. The land dispenses with cockeyed optimists quickly. A hidden crevasse, fragile ice, a sudden storm and the unwary vanish forever. No doubt Hall reacted as he did because he knew that in the Arctic the glass is always half-empty, never half-full.

  Stepping back from this confrontation only weakened Hall's command. The Germans aboard now saw their fellow countryman Bessel as stronger than Hall, and the science projects vaulted to equal importance with the quest for the North Pole.

  Up to this time, Hall had regarded Bessel as lower in the command structure than the man's title of chief scientific officer implied. As late as June 20 Hall referred to Bessel's role as “naturalist and photographer” and “most likely … the surgeon” in a letter he wrote to astronomer Henry Gannett of the Harvard College observatory. Now Bessel had challenged his command, and Buddington had refused to support Hall.

  In a quandary, Hall spent his days away from the ship, climbing the hills while the engine was repaired.

  With the rift widening, the Polaris steamed north into the Labrador Sea and headed for the western coast of Greenland. Proceeding along that serrated coast, it took advantage of the northerly flowing West Greenland Current, which hugs the coastline. The usual banks of fog and walls of mist and drizzle greeted the ship, while the air grew cold and heavy with the reek of salt and rotting sea grass.

  Reaching Holsteinsborg (now called Sisimiut after the modern tendency to restore the Inuit names to Greenland), the Polaris anchored. Here Hall hoped to purchase additional coal for his boilers and reindeer hides to clothe his crew. During his visits with the Inuit, Hall had recognized the value of using reindeer hides for outer clothing. The waterproof, hollow shafts of each reindeer hair provide natural buoyancy that aid the animals in crossing rivers and furnish superior insulation against the cold. At a time before synthetic fibers, no finer winter clothing could be found. The pullover style of the Eskimo parka with matching pants retained body heat much better than European dress, with its buttonholes and loose flaps. Wool loses its insulating property when it becomes wet. Hypothermia, frostbite, and death rapidly follow. Hall did not plan to repeat Franklin's mistake of requiring his men to wear wool and canvas coats.

  Unfortunately he was thwarted on both accounts. The remote settlement of Holsteinsborg had little coal to spare, and reindeer skins were scarce. The warming trend that favored thin ice for his expedition had also altered the annual migration of the reindeer.

  Warmer weather meant less need to wander south in search of the lichens and moss the herbivores ate.

  Meeting an old friend, Frederick Von Otto, who headed a returning Swedish exploration, Hall did receive good news. Von Otto's crew had sailed as far north as Upernavik. Baffin Bay was open. The ice field had receded. Only an occasional iceberg dotted the leaden water between Disko and Upernavik. Hall was elated.

  In an instant he changed his route of attack. Originally he had planned to sail as far west as he could into Jones Sound, the gap between the saw-toothed fingers lining the bottom of Ellesmere Island and the top of Devon Island. Once the Polaris encountered ice too thick to drive past, the expedition would take off overland for the elusive Pole. That was the plan he'd presented to the academy and to the government.

  But Von Otto's report changed everything. Smith Sound, directly north of Baffin Bay, might be breached. With skill and luck Hall could sail the Polaris through that narrow gap into Kane Basin and on into the Kennedy Channel. Only sixteen miles of water separated Greenland from Ellesmere Island at that spot. The Humboldt Glacier, with its towering columns of ice, flanked the eastern shores of Kane Basin. He would slip north of that devilish ellipse on the charts marking the eightieth parallel. Within six hundred miles of the North Pole!

  He must act swiftly, he realized. The ice could re-form at any minute. He could not wait for his supply ship, the Congress, to arrive. Putting aside his feelings, Hall left word of his change of plans and ordered the Polaris to make for the island of Disko, the sharp-edged lump of rock jutting into Baffin Bay roughly halfway between Holsteinsborg and their final jumping-off port, Upernavik. Driving the engines full-out, the ship made the village of Godhavn on Disko in twenty-four hours.

  For six anxious days, Hall and his crew fretted over the absence of the Congress. Every day they waited meant a missed opportunity. The captain used the time to purchase the precious furs and extra sled dogs the party would need. Disko had no reindeer hides either, so sealskins and dog skins were substituted. He also secured the services from the Danes of another Inuit named Hans Christian,whose renown as a dog handler and hunter were without equal. With Hans and Ebierbing, the dog teams now had expert handlers.

  But Hans Christian was at Preven, 60 miles south of Uper-navik. To the first mate fell the yeoman's duty of taxi driver. First, Chester searched among the fjords in an open whaleboat for Karrup Smith, the district inspector of Disko and ranking Danish official. Paddling more than 175 miles up and down the coast, the mate returned with the inspector only to be sent off to fetch Hans Christian, the new Inuit addition.

  On August 10, cheers rang across the deck of the Polaris as the black smoke and funnels of the Congress hove into sight. Larger than the Polaris, the supply ship carried much-needed coal and extra stores. Karrup Smith, delighted to be furthering diplomatic ties with the United Stat
es, readily allowed the extra coal and food to be stored in the government warehouse.

  With the Congress came Tyson's written commission, and he officially became an officer. Up until that time he had served only at Captain Hall's pleasure, an extra cog not integrated into the machinery of command. More than a month had passed while the crew sorted out their tasks and tested the mettle of their officers. Like seamen since the beginning of history, Polarises sailors used that time to see what they could get away with, subtly probing their leaders for weakness and testing to find how slipshod their actions could be before they were called to task. Sailors can be either experts at efficiency or strict minimalists if not properly motivated. Regrettably Tyson's inaction during this time critically undermined his leadership. Lasting impressions were formed while he did nothing. Thus, his authority over them never fully matured. This weak link would make its results felt in the months to come.

  Waving heartily back from the Congress was the theologian the Reverend Dr. John Philip Newman. By Newman's side stood the newly appointed astronomer and ship's chaplain, Mr. Bryan. Tucked inside Newman's coat pocket were special prayers for the expedition. One, to be opened and read only on reaching the North Pole, would never be used.

  While the Congress came placidly on, insurrection seethed below decks on the Polaris. From Hall's cabin came the heated voices of the captain, Frederick Meyer, and Emil Bessel. Both men had picked their ground to openly defy their captain's orders. As he would later report, beyond the bulkhead the black steward, John Herron, listened in amazement. Two against one, he mused, both against the captain. Peering through a crack in the boards, the steward watched the drama unfold.

  “I am the commanding officer of this vessel,” Hall fumed. “I ordered you to keep my journal. You are to write what I dictate.”

  Meyer must have glanced furtively at the chief scientist. Seeing support in Bessel's dark eyes, he squared his shoulders. “I cannot, Captain. It interferes with my primary duties as meteorologist.” Meyer had considered adding the word regret but decided against it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bessel nod his head.

  “What?” Hall's face flushed.

  From his hiding place, Herron held his breath.

  “Captain, I must go ashore to take readings. I cannot remain on the ship to do your writing if I am to take those measurements. My orders from headquarters require me to do that scientific work.”

  “Orders? What orders?” Hall towered over the smaller man, opening his meaty hands and closing them into fists. “Produce these orders!”

  Meyer blanched. He had no such orders. He was only parroting what Bessel had told him to say. And unlike the newly arrived Bessel, Meyer's six years in the United States Signal Corps gave him much more to lose. His head dropped. On the verge of backing down, he opened his mouth.

  But before Meyer could capitulate, Dr. Bessel stepped out of the shadows of the cramped cabin. To exacerbate their obvious dislike of each other, Hall had the odious habit of standing over him while talking, as if to emphasize their size difference. And Bessel hated looking up to him.

  “Mr. Meyer is under my orders,” Bessel interceded smoothly. “He's a member of my scientific corps.” He emphasized the pronoun. “If he desires to go ashore to take readings, he is free to do so whenever be wishes”

  Bessel watched smugly as Hall's face contorted in rage. “He will not!” Hall shouted. “If he disobeys my direct order, I'll send him back with the Congress. He can answer to his superiors in Washington.”

  Visions of iron manacles flashed before Frederick Meyer's eyes. His career was ruined.

  But Bessel appeared unaffected. “Mr. Meyer is under my authority, Captain. You cannot do that.”

  “I can, and I will! I'm in overall command of this expedition. And I do have that in writing.”

  Bessel shook his head slowly. He released a long-drawn sigh. “Very well, if you insist. But, if Mr. Meyer leaves, so will I.” Bessel paused to gauge the effect of his words. “I will go in support of him.” With satisfaction, the doctor watched his sentence strike the captain like a blast of icy sleet.

  Now it was Hall's turn to blanch. Color drained from his face. The shadowy faces and whispered threats of those in Washington returned to haunt him. If Bessel left, Hall knew he would be replaced.

  Bessel delivered his final blow with perfect timing. “And, Captain, I have the assurances of the German crew that they will leave with us….”

  Seven days later Captain Davenport, commanding officer of the United States tender Congress, leaned against the binnacle of his ship and watched the Polaris steam away. The cheering from both ships no longer rang in his ears. His tars had long since turned back to their tasks as the shouting voices of the bos'ns urged them to achieve perfection. On a brave ship departing on a noble mission, it should have been a moment to savor. Unhappily the dirty tail of black smoke that dragged behind the Polaris sent a feeling of foreboding running through the skipper. Beside him stood the Reverend E. D. Bryan, who had come along to bid farewell to his oldest son, R.W.D. Bryan, the Polaris's new chaplain and astronomer. Next to the minister stood Capt. James Buddington, also a passenger aboard the Congress to see his nephew Capt. Sidney O. Buddington off. Davenport must have sensed their depression. He shook his head. A ship heading for trouble.

  The open defiance of some members of the Polarises crew toward their captain sent a shiver through the seasoned sailor. Hall had confided in Davenport, offering him a glimpse of the troubles that beset the Polaris. Davenport knew that nothing of this sort could be tolerated on a navy vessel. In all his years in the navy, Davenport had never faced such a thing. He offered to clap the offenders in irons and drag them back to the navy yard for trial.

  Strangely Hall declined. While Meyer was on loan from the army, Bessel was a civilian, the Polarises commander admitted. So were his entire crew, save for old Morton and a few others. And Hall himself did not strictly hold a naval commission. Neither he nor Tyson nor Buddington did. Trust Washington to splice a civilian crew onto a naval vessel, Davenport mused.

  The old captain probably smelled the rot of politics in all this. Bessel was anointed by those nabobs in Washington, the Smithsonian, and the National Academy of Sciences. Bessel was their pick. If he came up lacking, it reflected poorly on their judgment. The waves would spread to the secretary of the navy until the waters of this mess lapped at the feet of President Grant himself. No wonder Hall was cautious.

  To make matters worse, Hall was not a sea captain, and it showed. His crew sensed it, too.

  But Hall should have been able to rely on Buddington. At least that man had his sea legs, even though they had been gotten on whaling vessels and not in the navy. Buddington should have known how to man a ship. Then Hall admitted to Davenport that Buddington liked the demon rum. When both ships transferred cargo, the sailing master got drunk. He had his little supply stashed away. Buddington also raided the pantry for milk and sugar like a three-year-old. Well, clap him in irons, too, the navy man suggested.

  After deliberation, Hall realized his trip was doomed if Davenport sailed away with half his crew in the brig, and so he asked Davenport to make an appearance to strengthen his sagging command. The old commander cut an intimidating figure when he came over. Boarding the Polaris with two marines as honor guard, he insisted on being piped aboard. The men snapped to smartly when they saw his sword and all his gold braid.

  When Davenport left the Polaris, order appeared restored. Captain Buddington repented his ways, and Meyer had signed a statement in the margin of Hall's official orders. “As a member of the United States naval north polar expedition, I do hereby solemnly promise and agree to conform to all the orders and instructions as herein set forth by the Secretary of the United States Navy to the commander,” it read. Break that oath, Davenport's presence hinted darkly, and Meyer would swing from the yardarm.

  But then Hall once again backed down. After pinning Meyer like a butterfly in a collection box, Hall gave the
man what he wanted. He relieved Meyer of his duties as secretary and appointed a young man named Joseph Mauch. Bessel won after all. From that day onward, Captain Hall would relinquish the scientific studies he had worked so hard to teach himself. To Bessel and his scientific corps would fall the pleasures of collecting the specimens, bones, rocks, and Native artifacts that Hall so loved.

  Something else troubling happened. There was a saboteur aboard. Before the Polaris sailed again, the ship's machinery was tampered with. The special boilers designed to burn seal oil and whale blubber vanished. Someone had thrown them overboard, it seemed. Now the vessel could run the engines or heat the crew's quarters only by burning coal. And where they were headed, there were no coal stores except what they carried in their hold. All Hall's ingenuity to provide that backup plan went for naught.

  Even the Reverend Newman weighed in to pour oil upon the troubled waters. The day before the Polaris sailed, he came aboard to read one of the prayers he'd written for blessing the enterprise. It borrowed heavily from the Psalms, especially the part about those who go down to the sea in ships and do their business upon the great waters seeing the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. Whoever wrote that psalm had been upon the sea.

  But the wise Newman had added something elsea plea for harmony. In deep, resonant tones, the minister's rolling voice sang out the lines:

  Give us noble thoughts, pure emotions, and generous sympathies for each other, while so far away from human habitations. May we have for each other that charity that suffereth long and is kind, that envieth not, that vaunteth not itself, that is not puffed up, that seeketh not her own,that is not easily provoked, that thinketh not evil, but that beareth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things; that charity that never faileth.