McKinlay and the others were worried about Munro and Maurer, who should have returned by now with Mamen and Templeman. McKinlay wondered what could be keeping them. He had not been asleep long when Munro and Maurer awakened him. They were alone. No Mamen, no Templeman.
They brought the worst possible news. Mamen was dead and Templeman was out of his mind. They had left the cook there because he wasn’t strong enough to make the trip to Icy Spit.
The news was unfathomable. Mamen had died waiting for McKinlay to return with the pemmican, not knowing where McKinlay was or why he did not come back as promised. The men took the news of Mamen’s death hard. Their spirits, already low, dropped drastically, and they felt more hopeless than ever.
The way he had died was deeply disturbing. This wretched mystery illness was plaguing all of them, leaving them so weak and crippled at times that they could not even stand erect, but had to crawl about on their hands and knees. McKinlay had long suspected the pemmican. Hadley was beginning to suspect it as well. “Underwood Pemmican again,”3 he said. “That makes 2 in that party . . . the cook is the only one that’s Left There & he is nearly crazy.”
Tragedy aside, however, Rodger’s Harbour was, Munro and Maurer said, an oasis. The beach abounded with driftwood; the cliffs teemed with birds. Munro had confiscated Malloch’s Mauser pistol and he and Maurer had apparently had a feast of ducks along the way back to camp. There were seals as well. They had only come back to fetch whatever supplies they needed for the new camp, and to let the others know that Munro was going back to Rodger’s Harbour to live.
If there had only existed some sense—even a hint—of camaraderie, their ordeal would seem more tolerable. But they had been strangers when the expedition began, and they were still strangers. There was no common bond. Nothing—not even the tragic predicament in which they found themselves—could bring the men together. With Bartlett as leader, they had gotten along better. Munro was in charge, but he wasn’t well liked among the group; and he wasn’t the leader the captain was.
In Bartlett’s absence, the worst in each man had begun to surface. Character traits that had before seemed more like quirks and minor flaws were amplified in the Arctic wasteland. Admiral Peary had once observed, “A season in4 the Arctic is a great test of character. One may know a man better after six months with him beyond the Arctic circle than after a lifetime of acquaintance in cities. There is a something—I know not what to call it—in those frozen spaces, that brings a man face to face with himself and with his companions; if he is a man, the man comes out; and, if he is a cur, the cur shows as quickly.”
Templeman, in addition to being a drug addict, was a pathological liar. Breddy made a lot of noise about everything and couldn’t be counted on. Williamson was a troublemaker and untrustworthy. Chafe was impressionable. McKinlay had previously thought him to be a decent young man, but now that he was living with Williamson and Breddy, Chafe showed all the signs of having fallen in with the wrong crowd. He picked up their foul language and let them influence him. Of the crew, only Clam was dependably diligent and thoughtful.
Hadley was harder to figure out. He made no bones about his disgust for the “dirty Indians,” as he insultingly called Kuraluk and his family. Yet McKinlay knew he’d had an Eskimo wife, that he’d loved her, and that he had come to the Arctic to escape her memory.
McKinlay did not want to stay any longer at their present camp. He did not want to see how those traits would continue to manifest themselves in these men he cared nothing about, and who, he knew, cared nothing about him. It had been different when Mamen and Malloch were alive. Their scientific interests gave them something to talk about, a common ground. He and Mamen had been especially good friends, but now he found himself completely alone. Munro was the closest thing he had to an ally.
McKinlay couldn’t stand it anymore, and if they accused him of abandoning ship, then so be it. Mamen had left weeks ago because he didn’t want to be around the rest of them, and McKinlay intended to do the same. So he asked the engineer if he could go with them to Rodger’s Harbour. It was his due, after all. McKinlay was supposed to have moved there in the first place with Mamen, Malloch, and Templeman.
Munro told McKinlay that he wanted him to stay with the main party. The chief engineer was firm. He wanted everyone to move from Icy Spit to Cape Waring. There was a bay there with driftwood on the beach and thousands of crowbills nesting on the cliffs. They would be fine until the ship came. Munro, meanwhile, would return to Rodger’s Harbour. Someone needed to be there to await the rescue ship, as per Captain Bartlett’s orders. But he needed McKinlay to stay with the main party and tend to the sick men while Hadley and Kuraluk hunted. What’s more, he wanted McKinlay to take the sled back to Icy Spit and transfer the sick to Cape Waring. Afterward, once all the men were safely deposited in the new camp, Munro told McKinlay to return to Skeleton Island and bring back any useful gear he could carry.
It was only the beginning of June, which meant they could not expect a ship before July. While McKinlay would not accuse Munro of only looking out for himself and abandoning the rest of his men, he suspected it, and so did Hadley. Munro had not wanted the responsibility of these men in the first place. He was anxious about their poor health, but he was also anxious to be free of them. “I think,” Hadley observed,5 “that its because of his belly that he is going he will have a rifle and only himself and cook to keep.”
AS MUNRO HAD INSTRUCTED, McKinlay, Hadley, and the Eskimos reached Cape Waring early on the evening of June 5 to set up camp. By now all of the Eskimos, especially Kuraluk and Mugpi, were suffering from snow blindness.
In spite of his weakened eyes, Kuraluk went off to hunt seals and crowbills with Hadley. They returned hours later with a small seal, sixteen gulls, and a goose Kuraluk had shot from a flock flying overhead. It was a lifesaving abundance of food. Auntie cooked part of the seal for supper, and they gave thanks, silently, each in his own private way. “Behold, there is6 corn in Egypt,” mused McKinlay; “get you down thither, and buy for us from thence; that we may live, and not die.”
After dinner, Hadley called McKinlay aside. He was pointing to a strange form of ground plant, which seemed to cover the area. McKinlay bent down to give it a look. He had never seen anything like it before. Hadley peeled off a bit of bark. The best he could figure it was some kind of stunted form of Arctic willow. Hadley sniffed the bark, then tasted it with the very tip of his tongue. After a moment, he smiled.
Hadley had a stack of books, which he had somehow managed to save from the Karluk before she slipped beneath the water. Now he and McKinlay ripped a few pages out of one of these and rolled cigarettes, using the bark and leaves from the mysterious plant as tobacco. Then they enjoyed the first smoke they’d had in months. They sat there, on the ground outside the tent, not talking, just smoking. For the first time, McKinlay felt a strange kinship to this irascible old man. They had nothing in common, outside of their situation. They had little to say to one another. But at that moment, it didn’t matter.
Afterward, as McKinlay got ready to make his first trek back to Icy Spit to fetch the others and the rest of their supplies, Hadley and Kuraluk approached him and extended an unexpected invitation. Would McKinlay move into their tent when he returned? McKinlay was taken aback by their kindness, but immensely grateful. “I take it7 they see how difficult it is for me, living with some of the others,” he said, “Hadley gave a hint to that effect.”
The invitation meant a great deal to McKinlay. With Munro and Maurer gone to Rodger’s Harbour, Hadley knew McKinlay was alone, and that the “bloody scientist” would never be welcome in the other tent, filled with crewmen, even though he played nursemaid to them and had been taking care of them for weeks.
McKinlay thanked Hadley and Kuraluk and told them he must first consult Munro before accepting their offer. The engineer, after all, was still in charge, and McKinlay felt it was a matter of necessary courtesy to ask Munro’s permission. But he hoped to G
od he would say yes.
MCKINLAY ARRIVED AT ICY SPIT at one o’clock in the morning. There was still endless daylight, so they could travel—and often did—at any time of the day or night. When he reached camp, the men rushed to greet him, not because they were glad to see him, but because they were anxious for any meat he might have brought them. Auntie had given him six gulls—one for each of them—and these he handed over now.
Munro and Maurer were still there, with all of their gear and supplies sorted. Munro was restless and anxious to be off, and Maurer, it now seemed, was going with him. Somehow he had convinced Munro to let him join the party at Rodger’s Harbour. McKinlay was incensed but said nothing.
He was irritable and weary from his journey and asked to take a rest, but Munro wanted to leave immediately. Before he could get too distracted with preparations and orders, McKinlay asked him for permission to move in with Hadley and the Eskimos. To his great relief, Munro said yes.
They set out after a breakfast of gulls. McKinlay’s plan was that he would drive the sled with the gear halfway to Cape Waring and then come back for Clam and Williamson, who were too swollen to walk. Breddy and Chafe, although still weak, would walk it at their own pace and stop when they got to the gear and have everything ready when McKinlay arrived with the invalids. They would put up the tent and have a meal waiting for McKinlay and the others and then help the scientist unload.
Munro seemed to approve of the plan wholeheartedly, and he and Maurer set out on their own toward Cape Waring. McKinlay had not slept since he had reached Icy Spit, but soon he was on his way with the gear, guiding, and often helping, the three dogs pull the sled. Eight miles later, he unloaded the supplies and turned around. By mid-afternoon, he was back at Icy Spit, and after a cup of black tea, he loaded Clam and Williamson onto the sled. Half an hour later, he was off.
The journey was arduous, and it seemed longer than eight miles. It was a heavy load for the dogs and also for McKinlay, who again had to help the dogs pull. Williamson complained the entire way.
When at last they reached the halfway mark, there was no sign of a tent or a fire, no smells of food. For a moment, McKinlay was alarmed, fearing that Breddy and Chafe had somehow wandered off-course and were lying injured somewhere off the path. But a closer look revealed that the two crewmen lay in the middle of the ground, sound asleep.
Now McKinlay was furious as well as exhausted. He unhitched the dogs and fed them, then made himself a cup of tea. At midnight, he at last lay down to sleep, “in no very8 amiable frame of mind. But ‘Least said—’ will be the soundest policy, it seems to me.”
MUNRO WOKE MCKINLAY at 8:00 the next morning, having finished breaking down the old camp. After breakfast, they headed to the new camp at Cape Waring. Maurer, Chafe, and Breddy were going to walk it, and Munro and McKinlay were going to load the sled with the tent, some of the more necessary gear, and Clam. McKinlay would return later for Williamson and the rest of the gear.
They hadn’t gone a mile before Munro and McKinlay broke into an argument. McKinlay’s anger at and resentment of Munro had been building for some time. Now they argued over which route to take to Cape Waring. Munro wanted to travel over the land, McKinlay over the ice. Munro insisted on going his way, and McKinlay gave in, allowing for the fact that Munro had made the trip three times to his one. Hours later, they were lost in the fog, and McKinlay had to figure out the right direction and lead them—over the ice—to Cape Waring.
It was the last straw. McKinlay felt Munro was pushing him away, that he was alienating McKinlay in his selfish decision to go to Rodger’s Harbour. He felt Munro was neglecting his responsibilities as leader by abandoning the men. It was too reminiscent of Stefansson. True, the chief “seems to be9 in trouble all around,” McKinlay observed, “which may account for his desire to be at Rodger’s Harbour; I certainly cannot blame him as some do not seem to be happy unless they have a grumble.” Munro was on the outs with Kuraluk, Hadley, Williamson, and Breddy, but Captain Bartlett had left him in charge of them.
Suddenly McKinlay spied a small streak of color under the ice and snow. Munro was still talking as McKinlay knelt down. The earth bled through the ice in spots, and in these spots were patches of the prettiest, hardiest little wildflower he had ever seen. He couldn’t begin to identify it, but it was beautiful—deep, pungent purple, brilliant in its contrast to the white landscape. For so long, everywhere and everything had been white, as far as the eye could see. He could barely remember the world before the ice. But now, suddenly, there was color—rich, vibrant color. McKinlay knelt on the hard, cold ground brushing the snow away from a cluster of flowers. Even under the snow, the blooms were alive and growing.
Suddenly, his anger was forgotten. And he felt full of hope. This delicate little flower had survived—was continuing to survive—in this vast wasteland, here in this remote, unfriendly strip of earth at the very top of the world. Perhaps he himself would survive after all.
THEY REACHED CAPE WARING to find that Kuraluk and Hadley had shot a seal and several crowbills. They celebrated with a dinner of underdone seal meat—the way Eskimos preferred to eat it—and then McKinlay rested for half an hour. Breddy, Chafe, and Maurer appeared an hour later, tired from their walk, and happy to have reached camp. As they turned in for the night, McKinlay set off to retrieve Williamson.
It was 9:30 P.M. He was exhausted and so were the dogs, and they made slow progress. Even though the sled was empty and lighter than the loads the dogs were used to, they were too tired to pull McKinlay, so he walked; he didn’t reach Williamson until two o’clock in the morning.
They were on their way by 4:00 A.M., Williamson riding on the sled. McKinlay felt somewhat invigorated after his brief rest, and they moved along at a decent pace, even though he had to do a bit of maneuvering over the pools of water that were forming on top of the ice. Newer ice melted on top of the old ice, and sometimes—as they quickly found out—the old ice was very thin beneath the water. One or two times, as they rushed across these pools, the sled broke through and was saved from sinking only by their speed. It was harrowing, and McKinlay was suddenly wide awake. Williamson, he could tell, was frightened, and so were the dogs.
There was no stopping, even though McKinlay longed to turn back. They were skimming along with fair success when the unthinkable happened: as they were crossing a particularly precarious pool of water, the dogs suddenly drew up short in the middle of it, stopping right then and there, and their entire outfit broke through the ice. As McKinlay and the dogs scrambled to safety, soaked and shaken but unharmed, the sled and Williamson slid further into the water at a frightening angle. Williamson let out a yell and McKinlay leaped to his feet and pulled the sled back onto the ice. It took all his strength, and as he was balancing the load on more solid ice, the dogs broke their traces and bolted for camp. He tried to catch them, but they disappeared over the horizon.
Now they were in a spot. They were still ten miles from camp, and McKinlay knew there was no way he could haul Williamson there by himself. For an hour, he followed the dogs. But each time he crept toward them, off they would go again, until he knew it was hopeless. Eventually, he rejoined Williamson, who sat, helpless and frightened, in a pathetic heap on the sled.
Williamson said he would try to walk. McKinlay freed himself from the harness and helped the second engineer, as gingerly as he could, off the sled. Immediately Williamson’s knees weakened, and McKinlay caught him as he buckled. He was shaky but determined, and he supported himself on the handles of the sled while McKinlay dragged it. After fifty yards, however, Williamson was unable to go on.
Although the sun was still high in the sky, the bitter wind had picked up again. McKinlay suggested pitching the tent over Williamson while he went after the dogs, but Williamson wanted to remain on the sled. McKinlay then spread thick layers of skins beneath Williamson, who lay on top of these wrapped in two blankets, a traveling rug, and the tent cover. McKinlay made sure his face was covered to protect
it from frostbite.
As McKinlay walked the ten miles to camp, the snow began to fall heavily while the ever-present sun softened what already lay on the ground. He sank in snow to his knees and then to his thighs. Because his eyes had begun to trouble him and he was seeing double, he had to rest now and then, afraid his suffering vision had gotten him off his path. His eyes had swollen nearly shut by the time he reached camp hours later. Learning that Kuraluk and the dogs, which had all returned unscathed, had already gone back to get Williamson, McKinlay stumbled into his new quarters with Hadley and the Eskimo and collapsed into sleep.
MCKINLAY’S SNOW BLINDNESS was so bad that his eyes remained swollen closed. He could see nothing. He wanted only to rest, to give his eyes a chance to heal, but Munro and Maurer were leaving for their new camp at Rodger’s Harbour and wanted McKinlay to accompany them long enough to bring back the dogs and sled. On his way back, he could stop at Skeleton Island for more gear and the Mauser pistol, Munro told McKinlay, who was lying there, blind, in the worst pain he had ever experienced.
McKinlay was obviously incapacitated and in pain, yet there Munro stood, over his bed, reciting their plans for departure. Finally, Munro gave up and decided to take fireman Breddy instead, but Breddy always hated working, preferring instead to do what he wanted when he wanted; so he avoided Munro until his departure. In the end, Munro and Maurer left for Rodger’s Harbour alone. It was what they had wanted anyway—to be alone, away from the rest of the men.
Once again, the men of the Karluk had been abandoned by their leader.
MCKINLAY LAY IN THE TENT for days, his eyes bound up. Hadley tended to him, bathing his eyes with zinc sulphate, which gave only momentary relief, and injecting them with cocaine from their meager medicine chest. Nothing seemed to help, though, and McKinlay remained in a miserable state. He had to be fed and led about camp like a blind person. All of them were suffering. Clam’s condition was much more grave, but as usual, he said little about the pain. Williamson, although not as ill, complained enough for the both of them.
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